Chapter 14 Briar
Briar
I’ve been to hundreds of hockey games in my life, which basically qualifies me as an expert on them.
An odd label perhaps for someone who doesn’t particularly care for the sport, but here I am.
I’ve watched from every vantage point in the arena—right behind the bench, where you feel like a part of the team; in suites, with all-you-can-drink sodas and endless snacks; and from the cheap seats, though Mom vetoed that after I got a bit turned around on a solo bathroom trip once and got lost. Of course, Dad didn’t notice because he was enthralled in the game we were there to watch.
Well, technically not the game, but a player.
At every one, the booming announcers, chilly air, and crowds hungry for violence are always the same.
Despite my usual dislike for hockey, the atmosphere in the arena tonight is filled with an infectious hum that’s working its way through me, leaving sizzling excitement in its wake. It definitely helps that Harley is bouncing in his seat, watching for Dominic to take the ice.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?”
“Yeah, honey,” I assure him. At least I know he’s going to sleep hard tonight—he’s buzzing like a bee and the postgame crash is going to be epic. “He arranged everything. He knows.”
I try to not be impressed by that, and maybe if it truly had only been tickets, I could blow it off as no-big-deal.
But Dominic doesn’t do anything small. We have lower tier, center ice tickets, right on the glass, across from the benches so our view is totally unimpeded.
Our parking pass was included. So was a gift card for the concession stand and two jerseys with the Blizzard’s newest defenseman’s name on the back—one in Harley’s size and one in mine.
Is wearing a guy’s number like putting on a cowboy’s hat? Does it mean you’re going home with him?
Surely not.
But would that be so bad? The idea makes me ridiculously overheated considering the cold ice is literally right there.
I haven’t gone home with a guy in a long time.
Like ever. Not since Tyler. And I don’t think that qualifies when I had dinner with his parents and then we went to the basement to watch a movie.
I’d ended up late for both my curfew and my period.
We got married shortly after that, and then home was our little apartment.
Point being, after the divorce, dating and sex haven’t been on my to-do list. The concept has felt foreign and wrong for so long, but after that kiss? They’re starting to sound much more intriguing.
Not tonight, I tell the butterflies flapping around in my belly.
For one, I cannot have sex for the first time since Tyler with my son asleep in the next room.
What if I’m loud? What if Dominic is? The image of a grunting, orgasming Dominic with his face scrunched up in pleasure pops into my mind unbidden.
Are hot flashes a thing at twenty-eight? Because I think I’m having one.
Second, Dominic will probably have postgame things to do and we won’t even have the chance to see him off the ice.
Also, what if I don’t know what I’m doing?
A man like Dominic will be good in bed. I have zero doubt of that.
If I was unsure, the way he kissed me quickly removed any uncertainty there.
He was tender but sure, exploring not only my mouth but my body as well.
Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t shove me up against the side of his truck and take what he wanted.
I could feel that he wanted to—wanted me!
—but he’d held himself back, and that restraint was oh so sexy, making me wonder what an unleashed Dominic would be like.
On the other hand, I have little to no experience with men.
Tyler and I didn’t exactly have a rip-roaring love life, and sex has always been kind of a meh experience for me.
Oh God, what if I have sex with Dominic and it’s still just okay? I’ve read all sorts of books and watched my fair share of romance movies. Is the knock your socks off, make you scream sex in those entirely fictional? Or could it actually exist?
I want it to be real. And I want it to be real with Dominic, which is massive progress in itself. Go me! If I could afford a therapist, she’d be so proud of me. But I don’t have one of those, so I give myself a hearty pat on the back and a private attagirl.
“Look, Mom! There’s Dom!” Harley shouts, yanking me from the whirlwind of thoughts tumbling through my head.
The Blizzard have taken to the ice, doing sweeping loops around one end to warm up. Even with the whole lot of them dressed in baby blue, my eyes find Dominic easily. He’s not particularly taller or wider than any of the other guys, but he draws my attention like a magnet.
“Dom!” Harley shouts, banging on the glass as he skates closer. “Dominic!”
I see the instant he hears the familiar voice, watch him perk up and try to find us, which means I get a front-row seat to the smile that lifts his lips when he locks in on Harley . . . and then me.
The whole world seems to drop away, and in an instant, I feel the impact of his heavy gaze.
His eyes drop over me, flaring when he sees the jersey I’m wearing.
The look on his face says that, as important as this game is, I’m the focus.
That if we were to change seats, he could find me anywhere in the arena, picking my voice out from fifteen thousand others.
It’s a look that says that I mean something to him. It’s a look that my body responds to naturally even before my brain catches up. It’s a look that says, You’re mine. Game over.
Because no other person in this entire arena is getting a look from Dominic like I am right now.
As he skates by us, he touches the glass with his gloved hand, right where Harley has placed his hand.
Literally an inch of plexiglass and his glove separate them, but Harley acts like it’s a direct high five.
Weird as it sounds, I understand because I’d swear that I can feel Dom’s heat through the glass too.
“Did you see that, Mom?” Harley asks, his eyes filled with awe.
It’s like he’s discovered that a celebrity is a real person, but it’s just Dominic, the man who practiced drills with him, discussed proper cheese to burger to bun ratios while they stuffed their faces, and helped with both an injury and a jerk of a father.
But now, he’s dressed in full gear and looks like the guy from the games on television. Still, Dominic is more than a famous athlete. He’s a friend . . . to my son. And maybe to me.
Dominic is halfway across the rink when I find him again, but when I do, his eyes are already locked on me.
Or did they ever leave me? I give him a big smile and two thumbs-up.
Instantly, I decide the thumbs-up is weird and switch to clapping, but that must look odd, too, because Dominic grins before turning his attention to the teammates around him.
Hockey has never fully held my attention unless Harley was on the ice.
I watch my baby like a hawk. But pro games?
I find myself scanning the crowd, watching the mascots, dancing in my chair to the snippets of music between plays, and basically entertaining myself with random stuff until the game is over.
Not tonight.
I’m laser focused on what’s happening.
I notice a few things pretty quickly. Dad is starting Dominic tonight, rare for a new player, but with Dom’s playing history, nobody is surprised.
Mike Kipson’s been chirping at Wayne Anderson since they hit the ice, while Anderson keeps silently waving Kipson off.
I get the feeling that behind his goalie’s arm shield, Anderson is giving Kipson the bird.
I don’t know what that’s about, but Kipson came out mad and only seems to be getting angrier.
And Sabine and Pacholek seem to be keeping one eye on the puck and one on Kipson, a hard task when he’s behind them for the most part.
Or he should be, but as soon as the puck drops, the Devils are playing hot and heavy, putting pressure on Anderson again and again.
“Score!”
Shit.
The crowd’s sound of disappointment matches the one I feel. “It’s okay,” I say, clapping my hands a little more normally now that Dominic’s not watching. “Keep at it.”
I’m cheering for the Blizzard the way I cheer for Harley, with positive affirmations and support, as if they care nearly as much as my nine-year-old does.
From what I can tell, it works. And I actually enjoy watching.
Granted, I mostly keep my attention locked on Dominic, and though he does his fair share of roughhousing, the hallmark skillset of a defenseman, I can’t help but note his surprising grace and finesse.
But it’s hard to ignore the action crisscrossing the ice and I find myself following along with the plays, cheering the Blizzard on with growing intensity as the game progresses.
Despite the early score by the Devils, the second period levels things, and in the third we eke out a hard-fought 2–1 victory.
“That was so awesome!” Harley yells. His hands are clenched by his face and his eyes look a bit maniacal. Someone overdid it on the sugary sodas, cotton candy, and popcorn tonight, and it’s not me.
“It was a great game,” I agree.
“Dom killed it. Did you see him with that body check on Paulson? Or the way he broke up Medvedev’s fake out and just yoinked the puck from him like it was nothing?”
“Of course I did. I’m literally right here,” I say, pointing at the seat next to his. We saw the exact same things.
“Do you think we can see the players?”
After games, players have an entire routine to go through. For some, it’s a quick shower and go. For others, it might be an hour-long process with sports medicine, cold plunge soaks, and then showering and getting dressed. I don’t know where Dominic falls in that spectrum.
Plus, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for the other players to see me.
In the crowd during the game, I blend in and am relatively anonymous.
But standing in a fan line for up-close pictures and autographs?
They’d recognize me and probably tell Dad that I was here.
If I was a good liar, I could say I came to support him.
But I’ve never been able to lie without some kind of tell giving me away, and that would lead to more questions. Ones I’m not prepared to answer.
“I don’t think so, honey. It’s late. We can send Dominic a text to thank him again.”
I don’t get the chance to send a politely worded thank-you that Miss Manners would be proud of, though. Before I do, my phone dings.
I have to deal with some shit, but can I come over after? I know it’s late, so it’s okay if not. But I’d like to see you.
He wants to see me?
I try not to squeal like a teenage girl whose crush just sent her a WYD, girl? text. Mostly because Harley is looking at me weirdly. So maybe I did make a noise? Oops! But also, because I’m a full-grown adult who is not freaking out over a man wanting to come over after dark.
That’s fine. Let me know when you’re on your way.
I stare at the message, making sure I didn’t misspell anything and that it sounds as nonchalant as I want it to, as opposed to the ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod chaotic energy I actually feel. I add my address and hit send.
“He’s coming over?” Harley asks. He was reading over my shoulder and knows exactly who I just invited to our home. Postgame crash, my ass. My odds of getting him to bed just dropped to less than 1 percent, especially hopped up on caffeine and sugar.
“Yes, but not for a bit. You should have time to shower and get to bed first,” I tell him.
“Mooom!” he whines.
I can’t help it, I laugh. “I’m kidding. You can stay up to say thank you in person.” I switch into the mom inflection that I’ve perfected to add, “And then go to bed without argument.”
He’s quick to accept. “Deal.”
On the drive home, Harley rambles about the game, reliving each play in detail, and though I nod along and offer occasional commentary, mostly I’m reminding myself that I am not having sex tonight. Or maybe ever again.
But definitely not tonight.
Too bad my vajayjay doesn’t quite get the memo and is pulsing with a reminder that a little extra attention from a man who kisses like Dominic would be nice. Real nice.