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Once Rhett’s done a few laps for his adoring fans, he skates over to the boards, beckoning me over. Time to perform. As soon as I’m near him, the powers of the universe take over and my anger melts away. I’ve missed him a stupid amount. There’s a bullshit piece of plexiglass between us. He kisses his fingers and presses them to the glass.
“You’re coming home to me tonight, baby,” I tell him. I don’t care who fucking hears me.
The game begins, no, the first period. I remember that from my family talking incessantly about hockey as they tried to teach me and involve me in their favorite thing. Rhett is laser-focused, just like he is when he practices. He sees the whole ice. He’s there to accept passes and to give them when the time calls for it.
Somehow, he always manages to get in front of the … whatchamacallit? Goal line, I think. I pay closer attention to the chatty crowd to brush up on the lingo. What if I get asked a question? No one will ask me questions, will they? I sure hope not.
Things get exciting seven minutes in, which is almost halfway through the period. Rhett’s flying across the ice with the puck.
“Shit, it’s Elkington with the breakaway!” the man beside me shouts to his friend as the rest of the crowd holds its breath.
A player flies off the bench from the other team. I don’t know who this team is. Their jerseys are yellow and black though. Oh, wait, Boston, I think. And the guy isn’t flying out from the bench, he comes from the penalty box. There seem to be a lot of those.
“Hockey isn’t hockey without a million fights and penalties,” Jack firmly states every time it’s brought up.
I’d usually make a joke about them being gorillas on skates, but I have to admit, it’s made the game exciting.
Rhett doesn’t see the guy until it’s too late, and he hurtles toward the ice when buddyobviouslytrips him.
At least that guy will go straight back to the penalty box, right? Right? That’s gotta be how this game works.
The crowd boos Mr. Tripping and the call by the ref who doesn’t give the penalty, which doesn’t make any sense. I saw him get tripped. The crowd agrees and they shout insults at the ref for his poor decision.
“That’s bullshit,” I mutter under my breath. Rhett doesn’t get the penalty shot fans were whispering about.
“That’s okay, baby. You’ll get the next one.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, it’s not as if Rhett can hear me, but I’m riled up.
Rhett’s a centerman. Jack doesn’t get as much ice time as Rhett, but he knew he wouldn’t since this is his rookie year. It probably sucks for Jack, but it’s nice for me because Jack periodically waves my way, and I feel less like the groupie I am.
Rhett scores off the next face off and mouths the words,that was for you, when he returns to the bench. Butterflies take flight from my stomach to my chest.
It’s not until the second period that I look around for the other hockey spouses. I didn’t think I cared. I don’t see them anywhere, so I assume they took the “box” option Rhett tried to give me. I don’t think I’d want to sit where Rhett isn’t, even annoyed with him as I am. It is a little lonely between periods. That’s a new emotion for me. I guess being around so many Meyers, I got used to company.
I can’t talk to Rhett either. He isn’t supposed to use his phone in the locker room. Not that he has to worry about fines—hence his earlier text—but he’s oddly strict about being a good team player in all things hockey. I do get a lone kiss-face emoji between the second and the third period.
By the third period, I’ve become another rabid hockey fan, yelling at the refs, telling the players what to do in my now expert opinion. My face is chafed by the cool air and my throat is raw from screaming.
Rhett is the golden player of the game, scoring two more goals, which the announcer man called a hat-trick, securing his place in the hearts of the fans for another season.
There’s some waiting for me to do while he does interviews, and then he has to use the stationary bike for thirty minutes and shower. Finally, I’m directed where to go and admitted into the section of the building where the locker rooms and gym are.
Rhett’s stepping into the hallway once I get there and, fucking hell, he takes my breath away. He fills out the suit, which was probably tailored to fit him just so. His shaggy hair is wet, which means he showered so he wouldn’t be gross for me. Rhett feels the same way I do about public showers—he’s likely to shower again once we’re home.
Home. We get to go home together to his apartment. I’m sleeping right next to him.
Rhett smiles. Not the one he uses for the cameras either. One that’s just for me.Unguarded. Infectious.He opens his arms so that I can run into them and be lifted enough to wrap my legs around his torso. Our kiss is slow and measured, filled with all the days of missing each other.
“How much trouble am I in?” he says against my lips.
“You’re in a world of trouble, Elkington.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
We gather Jack and the three of us make our way back to the apartment building. Thankfully, Jack’s as eager to video sex with Merc as I am to sit on Rhett’s cock. He’s happy to shoo me away and not give a fuck that I sleep in Rhett’s apartment instead of his. Though Jack insists that I call it my place, too. I do keep a full room of stuff there and I’m encouraged to “come home” on the weekends.
“All right, let me have it,” he says, but he’s already undressing me.
“Hands off me until you apologize, gorilla. I want groveling, begging, the works.”
