Page 68 of Blueline Baby

Then he sets me back down on my feet, gets a running start down the tunnel, and flies out onto the ice.

Lorelei steps up beside me and touches my arm. “Come on, Mrs. Anderson. We’ll watch warm-ups from the suite.”

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in the exact same spot I stood months ago, back when I was a terrified stranger in this room.

I’m not a stranger now. I’ve got his last name on my back and his ring on my left hand, and his kid is doing cartwheels under the jersey I’m wearing.

Down on the ice, Jack is showing off so much it’s borderline embarrassing. He takes a hit along the boards that he didn’t need to take, then goes end to end with the puck just because he can, and every time, he glances up to see if I caught it.

He is, I have now been legally informed, at least part terrier.

“He’s being insufferable tonight,” I tell Lorelei.

“Worse than usual, that’s for sure.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “But it’s all for you.”

I know it is. I step forward to the railing and watch my husband play the best hockey of his life for an audience of one and a half.

31

JACK

YOU’RE NOT DONE

We win. That’s about the only thing I can tell you about the game. I think I scored. I might have gotten an assist. I’m off the ice before the handshake line is done, because tonight I have plans, and every one of them involves the woman wearing my jersey and carrying my kid.

She’s quiet the whole drive home. Not the morning kind of quiet, either. This morning she was calm at a courthouse. Right now she’s got her hands folded in her lap and her knee bouncing, nervous in a way she wasn’t all day, and knowing why is not helping my driving.

By the third red light, I can barely keep the truck between the lines.

“You’re killing me over here, Backcheck Girl.”

“Keep your eyes on the road, Anderson.”

“I can’t. I’ve got a brand-new wife wearing my jersey in the passenger seat, and I’m supposed to obey traffic laws. It’s inhumane. Nobody could do it.”

She doesn’t say anything. She reaches over, takes my right hand off and slides it up the inside of her thigh, stopping when my fingers press against the heat of her through her leggings. Then she just holds my hand there and looks out the windshield like she hasn’t done a thing.

I don’t run the next red light, but it’s a near thing.

The second the door shuts, I’ve got her backed up flat against the inside of it.

“The jersey stays on,” I tell her against her mouth.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her leggings and pull them down her hips, and when my hand slides between her thighs, she’s soaked through the lace and gasping into my mouth.

“Oh, look at that. You’ve been like this since I kissed you in the tunnel, haven’t you? Did you sit up in that suite wearing my name with your thighs pressed together all third period?”

“Jack”

“Answer me.” I stroke her slow, one long drag over her clit, and she rocks up onto her toes chasing it. “Were you watching me out there thinking about this? While I was scoring for you?”

“Yes.” Her voice is shaking. “The whole time. Yes.”

“That’s my good girl.” I circle my fingers and feel her clench. “Uh-uh. We’re not doing this against a door. The first time I have my wife, I’m taking my time. And you’re going to let me.”

I walk her backward through the house, stripping everything off as we go.

“Christ. Look at you.” I stretch out flat on my back on the mattress, hands behind my head, and look at her standing at the edge of the bed. “Come here.”