Page 19

Stone

Seven months later…

T he visiting team locker room at Climate Pledge Arena has a smell all its own—a potent mixture of ancient sweat, mildew, cheap cleaning products, and carpet deodorizer that sits solidly at the corner of Violet-Scented Poison Lane and Week-Old Vomit Drive.

Being intimately acquainted with the far swankier home locker room from my years playing for Seattle, the stink is borderline offensive.

Which is perfect for a night like this.

It’s an underdog smell, the kind that sends bile and rage surging through your chest, even before your coach makes it down from the ice to give one final “get your heads out of your asses” speech.

Not that we need one of those tonight.

We’re down 3-1 heading into the third period of Game Six against the Storm—mine and Tank’s old team—but the energy in our cramped quarters crackles with electricity and a rip-a-fucker’s-throat-open-with-your-teeth level of determination. The Badgers are ready to tear up some ice and make history.

Hell, we’ve been making history all year. These men haven’t let me down. My final season has also been my highest scoring, thanks largely to the locked-in teamwork of the players around me.

Glancing around at them, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia tightens my throat.

This is it, the last time I’ll watch Tank do his kinky-looking frog stretches, loosening up his hips to defend our net at all costs. The last time I’ll catch Grammercy pacing near the door, muttering prayers to whatever patron saint his mama told him watches out for hockey players. The last time Nowicki will bump my fist on his way past the bench, or Justin will blast a finger-whistle through the locker room to get our attention.

I’m so emotional, the piercing sound only makes me flinch half as much as it usually would as I turn to face our fearless leader.

Justin is less upbeat after getting scored on twice last period, but the fire in his eyes leaves no doubt that he thinks we can still lock this series win down tonight.

“Listen up, Badger fam,” he shouts, shutting down the chatter from the benches. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking fuck, Cruise, we’re down by two, and those Seattle motherfuckers think they’re on a roll now. This sucks ass. But this is exactly where we want to be. You know why?”

“Because they’re going to get cocky now,” Grammercy says. “Hell, they’re already cocky. If we’d had fifteen more seconds, I would have scored on them again. They suffer from Premature Celebration Syndrome.”

Justin thrusts an approving finger at the rookie’s chest. “Bingo, and there’s only one thing worse than premature celebration.” His eyes glitter with mischief as he adds, “Not that I would know anything about that personally, but Nowicki’s wife told me it’s very upsetting.”

Nowicki laughs as he calls back, “Keep it up, Cruise, and I’ll tell Diana you’re bullying me again, and you know how scary she is.”

Justin mock-shudders. “No lies detected. God protect us all from her tiny blond wrath. Speaking of wrath, let’s keep that simmering nice and low. Don’t let them provoke you. We stay cool, we stay focused, and the second we see them counting their win before the final buzzer, we pounce.”

“But feel free to talk shit to Gauthier in French if you know any,” Tank rumbles from where he’s now leaning against one of the vintage lockers. I told him about how Remy’s team shit-talks in Portuguese, and we’ve been employing the strategy in various languages ever since. “Trips him up every time.”

“ Je vais lui dire que c’est un hostie de bouetteux avec un gros front de freak ,” Grammercy babbles in a rush, clarifying when we all turn wide-eyed looks his way. “What? I told you, I’m Cajun. Half my family speaks French. I said your ass is lame and you have a big, freaky forehead.”

Justin nods eagerly. “Yes, perfect. He does have a freakishly large forehead.”

“You could also call out his breath,” Coach Lauder says, breezing into the room from the tunnel. “It’s so foul, I could smell it through the glass during the last scrim.”

Grammercy nods. “On it, Coach.”

“Good.” A hint of a smile softens Coach’s stern expression. He’s still a hard-ass, but has mellowed out a lot this year. According to Remy, he’s finally in therapy, and working through all the emotional shit he’s been shoving down for years has been good for him.

“But I wouldn’t worry too much about head games,” he adds. “That last goal was pure luck. They’re already getting tired and sloppy, but we’ve got conditioning on our side. You’re still going strong as their reserves begin to flag. Just get back out there, keep applying pressure and working as a team, and we’ll make sure this series never sees a Game 7.”

“Because we’ll be taking that cup back to Portland tonight!” Justin shouts, summoning a cheer from the room.

I’m on my feet with the rest of them, riding the wave as our various battle cries vibrate the walls.

For a beat, Lauder meets my gaze. He shoots me a thumbs up, a small sign that if this turns out to be my last time on the ice as a pro, I’m having a game I can be proud of. We’ve come a long way since the start of the season. I don’t know if we’ll ever reach the “hugging goodbye after weekly family dinner” stage of our relationship, but he’s made it clear he’s decided I’m good enough for his daughter, after all.

I’m sure it helped that I made it clear that I intend to prioritize Remy’s career, moving forward. And that I put in an offer on a condo in Seattle to prove it, the moment we knew she’d landed the coaching job with the Seattle Sirens. The fact that I make her happier and more relaxed than she’s ever been doesn’t hurt, either.

And yes, Coach seemed to find it offensive that I pulled him aside to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage a couple days back—correctly observing that Remy would kick us both in the nuts if she thought we were doing bogus patriarchal shit behind her back. But if I hadn’t done things the old-fashioned way, I wouldn’t have her mother’s engagement ring in my bag right now, something I know is going to mean so much to her.

I’m going to propose tonight, a fact that’s got me nearly as ramped up as this game.

I’m surer of the outcome of the proposal than of Game 6, but I’m also even more determined to not fuck up the second momentous event of the evening. Playing in the NHL has been one of the best parts of my past, but Remy’s my future, and I can’t wait to know she’s going to be mine.

Forever.

“Now get out there and show Seattle why you should never underestimate Stumptown,” Lauder barks, sending another rush of fighting spirit through the team.

The energy carries us back onto the ice, where the roar of the crowd hits like a physical force. Seattle’s arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of teal and navy that makes my old home ice feel like the enemy territory it’s become.

But that’s okay. I’ve never been the kind of player who needs the hometown advantage to thrive.

Besides, my girl is up there in the box watching.

Her eyes on me are the only ones I need.

The first ten minutes of the period are a battle of wills, both teams amped up after the break, and neither giving an inch. But Tank is a wall between the pipes, swallowing up everything they throw at him.

A one-timer from the point? Glove save. Redirected shot through traffic? He somehow gets a pad on it. And when their star center—a blond guy named Silver, who has the nerve to look so much like a younger version of me that the commentators have called it out more than once—crashes the net hard enough to knock the goal off its moorings, Tank bounces back up, adjusting his mask with a disdainful glance over his shoulder.

“You good?” I call out on my way back to center ice.

“Better than good,” he says. “I’m untouchable tonight, and it looks like they’re finally getting the message.”

He’s not wrong. But their goalie is standing on his head too, making save after impossible save. Our offense is cooking—Grammercy’s speed creates chaos in their defense, and Justin’s setting up some brilliant opportunities for the rest of us—but nothing’s going in.

Until the fourteen-minute mark…

It starts with Tank absolutely robbing their captain on a point-blank chance. The rebound kicks out hard to Nowicki, who spots Justin streaking up the wing. The pass hits him in stride, and suddenly we’re on a three-on-two rush.

“Go high!” I shout, cutting through the neutral zone. “I’m with you!”

Justin threads a perfect pass through their defenseman’s legs, finding me lurking in the high slot. The puck hits my tape, and time seems to slow.

I can see the opening, top corner, where Mama keeps the peanut butter...

My stick flexes as I lean into the shot, putting everything I have behind it. The puck whistles through the air, a blur of black rubber. Their goalie never sees it coming.

A beat later, it’s over his head, tickling the twine.

The arena erupts in a mix of groans from locals and cheers from the Badger fans who made the trip north.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Justin roars, crushing me in a hug as our teammates pile on. “Two more and we end this!”

The momentum shifts after that.

We’re relentless, applying wave after wave of pressure. Every line that hits the ice is flying, forechecking like demons, making Seattle look like they’re skating through mud. Nowicki nearly ties it up with a rocket from the point that rings off the post. Then Justin gets robbed on a wraparound attempt that has their goalie doing the splits.

“Keep pushing!” Coach bellows from the bench. “They’re cracking!”

He’s right. The Storm is starting to break, taking stupid penalties, getting frustrated. With just under five minutes left, their defenseman coughs up the puck at his own blue line, and Grammercy pounces.

“Go, Louisiana, go!” I scream, watching him turn on the jets.

He’s gone, pure lightning as he splits their D. The crowd’s on their feet as he dekes left, then right, before roofing it backhand over the goalie’s glove.

When the puck hits, his celebration is pure joy, a loose-hipped, blatantly sexual shimmy that has the ladies squealing in the stands.

“Keep it in your pants,” Cruise teases as we mob him, but Grammercy just laughs like the shameless, puck-bunny favorite he is as we head back to the line.

Then, with ninety seconds left in regulation, magic happens.

Tank makes a ridiculous save, stacking the pads old-school style to deny their sniper on a two-on-one. The rebound kicks out to center ice, where Justin snatches it up. He carries it into their zone, drawing both defenders before dropping it back to me.

“Behind you!” he calls, and I know exactly what he means.

I fake a shot, pulling their goalie out of position as I hear Grammercy’s stick tap the ice behind me. Without looking, I slide it between my legs, right into place for the easiest goal of his career.

And…it’s in. It’s good.

We’re up by one!

The arena goes dead silent for a beat before exploding into chaos as the scoreboard buzzes and we take the lead.

Those last ninety seconds are the longest of my life. Every cleared puck feels like a battle won; every save Tank makes has my heart jerking in my chest. Seattle pulls their goalie, throwing everything they have at us. A shot deflects off my shin pad, but I barely feel it, too focused on protecting our lead.

“Clear it!” Tank screams as the loose puck bounces in front of me.

Justin dives, sweeping it away with his stick as the seconds tick down.

Five, four, three...

When the final horn sounds, I’m the first one to reach Tank, tackling him in a bear hug that sends us both sprawling onto the ice.

“Took the Cup at our rookie home rink, old man,” I scream in his ear, my voice raw with emotion. “We fucking did it!”

The rest of the team piles on, a mess of limbs, sticks, and pure, unfiltered elation. We’re champions. We’re bringing the Cup home to Portland. Everything I dreamed for my final season has come true, and then some.

But somehow the win gets even sweeter.

After we’ve passed the Cup around, after we’ve all had our moment skating with it held high above our heads, Justin glides to center ice, microphone in hand.

“Before we wrap this up,” he says, his voice echoing through the arena, “we need to send a legend off the ice in style. Stone, get your ass over here.”

Confused but grinning, I skate over. The team gathers around as Justin pulls something from behind his back. It takes a beat for me to recognize my first jersey, the tiny orange Seattle Flamethrowers one from my first season in Pee Wee hockey.

My jaw drops as emotion clogs my throat. “What the fuck? How did you?—”

“A little birdie told us your mom never met a keepsake she wouldn’t pack up and store in her garage,” Justin says with a wink as he hands it over. “We all signed it. Even Coach.”

I hold it up, seeing the signatures of all my final teammates there on my six-year-old self’s jersey, tears stinging in my eyes as I think about how happy that kid would be right now.

We did it, Little Me. We made our dreams come true.

And we’ve found an amazing person to make new dreams with…

I look up toward the box where Remy’s watching, thrusting the jersey into the air as the crowd cheers. A beat later, the sound guy plays “Rolling Stone,” by Bob Dylan, my old song from when I played for the Storm, truly bringing me full circle.

I pull Justin in for a hug, and the rest of the team surrounds us, making me the sappy filling in a sweaty, hockey-player pastry, before we finally head toward the tunnel where the press is waiting.

But when I spot the redhead jogging my way through the shadows, the reporter motioning me over might as well be invisible.

“We did it, Bossy!” I cheer, throwing my arms wide as she runs faster.

She jumps into me with enough force that I have to brace myself to keep from falling over.

“That between-the-legs pass to Grammercy!” she shouts in my ear as I hug her tight. “Are you kidding me? How fucking sweet was that?” She pulls back as I set her down, gripping my biceps through my uniform, her eyes bright with joy. “And that one-timer! When you only had maybe?—”

“A quarter-second window, tops?” I finish, grinning so hard my jaw starts to hurt.

But if there’s something better than this feeling, of sharing a win with a woman who is as crazy about hockey and the Badgers as I am, I can’t name it.

“Against literally the best goalie in the league,” she continues, shrugging as she adds, “I mean, besides Tank and Shane. God, they were so good tonight. You all were. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“I love you,” I say, lifting the jersey still clutched in my hand into the air between us. “Thank you so much for helping with this. It’s perfect.”

“ You’re perfect.” She leans in for a swift, but hot-as-fuck kiss, before pulling back to cup my face in her hands. “You did it, baby. You went out just like you wanted to. I’m so happy for you.”

“ We did it,” I correct. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Rem.” I laugh. “I’m so glad I don’t have to fly back to Portland for Game 7 right now. I’ve missed the fuck out of you.”

“Four whole days,” she teases as I brush a strand of hair from her face. “How did you survive?” Glancing over my shoulder, she adds in a softer voice, “Speaking of survival, you’d better go give interviews before the reporters go fully rabid. I’ll wait for you outside the locker room, okay? And we can grab a cab to the after-party? I caught a ride with Dad earlier since I knew traffic was going to be a nightmare.”

“Sounds good,” I agree, even as I put my secret plan in motion. “But can we stop by the apartment on the way? I need to see Barb. She made me promise I’d let her give me kisses if we won, and four days is a long time to be away from my princess.”

“You’re such a simp for that dog,” she says, with an affectionate shake of her head.

“I’m more of a simp for you,” I whisper. “You’ve got me whooped so hard it makes that ass-kicking we just gave Seattle look gentle in comparison.”

She laughs. “Good. And heading to the apartment first is fine. We can probably walk to the party from there. The team hotel is only about half a mile from our place.”

“Perfect,” I say. “See you in a few.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re being whisked away from the arena through the thankfully no longer horrific traffic, proving that being a winner who has to stay behind to give interviews is the gift that never stops giving.

As we head into our new building, I wave at Jenson, the manager currently on duty behind the front desk. Our eyes meet while Remy and I are waiting for the elevator, and he gives a subtle nod and smile, confirming the plan must have gone off without a hitch.

But then, Jenson is clearly a dog lover, too. When I snuck over earlier while Remy was having lunch with her dad to give him the supplies, Barb seemed to feel at home with him right away.

I hope she looks adorable in her new duds. I didn’t have time to try them on her earlier. There was barely time to fill Jenson in on the plan, introduce him to Barb, and thank him profusely for helping a near stranger pull off a proposal for the ages.

At least, I hope it’s all come together the way I’ve imagined…

The second we step inside our new place on the fifteenth floor, I know it did. The entryway is littered with white rose petals, and “First Day of my Life,” Remy’s favorite Bright Eyes song, plays softly from the speakers.

“What the…” Remy trails off as Barb comes trotting around the corner from our bedroom, right on cue, looking ridiculous and perfect in her little white dress with a flower crown. Remy’s jaw drops as she glances my way, then back at Barb, then back to me. “Is Barb getting married?”

“Of course not,” I correct as I take her hands in mine. “That’s clearly a flower girl dress, woman, not a wedding dress.”

“Clearly,” Remy echoes in a stunned voice, sucking in a breath as I drop to one knee and pull the ring box from the pocket of my suit jacket.

“Remy Lauder,” I begin, love filling every corner of my heart. Now that the moment is here, my anxiety is gone. All that’s left is gratitude that this beautiful, strong, talented, absolutely fantastic woman is looking down at me like she can’t wait to say yes. “I love you, Bossy. I love your drive and your integrity. I love your smile and your raunchy sense of humor. I love the way you spoil my fur baby and the way you let me spoil you. I love your gentle heart and your will of iron and most of all I love your pussy.”

She huffs out a laugh, but a beat later, a tear slides slowly down her cheek.

But it’s a happy tear. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.

“I love it so much, I would very much like to lock it down for life,” I add as I open the box, revealing her mother’s ring.

It’s a simple diamond solitaire with a delicate gold band. I was worried she might not recognize it, but almost immediately, she breathes, “Oh my God, Stone. Is that…”

“Your mom’s? Yeah,” I confirm, my own eyes a little wet. “Your dad gave it to me last week. We both thought it would be a nice way to make sure you never forget that she’s looking out for you.” I arch a brow. “And expecting you to be treated with all the love you deserve.”

More tears slip down her face as she nods. “She would expect that. But she’d love you, Tyler Stone. She’d love you every bit as much as I do.”

My voice breaks a little as I ask, “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, of course, it is,” she chokes out, dropping to her knees in front of me. Barb bounds between us, licking any part of us she can reach, trembling with happiness as Remy laughs. “How could I say no after seeing how amazing Barb looks in her flower girl outfit?”

“All part of my diabolical plan,” I tease, slipping the ring on her finger.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she says, admiring it on her hand. “And on the same night as the biggest game of your career.” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Are you crazy?”

“Crazy for you, woman.” I rise to my feet, pulling her up with me. I love my fur baby, but right now, I need to kiss my future wife without a puppy slobbering all over us.

I pull her close, kissing her with all the joy and gratitude pumping through my veins.

She hums before murmuring against my lips, “Damn, Stone. Did you get even better at kissing in the past four days?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation, loving the way her laughter turns to a sigh as I kiss her again.

This kiss is deeper, slower, a silent promise that I’m never going to take a minute of our time together for granted. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing faster, and the look in Remy’s eyes makes it clear, I’m not the only one feeling the need to celebrate our engagement properly.

I.e., naked.

“It’s fine to be a little late to the after-party,” she says, her voice huskier than before. “Right?”

“Barb, go to your bed,” I rumble softly, not taking my eyes off Remy. “Mommy and Daddy need some alone time.”

“Like that ever works,” Remy says, her lips hooking up on one side. “Barb does what Barb damned well pleases.”

Barb yips in agreement, making us both laugh.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” I say, sending Remy’s laugh into giggle territory as I scoop her up in my arms. Guiding her legs around my waist, I aim myself toward the nearest room with a door.

“The pantry? Seriously?” She wraps her arms tighter around my neck as I kick the door closed behind us.

“Damn straight, can’t wait.” I barely register Barb’s outraged bark from outside as I pin Remy against the shelves, kissing her like a man who’s forgotten every survival skill except her .

“Me either,” she agrees, shoving my suit jacket off and going for the buttons on my shirt.

I do the same with hers, but after a few seconds, we lose patience and embrace brute force. Buttons fly, and a beat later, a box of pasta falls off the shelf, knocking me in the head.

But I couldn’t care less.

Angel hair can’t wound me now, not when I’m flying high off winning the cup and the girl, all in one fell swoop.

"Best. Day. Ever," I rasp against Remy’s mouth as I jerk her skirt up.

“So good,” she says, shoving my pants and boxers down far enough to free my cock. She fists me, making me groan as she adds, “Stanley Cup champion looks good on you.”

“Future husband looks even better," I counter, guiding her legs back around my waist again.

I push her panties to one side and slide home.

And damn…she’s hot and wet, and so eager in my arms, it’s clear neither of us wants to take things slow. I fuck her hard and deep, cushioning her back with my hand as we rattle the shelves. Something heavier thunks to the floor—pickles? olives? a witch’s potion?—but it doesn’t shatter, and we don’t stop.

If anything, the sound makes us even wilder.

Her nails score my back as I grind even closer, making sure to hit her clit with every stroke.

“We’re gonna wreck this pantry," Remy gasps, clinging to me as her pussy begins to pulse. “God, Stone. I’m close, so close.”

“So am I, baby. Fuck, you feel so good, Bossy. Love you so much,” I pant, hips surging, stuttering, the world narrowing to this red-hot woman and the slap of skin on skin.

Outside the door, Barb’s scratching turns into full-on howling, making us both laugh even as our orgasms crash over us in swift succession. Remy comes laughing and calling my name, and I follow her into that bright, sweetly filthy place I’ve only been to with her.

I come and come, filling her up, so grateful for IUDs and the condom free lifestyle they provide. I never want anything between us, nothing but skin.

Afterwards, we catch our breath amongst the wreckage. There’s pasta all over the floor, but as I suspected, the jar—pickles—didn’t break, and the shelves are still in one piece.

“I didn’t think we’d be christening the pantry so soon,” Remy says proudly, surveying the devastation with a grin. “Go us.”

“We’re the best,” I agree, kissing her sweat-damp forehead. “But we should probably put on some clothes before Barb?—”

Barb cuts in with a long, pitiful howl that sends us into another fit of helpless laughter.

“This poor puppy,” Remy says as I pull out, using my discarded shirt to mop between her legs. “I hope she can forgive us.”

“She will,” I assure her. “I’ll get her changed into her favorite sleep shirt while you get dressed?”

“And then I’ll give her a pup cup while you change.” She presses up on tiptoe, kissing my cheek before whispering against my skin. “Thank you, baby. I seriously couldn’t be happier.”

I couldn’t either.

Or so I think, until we arrive at the after-party and Coach pulls me into a hug.

Our first hug. A hug of congratulations and welcome to the family.

It’s so touching, even the fact that he whispers, “If you let her down, I’ll kill you,” before letting me go can’t dampen my mood.

Because I’m never going to let her down.

I’m going to lift her up and love her hard and continue to be her biggest fan, for now and forever.

THE END