Page 43 of Icing the Cougar
The guys howl, half in horror, half in admiration. One of them, a stick-thin rookie named Marek, actually blushes.
“Did you?” asks Marek.
Trinity grins. “He was concussed and bleeding, but sure. Commitment’s important.”
They lose it. Even I have to laugh, because it’s true, and also because I remember that day, the panic in her eyes and the wayshe shook when she held my face afterward. Now she tells the story like it’s a sitcom episode.
I step in, putting an arm around her shoulders, careful not to spill her lemonade. “Don’t listen to her,” I say to the rookies. “She makes up half this shit to see if you’ll buy it.”
Trinity smirks. “The other half is true, though.”
“Scary but true,” I confirm, pressing a kiss to her temple.
The guys give me the nod—the subtle, masculine approval that says, congrats, you landed the cool one. They wander off, headed for the snack table or the cornhole set up on the east deck.
Trinity leans in, voice low enough for just me. “Nobody’s made a single cradle-robbing joke.”
“Maybe they finally realized who’s in charge,” I say, squeezing her hip.
She gives me a sharp and fond look. “You think I’m in charge?”
“You let me think I am, and that’s what matters.”
She laughs and turns so her belly bumps my stomach. She’s always been tiny—five-five on a good day—but the pregnancy is already changing her. The curve is new, and the way she holds herself is different. Stronger, somehow. It’s wild, knowing there’s a whole-ass person growing in there, half me, halfher, and probably already plotting ways to destroy our sleep schedule.
I reach down, rest my hand over the round of her stomach. I do this a lot now, almost without thinking. She used to swat me away, joking that I was treating her like an alien incubator, but lately she just lets it happen. Sometimes she even covers my hand with hers.
“You feel anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. Give it another week and you’ll be able to see the kicks through the shirt.”
“Bet I can feel it before then,” I say, competitive as always.
She tilts her head in thought. “What do I get if you lose?”
I think about it. “I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
“That’s cute,” she says. “Try lifetime.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
She smiles, and I love that I’m the one who brightened up her face.
There’s music coming from somewhere, maybe the speaker Alfie rigged up to his phone, a mix of classic rock and whatever’s trending on TikTok this week.
We drift to the edge of the deck, where the glass railing looks out over the pool three stories below. There’s a couple making out in the hot tub—probably residents, probably not sober. I imagine what it would be like to live here full-time, to spend every off-season floating in that pool and never having to think about travel or trades or contract years. I don’t hate it.
Trinity follows my gaze. “You know, I never pictured you as a ‘settle down’ kind of guy,” she says.
I shrug. “I didn’t, either.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I’m so happy,” I admit. I’ve spent so much of my life looking for the next game, next win, next high that I never really learned how to enjoy standing still.
We stand together, looking out at the city. Behind us, the party gets louder, someone cranking the music up and people starting to dance. Trinity laughs at something I miss, then grabs my hand and pulls me back into the crowd.
The next hour is a blur of noise and movement. We make the rounds, hugging friends and dodging questions about the baby (“Is it a boy or girl?” “Do you have names yet?” “Are you hoping it’ll skate?”). Trinity fields most of them, but every so often she squeezes my arm like she needs a lifeline. I never let go.
