Page 174 of Forbidden Hockey

Mercy groans. “I think I need help up—Jack, get your ass over here. It’s your job to pick me up.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but his floppy blond hair bounces with sunshine under his busted-up ballcap as he walks to center ice, ah, er, pavement. He holds his hand out, and Jack yanks him up, or he tries. This time, Mercy falls forward.

And gets on one knee. He’s got a ring in his hand.

“Uh, Merc? What are you doin’?” Jack says, looking around, mouth dropping as his brain slowly catches on.

Mercy takes a breath. It’s something, seeing the infallible man, biting down on the inside of his lip to stay composed, fumbling with the ring. He’s kinda chewed up from the fall, road rash up his bare arms, blood seeping from small cuts.

Sutter leans against the blade of his stick, the handle side down, and Casey wraps his arms around him from behind.

“Did you two know?” I whisper.

“Yeah, we set it up,” Sutter says. “Casey said Jack would love a last memory like this at the old place.”

Jack didn’t live with us, but he was around enough that he’s always been considered an honorary roommate.

Only Mercy would stage a hockey crash into his proposal, because Jack would fucking love it.

Since we’re in an impromptu game intermission, Trav snags me by the back of my sweats, caging me, my back against his chest.

“As fucking cheesy as this sounds, I didn’t believe in love until I met you, Jack. And it’s been chaos—babies, hockey, and goddamn kittens,” he pauses to glare at Rhett, “but I live for it. I want it forever, you and me. Will you let me spend the rest of my life waking up beside you?”

Jack’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “What if I say no, Merc? What then?”

“You know how I deal with brats. Give me your goddamn hand, Leslie. I’m making you a Meyer. Good luck trying to get away from me.” Mercy stands up, slipping the ring onto Jack’s finger, to the tune of Jack’s rancorous laughter. Mercy takes care of that quickly, shutting him up with a kiss.

The crowd whistles and cheers. Logan wipes away tears, and Rhett storms out from the “penalty box”—is two folding chairs set up on the edge of the sidewalk—to haul him against his chest.

“Come with me, pretty boy. Only for a quick second,” Trav adds, sensing my reluctance. He tugs me through the backyard, past the Meyer kids and Sutter’s siblings shrieking in the bouncy castle. His leather jacket’s slung over a chair, the familiar leather scent mixed with the smoky smell of Trav permeates the air.

From the pocket, he pulls a thick chain—miraculously not tangled—and takes my hand, leading me up the back porch steps and into the mostly empty house. We’d left just enough stuff to call it home for one last night. Casey insisted on sleeping bags and blow-up mattresses in the living room, but my things are already at Trav’s, and the guys have theirs at the new house.

Seeing it like this puts a hollow in my throat and a pit in my stomach. I’m excited to move on, but I’ll hate saying goodbye to this era. Dash is right, goodbyes are for pigeons.

Trav pushes me against the wall, finding the soft skin over my pulse point with his thumb. His hot lips kiss down my neck, leaving a wet trail until he finds a spot to favor, and sucks a new mark there. The sharp sting pulls a moan from me, and then the cool weight of the chain settles over my collarbone.

“It’s not a ring,” he says, fastening it, “but it’s another one of my marks on you.”

“Tattoo wasn’t enough?” I manage, grinning, heart hammering.

“Nope, and it’s cute that you think I’m only inking one tattoo on you. I’ve got this beautiful blank canvas—already planning my next design.”

I rub the chain absently with my thumb, gaze pinned on Trav. The world narrows to us, and my stomach swoops. I’m so in love with this man.

“Besides,” he says, dropping his voice low, “when we do get married, I’m slinging you over my bike and taking you to the first marriage commissioner I can find.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask me?”

He laughs, his whisky-Jack laugh, rough and golden. “You’re fucking mine, Dirk. Like Mercy said, try to run and see what happens.”

“Not what he said.”

“Yeah, but it’s what he meant.” He kisses my lips, sighing. “We should get back, congratulate them before we finish whatever you wanna call that mutated version of street hockey.”

“Wait. Can you do the thing?”

His lips tug into a dangerous grin. “Every breath you breathe is mine, baby.”

He covers my lips with his, and I’m swept under. His hand cinches my hair from the nape, and prickles climb over my crown. The familiar burn lights as my lungs scream for oxygen, but he traps me there, deepening the kiss, taking any exhales I might have left. I writhe against him, sliding my hand up his shirt, digging fingers into his flesh. Spinning dizziness whirls in my head, lightheadedness setting in.

He releases me, and I pant against his mouth, collecting enough oxygen for five little words.

“You are my breath, baby.”

THE END