Page 24

DICK CONTROL

Tyler

The Las Vegas forward is charging down the ice at Mach speed, and Lambert looms in the net, a beast protecting his lair.

But it’s my job, too, and I spot an opening.

Right when the opponent lifts his stick to slam the puck, I time it perfectly, jamming mine in front of it, swatting it back the other way with a satisfying whiz across the ice.

The puck whistles past center ice, landing on my brother’s stick. He races toward the Vegas net…

And delivers us a point.

I thrust my glove in the air. A block and an assist all at once. Thank you very much.

The forward curses at me. “Fucking asshole,” he mutters.

“Yes, yes, I am,” I say to him, flashing the Vegas Saber a what are you gonna do about it grin as I skate to the bench and hop over the boards .

After grabbing my water bottle, I chug as the next line jumps over.

Coach smacks me on the shoulder. “Keep that up.”

“I will, sir,” I say, meaning it. This game is exactly what I need to set the tone for the season: gritty, full throttle, leave it all on the ice.

When the game ends with another W, I head to the locker room, eager to do just that for the next eighty-one games. Right now, I’m ready to head back home and see my kids. They’re the reason I play all out.

The better I play, the better I can provide for them, and the last thing I want is to fail as a father. I witnessed that failure for myself growing up, and I won’t do it to my kids. Which is why I have something fun planned for Parker this weekend.

As we head down the Vegas arena corridor to board the bus to the airport, Rowan gives me a nod. “How’s everything back home?” It’s a rare moment when he’s not giving me hell.

“Pretty good,” I say as we walk.

“Nice. How are the kids doing?”

As if he’s summoned them, my phone trills and Parker’s photo lights up the screen—a shot of him triumphantly lifting a fork and digging into a plate of pancakes. I took it at a diner they love.

I show it to Rowan. “I should grab this.”

“Do it, man,” he says, waving me off. He’s the same way—always picks up for his daughter.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“Dad! Did you know Betelgeuse is a red supergiant near the end of its life?”

I furrow my brow for a second, then figure it out. “It’s a star?”

“Yes! A reddish star in Orion. The planetarium had the coolest exhibit on supergiants, and there was a light show and everything.”

Sabrina must have taken him. My chest warms, a mix of gratitude and something I don’t have a name for yet. Maybe appreciation for her effort? Her creativity? “Sabrina took you to the planetarium?” I ask, confirming.

“Yeah! It was super cool. They had a whole sky show with music, and we learned about supernovas—like the team you used to play on. Betelgeuse might turn into a supernova someday!”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“You wanna know what else I learned?”

“I do.”

“The Andromeda Galaxy is on a collision course with the Milky Way. But not for, like, four billion years.”

I laugh. “All in due time.”

“Anyway, we picked up more stickers for my ceiling for this weekend, but we can go shopping when you get home if you want to find more. I just think it’d be awesome to get one of a supergiant.”

“A supergiant, huh?” I say.

“Yup! Oh, and I got you a cool T-shirt too. Well, I told Sabrina you’d think it was funny, so she picked it up—but it’s really from me.”

I’m not sure I’m following the math or money, but I grin anyway.

When we land in San Francisco, I catch up with Miles in the players’ lot. We share rides sometimes—better for Earth and all. So I hop into the passenger seat of his car.

“Good thing you’re not bringing the Falcon name down so far this season,” he says, pulling out of the lot.

“Pretty sure I’m bringing it up,” I toss back.

He scoffs. “Not sure it can go higher. Did you see my stats last season?” he says as he drives toward Pacific Heights .

I shoot him a look. “Is there a cup in your house I’m unaware of?”

That shuts him up. But not for long. “Seriously though. We could get one this season. Together. Wouldn’t that be something?”

I give him a genuine smile as I offer a fist for knocking. “That would be something indeed.”

When he pulls up in front of my home, he gives me a chin nod. “How’s everything working out with the house and all? You think you’ll buy anytime soon?”

I sigh. “I should, but man, life is busy, you know?”

“I hear you. Don’t wait too long though. You’ll be here for a while.”

I appreciate the endorsement. “That’s the plan,” I say, then thank him and head up the steps.

When I go inside, the T-shirt Parker told me about is sitting on the kitchen counter. It says: Science is Cool Since It Works Whether You Believe It or Not.

I smile, but not because of the shirt or the good game, or even because of Miles’s faith in us. It’s because Sabrina figured out my kid. Parker’s not an easy puzzle to crack—he’s bright, curious, and a little too serious for his age sometimes. But she tried, and it seems she delivered.

It’s late, and I’m the only one up. I grab an apple from the counter and crunch into it, taking a moment to breathe in the quiet of the house, the hum of the fridge the only noise.

I finish the apple, then toss it into the compost bin and head upstairs, a pang of longing cutting briefly through my chest. I ignore it, since really, what am I even longing for?

I re-center my thoughts as I get ready for bed, chucking my tie and suit back into the closet and tugging on shorts and a T-shirt.

As I brush my teeth, I find myself reviewing Sabrina’s first week, and I’d say she did a damn fine job.

That relaxes me as I slide under the covers a few minutes later .

But once I’m alone in the biggest bed ever, my mind drifts to her. Two flights down. Is she under her sheets? And how do they feel against her body? Are they smooth against her skin? Does she get hot when she sleeps and kick them off?

A groan, unbidden, rumbles up my chest as I imagine the cool blue sheets slipping down her skin, revealing soft flesh and full breasts, and a warm, eager woman.

The longing intensifies, revving my mind and my body.

I could ignore it, but instead I feed it.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I hop over to her socials, and a fizzy feeling rushes through me when I spot a new video.

I’ve never once commented on her posts, or even “liked” them.

But I have watched all her skating videos.

Every single one, from the routines and free skates to the tutorials.

Yeah, I’m a social stalker. But the woman is stunning and her videos are…

addictive. Before I hit play, I grab my earbuds and pop them in.

Don’t want anyone to wake up and figure out what I’m listening to.

I hit play, then settle down under the covers, a hazy sensation filling me as a Jane Black song plays, and Sabrina glides across the ice.

She posted this a couple days ago, and it hits me—this routine might very well be from her first morning here.

When I ran into her in the garage and she was wearing only her towel.

For some stupid reason, that makes me feel even more connected to her, knowing what she did after .

She came here, to my house. With that sense of satisfaction running through my veins, I get a little lost in how she gains speed and power with each crossover, then I’m mesmerized by her spins.

I bet they took years to perfect. Of course they did.

And she makes it look effortless. When she launches into the air, my breath catches annoyingly, but after two revolutions she lands like it was easy.

I smile. A stupid smile. Because I really shouldn’t be watching this .

I hit play again. Then one more time. And I like it so much I’m tempted to hit the heart button.

My finger hovers over it, and I almost, almost, do it.

But I catch myself then yank out my earbuds and put the phone on do not disturb. It’s me who shouldn’t disturb the phone—not the other way around.

I let out a long sigh in the dark, flip over, and pound my pillow a few times. “Get over it, man,” I mutter.

But it takes me longer to fall asleep than it should as visions of the woman living under the same roof dance in my head.

I can balance on the edge of a blade while slamming a puck into the net. But climbing a ladder in my kid’s bedroom? While the stunning new nanny hands me sun and moon stickers?

That’s an entirely new feat of strength.

It’s not because of the ladder. The ladder is fine. The problem is in my pants.

I am that guy now.

That asshole who gets borderline aroused by his kids’ nanny’s baby tee as it rises up, revealing her stomach.

Am I obsessed with her stomach?

Don’t answer that, brain. Just don’t answer it.

But my unhelpful brain supplies the answer anyway: You’re obsessed with all of her. Including that belly button ring you just noticed.

And the problem is, it’s making me wonder if she has other piercings. Where they might be. If they’re part of what she wanted me to explore.

Thank god I have some dick control though. Enough that I’m not sporting wood in my kid’s bedroom. For fuck’s sake, if that ever happens, I’ll have to hang a shame sign around my neck, like a dog who ate his owner’s underwear.

Fortunately, Parker and Sabrina are oblivious to my libido’s plight.

They’re busy sorting through the packs of stickers, and handing me moons and stars.

Parker’s chattering nonstop about astronomy facts while Sabrina hums under her breath, seeming completely at ease.

I force myself to focus on their conversation instead of her stomach.

“Do you think this is Betelgeuse?” Sabrina asks Parker as she hands me a sticker with five points even though she’s not on the clock today.

“No, I don’t think it’s the right size,” Parker says with the authority of an amateur astronomer. “We need a bigger one.”