Chapter 19
ALEXA
Turns out managing an NHL family's schedule isn't that different from coordinating luxury travel itineraries. It's all about planning and being ready to adapt when things go sideways. Because something always does. Like when the playoff schedule collides with writing deadlines and two kids' worth of activities.
My color-coded calendar would make Ryan proud, if he wasn't too busy counting the viral hits on my new blog. Freshly Minted, Family Edition is becoming quite the thing in travel writing. Turns out people love reading about five-star hotels through the eyes of someone trying to smuggle kiddie snacks past a snooty ma?tre d’ while maintaining professional dignity.
"Your numbers are insane," Ryan tells me during our weekly call. "That series about finding romance in family life? The one where you compared power plays to date nights? Traffic broke our servers."
"Very professional content."
"The most professional," he agrees. "Though maybe ease up on the hockey metaphors. We get it—you're dating a player."
"Living with," I correct. "Very professionally."
The major travel magazines that used to have me review luxury spas are now requesting pieces about family-friendly resorts. My Instagram following has exploded, though now it's more parents looking for real travel advice than influencers seeking perfect photo ops. It’s all good.
Jonas finds it hilarious that I'm becoming something of a parenting guru, given my former stance against family-friendly anything. Actually, everyone who knows me finds it hilarious. I kind of do too.
"That's exactly why they like it," Ryan explains. "You’re real. Messy. Learning. It's relatable."
The kitchen's become my new testing ground. Instead of reviewing French cuisine, I'm trying my best to learn to cook it. The kids are surprisingly hands-on and are actually sometimes helpful. I figure together, we're creating some kind of fusion cuisine that probably has French chefs rolling in their graves.
Jonas finds us experimenting with crepes one night. He leans against the doorway in his post-game suit, looking unfairly attractive and sweet-smelling for someone who just played three periods of professional hockey.
"Oooh, looks like we might have some budding chefs. Or at least food critics,” he says.
"Professional education."
"Of course." He grabs a piece of baguette. "Though I'm pretty sure traditional crepes are not shaped like dinosaurs."
"Innovation in journalism."
I'm not the only one trying to balance adventure with routine, travel with home, freedom with family. My inbox is full of readers sharing their own stories of finding magic.
"You've tapped into something," my editor says. "The antidote to perfect Instagram travel. Real, messy, beautiful life. Plus, having an NHL star as your Instagram husband doesn't hurt engagement."
Jonas plays along with my content needs, letting me document our adventures for the blog. He draws the line at doing TikTok dances, but he’s a good sport at the whole social media thing. The team's PR department loves it.
Today we're late for hockey practice again because Lukas couldn’t find something he needed—I’m not even sure what. But somehow it works. All of it works.
I'm still traveling, writing, chasing stories. Just differently. And amazingly, the world actually feels bigger, something I never expected.
Jonas finds me in my office one evening, updating my blog with our latest adventure—teaching table manners through a very creative interpretation of international diplomacy.
"Professional writing time?"
"Super professional." I glance at his post-practice look—freshly showered and hot as hell. I might need some expert consultation though."
"About hockey metaphors?"
"Among other things."
With the kids at their grandparents for a sleepover, we seize our chance and holy fuck, the moment Jonas’s lips claim mine, I am lost. My body is on fire, from head to toe.
I want him like I have never wanted anything else. Like, without him, there is no air. No sun. No existence. By all that is holy, I am going to have him right now. I simply cannot wait.
My arms circle his neck as we kiss, my fingers gripping his hair. When he shakes his head, I tug in frustration at losing contact.
Jonas growls. “You want it rough, do you?”
Before I can respond, he spins me around and presses me to the wall. I brace myself. He grips my hips and grinds against me, his erection pressed into my lower back.
I moan and feel the dampness between my legs.
“I can smell you,” he whispers against my ear. “Delicious.” He grips the hem of my dress and lifts, tugging it over my head, and throwing it to the floor.My underwear follows.
He palms my breasts, teasing my nipples until they hurt in a good way. Darts of pleasure shoot through me as he squeezes and tugs and pinches. I want more.
He spins me around, now pressing my back against the wall, and lowers his head. With his fingers still at play on my right breast, he sucks and nips at my left. My head falls back with a moan and the heat of his mouth wreaks new havoc on me.
It’s building, an orgasm from just his hands and mouth. My breath hitches and my eyes flutter closed as the tension coils and pleasure begins to bloom?—
He pulls away.
What the fuck?
My eyes fly open at the interruption. “What–” I stammer.
“You think I’m going to let you come that easy?” he asks, grinning. He turns me around again and pins my arms behind my back. Holding them together at the wrists, he walks me into our bedroom, where he lowers me face first onto the mattress, pushing my behind high in the air.
“Look at that sweet ass,” he breathes. He gives each cheek a quick, sharp smack. “You like that? Getting a spanking?”
I wiggle my bottom just a little, hoping he’ll smack it again. Instead, he starts sliding his thick fingers up and down my wet slit.
No complaints here.
He opens my lips to plunge a finger inside me.
I gasp and jerk, but he grips my wrists tighter. He leans closer and begins whispering.
“Such a sweet pussy you have. Are you ready, baby? Ready for me to fuck you right here?”
With his hands on my hips, he drives his cock deep. I scream, pushing and pulling against his thrusts.
“How do you like that, baby?” he growls. “You like my cock taking you from behind? You like being bent over and fucked?”
“Yes!” I scream. “Yes! Oh, please, yes.”
Even with my movement restricted, I grind against his every thrust, spreading my legs further to allow him to fuck me more deeply. I want every inch of him I can get. But he stops me when he realizes I’m getting close.
“Not so fast, baby,” he says. “You’ll come when I say you can.” He pushes my legs back together and moans when my pussy walls close even more tightly around him.
I whimper.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Please,” I beg. “Please let me come.”
He chuckles low in his throat. “In time,” he whispers. “I’m going to make you come so hard.”
He continues ramming me, and I am once more on the edge. I try to hide it from him, not wanting him to stop again, but can’t control my ass bucking against each thrust.
He pummels me harder and faster and deeper, and then pulls out of me again.
“No!” I scream.
I groan and he laughs again. “Lay back, baby.”
I do as I’m told and he moves between my legs. The cold metal of his zipper presses against my warm, tender flesh and I realize he never took the time to completely undress before fucking me.
As he pushes himself closer, the front of his pants soak with my juices. It turns me on as much as the thought of him fucking me, so deep until I beg him for release . . . beg him to let me come.
“Oh, God,” I moan as he pulses his cock in and out of my pussy.
“Play with your tits, baby.”
I pinch and pull.
“Are you ready to come, Alexa?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I pant. “Oh, yes, please.”
“Please what?” he asks.
“Please let me come.” I moan, rolling my head back against the bed below me. “Please fuck me until my pussy explodes.”
He roars, slamming into me one last, hard time, spasming and jerking as he barely holds on to what little control he has left.
He holds it there, deeply inside me and my own explosion follows.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, leaning forward and grabbing my hair. “Goddamn, that feels so fucking good.”
We are covered in sweat and juices, panting as we eye each other.
“What was with the edging?” I ask.
Jonas snorts out a laugh. “It just came to me. Now, let’s go shower.”
Later, watching the kids turn dinner into their own cultural fusion experiment, I realize something. This beautiful mess, this life I never planned—it's better than any five-star experience I’ve ever had.
My phone buzzes with notifications:
Ryan:
Your Paris vs. Hockey article just broke records
Travel magazine:
Family adventure series?
Mom:
I’m proud of you, honey. I think it’s about time for me to make a visit there
Yes please!
I glance around the table, taking it all in. Lukas is frowning with the kind of intensity usually reserved for game day as Jonas demonstrates, yet again, how to use chopsticks. Jace is staging a hostile takeover of the soy sauce, splattering it all over her dress.
It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s ours.
Jonas catches my eye and smirks, as if to say, You good?
I pick up my chopsticks—clumsily, because, for all my travel, I’ve never gotten good at chopsticks.
Yeah. I’m good. Better than good.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.