Chapter 28
A REWARD PLANNER
Stefan
In the morning, I’m up before Hayes, so I pad through my home, looking for my guest, since she wasn’t in bed when I rose.
I spot Ivy on the back deck, calling to her dog in the yard, urging Roxy to come inside.
But the little critter isn’t listening. The cinnamon pup is rolling on her back in the grass, soaking up the sun.
I try not to think too hard on how good they look here as I slide open the glass door.
Since I learned she was officially single, all I’ve wanted is some company, some fun, and some good times.
I’m here for that—to fill my empty nights with one woman.
Okay, one woman and a friend. But a tryst, nevertheless.
“Girl, c’mon,” Ivy calls out, a little desperate, but like she’s trying to keep her voice low at the same time.
She whips her gaze to me. “Oh, hi. Sun makes her drunk and defiant.” Ivy gestures to the fenced in yard, hemmed by tall hedges.
Roxy’s wiggling around on the emerald blades, which catch the early morning rays.
“Understandable. I’ve done the same,” I say.
Ivy shoots me a quizzical look. “Rolled around on the grass?”
“In a manner of speaking. Once you’ve gone through a Scandinavian winter, you soak up the rays whenever you get them.” I nod to the dog. “She seems happy.”
Ivy sighs but smiles as she checks out the dog lolling in the grass. Ivy’s wearing just a T-shirt, and she looks fantastic in the morning. Just as I suspected, since yeah, I did picture this all the times I imagined a little companionship with her. She makes the empty mornings better.
“I should round her up soon though. I have things planned today,” Ivy says, fussing with the hem of her shirt, like she’s unsure about how we should interact in the morning.
Doesn’t she know me by now? Touch is my favorite language.
I crowd her, wrap a fist around her lush hair, and gently tug it back while pressing a possessive kiss to her lips.
When I let go, I ask, “What’s on your agenda?”
She takes a few seconds to blink and perhaps to absorb the kiss before she screws up the corner of her lips, then gestures to the house. “I’d better check my planner to be sure. Hayes picked it up last night when he got Roxy.”
That catches the dog’s attention at last, since she scampers across the yard and up the steps, wagging her tail at Ivy, who scoops her up and peppers her head with kisses.
We go inside, sinking down on the couch with the pup. Ivy grabs her canvas bag from the table, then pulls out the planner.
“I guess size does matter,” I say, kind of amazed at the scope of that thing.
She pets the front cover. “In planners, it does. This one is practically perfect.”
It’s pretty and feminine, with whimsical illustrations of shoes and dresses and clothes. When she flips it open to this week, the dates are filled with details about what she has to do.
She slides a pen from a holder on the side. “Hayes got me this one,” she says of the silver pen, then shakes her head. “Wait. Both of you did.”
“Good girl,” I say, then run a hand through her hair as she shows me her plan for the week. Lots of writing and hustling, working on freelance pieces and creating her own content. “And then I reward myself for hitting my goals.”
My chest warms and I rub a hand against my sternum, like I can hold onto this fizzy feeling. This is what I’ve wanted. To soak up all the details of Ivy. “What kind of rewards do you like?”
“A latte. A TV show. A bandana for Roxy. A slice of pie. A new book,” she says, rattling off little pleasures.
“Hmm.”
She turns to me, studying my face. “What’s that hmm for?”
I meet her gaze, a smile tugging at my lips. “How about battery-operated gifts?”
She dips her face.
I tuck a finger under her chin. “Does that embarrass you? Because I don’t think it does,” I say, calling her out on the shy act.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you told us in Vegas you like to play with your tits. I bet you like to play with yourself. A lot,” I say.
She nibbles on the corner of her lips.
“You do, Ivy,” I press.
She swallows, then shrugs. A subtle admission. And I plan on running with it. I lean closer, nip her neck, then point to the days of the week. “You might need to X out the evenings. We’re going to keep you very, very busy.”
“Are you now?”
That’s what I’ve wanted. And now I’m getting it.
“Yes,” I say, then take her pen and add some items to her agenda so she knows that Hayes and I will be occupying her nights.
Not gonna lie—that’s a ray of sunlight, knowing I’ll be busy in the best of ways.
“We should meet at his place, though,” I add, with some reluctance.
I like having her here. I’ve wanted this for some time. But it’s also…risky.
When she meets my gaze, waiting for me to say more, I add, “Just in case anyone spots you leaving in the morning. It seems wiser that you’d be seen leaving your hubby’s home.”
“Instead of my secret boyfriend’s?”
That sounds too damn good on her lips. So I focus on the calendar in front of her and making plans for the next few days. “What about Thursday night?” she asks since that day’s blank. But she answers for me. “Oh, right. Game night in Phoenix.”
“But you can FaceTime us the night before. And see us after the game if we don’t fly in too late.”
She writes an O on that day. “So this is officially a reward planner now.”
I take the pen and add an O to every night. Then, a couple extras. “Yes, it is.”
We give her plenty over the next few nights in person, then on FaceTime the night before the game. Well, I like to stick to the calendar too.
* * *
In some ways, I’m a lucky guy. I’ve had a good career for nearly a decade, but I don’t take that luck for granted. I try to cultivate it and shape it. On Thursday morning in Phoenix, I do yoga at the hotel, order a kale smoothie, then stretch.
The better I take care of my body, the longer I can play.
Hockey’s a brutal game, and my body takes a pounding every time I take the ice, but it’s still a game—and I love it as much now as I did when I was a little kid, strapping on skates in Denmark, then in Virginia where we moved when I started school.
That afternoon, we hit the opponent’s ice for warmups, and I easily blot out the jeers of the opposing team’s fans. That shit never bugs me. Never has.
Playing is a joy, and I’ll stop playing when I can’t do it or when I stop having fun, whichever comes first.
There are a few Avengers fans in the crowd, so after we stretch, I sign a couple pucks. But when the game puck drops, I’m all focus, racing across the ice, jostling against the other team. Right off the mark, I spot an opening and pass to Brady. He shoots but misses.
He mutters a curse, clearly frustrated with himself. When we reach the players’ bench for a line change, I tap my stick to his skate. The dude is hard on himself. “Keep it up. There are plenty of chances.”
“Thanks, man,” he says. We find our chance at the end of the period, and we take it, and the goal.
“You were right,” he says as we skate off.
“It’s one of my many gifts.”
“Humility isn’t one of them,” he says.
“And that’s a good thing.” Nope. I amend that. “A great thing.”
* * *
During the third period, the score is tied, and I’ve been hunting for another shot on goal all night, but I’ve found none. As the clock ticks, I race down the ice. Hayes chases the puck, but he’s crowded by two defensemen, so he slings a pass my way.
And it’s all clear. I send a breakaway shot down the ice. It sails high, past the goalie’s reach, and slams beautifully into the twine.
Adrenaline whips through me, and when I turn to the camera, it briefly occurs to me Ivy is probably watching us back at home. I flash her a smile, confident she’ll know it’s for her.
* * *
Later that night, sitting next to Hayes on the team jet, I open our group chat.
Ivy: Nice teamwork. You guys deserve a reward.
Stefan: Is that on your planner?
Ivy: It is now.
Hayes: I know what I want for my prize.
Ivy: Do tell.
Hayes: You answering the door naked.
Stefan: Such a simple man.
Hayes: Got a better idea?
Stefan: Yes, she’d look sexy in a Number 18 jersey.
Hayes: Sexier in Number 21.
Ivy: Here’s a better idea. How about Number 21 in the front and Number 18 in the back?
Cracking up, I raise my face from the phone and meet Hayes’s eyes, which spark with mischief and dirty thoughts. “She’s perfect,” I whisper in filthy approval.
“I know.”
When we see Ivy that night, she’s not naked. She’s not in a jersey either. She comes upstairs to Hayes’s penthouse wearing a T-shirt and shorts and carrying her peach-bandana-wearing pup, who side-eyes me before she remembers she likes me.
Seems Ivy had the better idea after all. She looks incredible at the door just like that, here for us.
When she comes inside, the loneliness fades a little more.
* * *
On Friday morning, I run alone across the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun rises. On the way back up the endless hill of Divisadero Street, I spot a familiar silhouette ahead of me. Ledger McBride is one of the veterans on the Sea Dogs, the other team in town, and he’s running a block ahead.
Well that’s an opportunity if I ever saw one. Finding some in the tank, I rev my engine and race up the street. As I pass our rival, I flash a sorry, sucker grin.
He rolls his eyes, but a minute later, he catches up to me at the top of the hill. “Don’t underestimate me, Christiansen.”
“Did you miss the part where I beat you?”
“Did you miss the part where I caught up to you?”
“Seems I did.” We jog down the hill toward Pacific Heights together, shooting the breeze about the season so far.
“Are you still getting all the retirement questions?” I ask. He’s logged well over a decade in the pros and gets asked on the reg when he’ll hang it all up.
“If I wasn’t having one of the best starts of my career, I would be,” he says, then checks his smart watch. “A bunch of us are going out to play pool tonight. Want to join?”
I flash back to Ivy’s planner. To the note I left her. To what Hayes and I have in store for her. “I’m busy tonight.”
“I get it. Rearranging your sock drawer is important.”
With a grin that comes from knowing what’s on the reward agenda, I pick up the speed and leave him to chase my luck.