The Girlfriend
He kissed me at center ice.
There were cameras everywhere.
Players circling us. Families stepping carefully across the ice in dress shoes. Children wearing oversized championship hats and trying to touch every piece of confetti before someone swept it away.
None of that stopped him.
The second he found me in the crowd spilling out from the tunnel, he handed the trophy to a teammate, caught my face in both hands and kissed me like he had forgotten there were nineteen thousand people watching.
I laughed against his mouth.
He tasted like sweat, champagne and blood from the split in his lower lip.
“We did it,” he said.
His voice cracked on the last word.
That was what almost broke me.
Not the final horn.
Not the sight of him lifting the trophy above his head while gold confetti rained over the ice.
Not even the moment he found me behind the glass after the handshake line and pressed one glove to it, eyes wet beneath his helmet.
It was the we.
I wrapped my arms around his neck.
“You did it.”
“We.”
“You played.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Someone behind him shouted his name.
Another bottle of champagne sprayed across both of us.
I gasped as the cold liquid soaked through my dress.
He turned, swore at the teammate responsible and immediately got hit with another spray from the opposite direction.
I started laughing.
He looked back at me with champagne dripping from his hair and the happiest expression I had ever seen on his face.
“Sorry,” he said.
“You’re not.”
“Not even a little.”
He kissed me again.
Shorter this time, because three teammates crashed into him at once and dragged him back toward the trophy.
I stood there on the ice, soaked and shaking, watching the man I loved disappear into a pile of grown men screaming like children.
He looked back once.
Even in the chaos.
Even with the trophy being shoved into his hands and a championship hat pulled over his wet hair.
His eyes found mine.
Later turned out to be nearly four in the morning.
The team celebrated at the arena first.
Then at a private room downtown.
Then, according to the increasingly incoherent text messages I received, at somebody’s house in the suburbs where a defenseman had apparently jumped into a pool fully clothed.
I went home after midnight.
That had always been the plan.
I wanted him to have the night with his teammates. They had earned the right to be loud and ridiculous together without girlfriends, wives or anyone else reminding them that they were adults with responsibilities waiting outside the celebration.
Besides, we had our own celebration coming.
He made that very clear in a text sent at 1:17 a.m.
Don’t fall asleep.
At 1:42:
I’m serious.
At 2:06:
You’re so fucking beautiful.
I sent back:
Drink water.
His response:
Champagne has water.
At 2:31, he sent a photograph of himself with the trophy balanced across his lap in the back seat of a car.
His tie was gone. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and stained with at least three different liquids. His hair stood up in damp, disordered pieces beneath a championship cap worn backward.
He looked wrecked.
Beautiful.
Completely happy.
I saved the photograph.
Then I changed.
The champagne-soaked dress went into the bathtub because I did not trust it near anything upholstered. I showered quickly and pulled on one of his old team T-shirts, the soft kind washed so many times the logo had begun to crack.
I considered lingerie.
Then I imagined him attempting to navigate straps and hooks after several hours of celebration.
The T-shirt felt safer.
I left one lamp on in the living room and carried two bottles of water upstairs.
At three fifteen, I received another message.
On way.
At three eighteen:
I love you.
I stared at that one longer.
He had wanted this win since he was a child. Tonight, he had it.
I typed:
I love you too, champion.
The front door opened twenty-two minutes later.
Not unlocked.
Opened.
Hard enough to strike the stopper against the wall.
“Shit.”
I sat up in bed.
A quieter voice, not my boyfriend’s, from downstairs said, “You good?”
“I’m good,” my boyfriend said.
“You sure?”
“I live here.”
“That was not the question.”
I recognized the voice as one of his teammates.
The front door closed more carefully the second time.
Then came silence.
I waited.
A shoe hit the floor downstairs.
Another followed.
The dog barked once.
“Hey, buddy,” my boyfriend whispered loudly. “Your dad won the Cup.”
Several seconds later, his shoulder struck the bedroom doorframe.
He appeared in the doorway.
He had removed his suit jacket somewhere between the car and our bedroom. His shirt hung open almost completely now, exposing his chest and stomach. Sweat clung to his dark hair. His championship cap was missing.
He looked at me.
Stopped.
Then smiled.
Not the smile he gave cameras.
Not the broad, screaming one from the ice.
This one was slower. Softer.
Mine.
“You waited for me,” he said
“You told me not to fall asleep four times.”
“I did?”
“You also sent me a picture of yourself.”
“Was it good?”
“You looked drunk.”
“Then it was accurate.”
He crossed the room.
Mostly in a straight line.
I climbed out of bed and met him beside it.
The scent reached me before his hands did.
Champagne. Sweat. Cologne. The cold night air caught in his clothes.
And something metallic from the split in his lip.
He placed both hands at my waist.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
His gaze moved down my bare legs.
“Nothing under it?”
“Maybe.”
He swallowed.
“Mean.”
I touched his split lip carefully.
“Does this hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“It’s bleeding again.”
“Worth it.”
“For what?”
He kissed me.
Messily.
His mouth missed mine at first, landing half on my cheek before he corrected himself. I laughed, and he kissed the sound away, walking me backward toward the bed.
He tasted exactly as he had on the ice. Champagne and adrenaline.
I caught his open shirt in both hands. He pressed closer, one palm sliding beneath the hem of the T-shirt and up my bare back.
“You’re cold,” he murmured.
“You’re sweaty,” I laughed.
“Some of it might be beer.”
“That’s worse.”
“Maybe pool water.”
I pushed against his chest.
“You went in the pool?”
“No.”
He considered it.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t know?”
“It was a busy night.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
“We won,” he said. The words came out almost disbelieving.
“I know.”
He laughed and lowered his forehead to my shoulder.
I held him there.
His body was heavy against mine, all the celebration finally catching up with him. Beneath my hands, his shoulders rose and fell.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he lifted his head.
“I need you.”
The roughness in his voice changed the air.
I brushed damp hair away from his forehead.
“You have me.”
His mouth came down on mine again.
This time, the kiss landed exactly where he intended.
He pushed the shirt upward, hands impatient against my skin. I lifted my arms and let him pull it over my head.
His gaze moved over me.
The laughter left his face.
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m standing in our bedroom naked while you smell like a liquor store.”
“Perfect.”
He bent and kissed my chest.
My fingers slid into his sticky hair.
He worked his mouth slowly over my skin, but the rest of him was anything but controlled. His hands moved along my waist and hips. His breathing came too fast. Every few seconds, he whispered something against me.
My name.
I love you.
We won..
I pushed his shirt from his shoulders.
It landed on the floor with a wet slap.
“That shirt is ruined,” I said.
I reached for his belt. He tried to help. Our hands collided.
“Stop,” I said.
“I’m assisting.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“I’m good with my hands.”
“Not currently.”
He looked offended.
I laughed and finally opened the belt.
He kicked away the rest of his clothing with no patience or coordination, nearly falling when the fabric caught around one ankle.
I grabbed his arm.
“Careful.”
He freed himself and immediately pulled me into him.
The contact of his bare body against mine stole the rest of the joke.
His mouth found my neck.
I wrapped one leg around his hip, drawing him closer.
He groaned.
The sound went through me.
“There,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted.”
“What?”
“You.”
His hands gripped the backs of my thighs.
Before I could warn him, he lifted me and I caught his shoulders.
He carried me the two steps to the bed and dropped us onto it with far less grace than usual.
The mattress bounced.
I landed beneath him, laughing hard enough that I had to turn my face into the pillow.
He stared down at me.
“What?”
“You almost threw me into the headboard.”
“I knew where it was.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”.
I laughed harder.
He covered my mouth with his.
The kiss was sloppy and hungry, teeth bumping once before we adjusted. I could feel his smile against mine.
His knee pushed between my thighs.
I opened for him and the laughter disappeared.
His body settled over me, warm and heavy, his hard cock pressing between us. His breathing caught when I rolled my hips upward and he slipped inside of me.
He closed his eyes.
The sight of him affected by me never got old. Not after years together. Not after seeing him in every version of himself.
He reached for my clit, fingers moving with more enthusiasm than precision.
I caught his wrist.
“Slow down.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“I want to make you feel good.”
I guided his hand.
“Here.”
He watched my face as I showed him the pressure and rhythm I wanted.
His concentration would have been funny if it weren’t so tender.
His brow furrowed and his split lip parted slightly.
“There?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He repeated the movement.
Better.
My eyes closed.
“Like that.”
His mouth found mine.
The intensity returned, but now it had direction. His hand moved exactly where I had guided it while his body pressed me into the mattress.
He knew my body.
Even drunk.