Page 108 of Scoring Chance

I open my mouth to object, but he has a point. I can’t imagine calling Des sweetheart in the middle of a play.

Hank raises his hand. “Rule number four, Bill is banned from talking for the rest of the game.”

“I second that,” Griffin says.

“Third,” says Derek.

“This is mutiny,” Bill says.

Des gets up and throws his arm around Bill. “Billy boy, don’t worry. We will abide by all of your rules. We’re here to play hockey and win. But I promise that if Tanner and I accidentally have locker room sex in front of our teammates, we’ll make sure to call out your name when we climax.” Des pulls Bill to him and kisses his head. Bill looks like he wants to vomit, although I have this sneaking suspicion that he and Tate have probably gotten it on in this very locker room.

We put on our helmets and charge out of the locker room. Des tugs me back by the jersey. He whips off my helmet and pulls me into a kiss that sets off fireworks in my chest.

“See you on the ice, husband,” he growls between us.

“Love you.”

Bill clears his throat behind us. Yet even he has the tiniest bit of a smile on his lips.

“That wasn’t what it looked like. I was giving him preventive CPR,” Des explains.

EPILOGUE

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

Des

It’s another chaotic morning in the Chance-Desmond household. In between getting the kids up, getting them dressed, and making sure they brush their teeth, I’ve gotten my cardio in for the day by eight.

And then there’s also the matter of feeding Big Guy, the rabbit Tanner got Lulu and Dean. The kids may forget to do their homework or where they left the remote, but they clearly remembered the time Tanner promised them a pet rabbit for keeping our fake marriage ruse alive.

Big Guy hops around in his cage as I put pellets in a little bowl for him. Despite the kids really wanting him, I’m the one who does most of the rabbit maintenance, including trimming his nails, which is as difficult as it sounds.

On a sunny summer morning, Dean hovers near me while I perfect my omelet flip.

“I have an idea for the next omelet. We should put the leftover mac and cheese in there,” Dean says, acting as if he just discovered alchemy.

“Maybe next time, pal.” I flip the omelet. One half flops onto the other in a beautiful, fluid motion. If they handed out gold medals for omelets…this one probably wouldn't come close. But it’d score gold in the Chance-Desmond household.

“Look at it.” I slide it onto a plate and hand it to Dean. “That is a work of art.”

“Eh.” Dean takes the plate and heads to the table without acknowledging my hard work. Luckily, I’m used to this treatment from my clients.

He plops into his seat and lets out a loud pfffft. “Hey!” he yells, pulling a whoopee cushion from under the kitchen seat cushion.

Lulu laughs so hard milk threatens to spew from her nose.

“That’s payback for the can of snakes in the pantry last week,” I say.

“Tushy.” Dean slaps the whoopee cushion on the kitchen table.

“I told you, it’s pronounced touché,” says Lena, who eats a bowl of cereal next to him.

“I want a cwoissant,” Lulu says, emphasizing its Frenchness. “Those eggs smell magnifique. Bonjour.” Lulu bows to me. “Beaucoup.”

Lena used Lulu to help her practice French this past year. Lulu has become quite the Francophile in response. I chuckle to myself. “Cheese omelet?”

“Mercy,” she says as Americans pronounce it. “Did you know there’s a street in Paris called Chomps Ulysses?”