Page 80 of Top Shelf

“I’m a practical woman.”

“No, you are not.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Excuse you.”

I reach over to take the phone from her hands and set it face down on the table.

“Are you amending my amendment?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

I lean closer, slowly enough that she has room to refuse. She does not. “Testing household stability.”

Her laugh catches against my mouth, and then it morphs into something else entirely. Gasps and moans that drive me nuts as I make her come loudly throughout the morning, hoping the sounds will fill my head until I return from the next game.

The rest of the day moves fast. I have a recovery skate, game footage, and a team meeting before we fly out of Denver. The final regular season game is away, and the math is ugly. We need a win and help from another result to sneak into the playoffs, but no one says it quite like that. Coaches talk about controlling what we can control.

By afternoon, I am on another plane, and my phone is full of messages. My mother has sent three about Sweden and a photo of my grandmother pointing at her television, where someone has paused a clip of Heidi in my jersey. Freja has sent a message wanting to know how someone so beautiful married someone like me. And Chase has sent a photo of our hallway kiss outside the family room to the group chat because he is a bad person.

Before takeoff, Heidi texts.

Heidi: Good luck, husband. Try not to get punched somewhere useful.

Me: Which parts are useful?

Her reply comes while the flight attendant is already watching me as though she’s holding back a bark to put my phone on flight mode.

Heidi: Hands. Tongue. Face. Definitely your cock, though I haven’t felt the full effect of it yet so jury’s out on how useful it is

I stare at her message, biting the inside of my cheek, until Chase drops into the seat across the aisle.

“That your wife?”

I quickly lock the screen and pocket the phone. “Yes.”

He grins. “You look like somebody texted you a bomb threat.”

“You cannot say these words on an airplane.”

“Just painting a picture.”

My eyes flick to his and away. “You should have your paint confiscated.”

He laughs, but I can still feel Heidi’s message burning in my hand after we take off. And when we land, I am thinking about all the ways I will show her how useful my cock can be, starting with that pretty mouth of hers.

When we play the next day, we lose 3–2 in regulation.

The final horn sounds, and the season ends with our goalie pulled, six skaters on the ice, and a puck trapped in the corner where no one can do anything useful with it. The arena noise rises as the Minnesota Moose bench spills over the boards, and our guys drift toward the tunnel with that flattened look that comes when the body has prepared for another month of hockey, but the calendar says no.

I hate losing, and I hate the empty space after a season ends. But I know this ache, and I know what it costs to dwell on it. Sometimes your best is your best, and that isn’t quite enough. Next season, we will simply try again. Be better and give more. We always do.

Chase sits near me, still half in his gear with a towel around his neck.

“You’re taking this better than normal, Karlsson.”

“I am not.”