The Proposal Play (Love and Hockey Book 3)
The Proposal Play: Chapter 45

Maeve

It’s the number one rule of being a good hockey fan—thou shalt not miss the warm-ups.

But I’ve never been so warm from them before. I blame my husband. Asher’s on the ice with the Sea Dogs for their pre-game warm-ups, and he’s currently doing the stretch.

I sigh happily from my seat in the rows behind the players’ bench. “I’m so glad his dads aren’t here yet,” I tell Leighton. Her dad got her tickets, and she’s meeting up with some friends from college to watch the game, but she’s joined me here first.

“I’m pretty sure they’ve seen him stretch before,” she says.

I elbow her—because I’m mature like that. “You mean…humping the ice.” Bless them, that’s what most of the guys are doing now. They’re in their full uniforms, on their hands and knees on the ice, lifting their hips up and down.

“Stretch those hip flexors, handsome,” I shout to the hotshot winger, though I doubt he can hear me.

Leighton shoves my shoulder. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

“With whom? Your dad?”

“Um, other fans?” she points out, glancing around. The arena is less than a quarter full, crowds straggling in slowly. But the ones here early are hardcore, decked out in Sea Dogs jerseys and beanies.

“Pretty sure Asher wants everyone to know I’m here for him,” I say, gesturing to the back of the jersey I’m wearing, the one he left for me on the kitchen counter this morning. The one he had custom-made. Then I lower my voice to not entirely a whisper and hold her gaze as I ask, “Or do you think the Feral Falcon will swing by and hear you?”

Groaning, she rolls her eyes. “First of all, let’s make sure that doesn’t stick as a nickname.”

“The Filthy Falcon? The Fucking Falcon? The Flirty Falcon! Yes!” I thrust my arms high at that last one. “And we have a winner!”

“He’s hardly flirty.” She drops her voice. “Well, not in public. Also, did I say we fucked?” She gives me a saucy look.

“No, because you’re a mean friend,” I say with a pout. I turn back to the ice action, waving a hand in front of me like it’s too hot in here. “Goddamn,” I murmur to myself. My husband looks so sexy, moving his body like that. Then, screw it. If other people can hoist signs asking him to bed them on the side, I can let him know I think he’s a fine drink of man. I stand, cup my mouth, and shout, “Looking good, Twenty-Nine.”

He heard me because he pops up with his hockey stick and flies across the rink, sending a spray of ice toward the boards when he stops right by the empty bench. “You’re coming home with me tonight, Mrs. Callahan.”

And yes, I already knew that, but he’s declaring it—loud and cocksure for the other fans to hear.

A woman a few seats over whines. A guy nearby cheers me on. But Asher only has eyes for me. He takes off his gloves and beckons me closer. “Get over here, wife. I need a good-luck kiss.”

My stomach flips. Leighton nudges me, saying, “Go.”

She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I hustle down a few rows. When I reach the bench, the only spot where there’s no glass, he leans over and drops a quick, possessive kiss onto my lips.

Immediately, he lets go, skates backward, and points at me, shouting, “You’re mine.”

Is my heart supposed to flutter so much in a temporary marriage? Is my chest supposed to tingle like this? Should my cheeks feel this flushed? I press a hand to my face. I’m hot all over even though I’m surrounded by ice.

With a dopey smile that won’t disappear, I rejoin Leighton right as Miles glides by, giving the quickest of chin nods in her direction. She steals a glance at the coaches on the ice, then flashes a barely-there smile to Miles before he skates behind the net and away from her.

I turn to her and sigh sympathetically, squeezing her arm. “Pining Falcon,” I say quietly but clearly enough so she can hear. “Maybe that’s more apropos.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says wistfully. Then she quickly changes the subject, waggling her phone at me. “Guess who snapped a picture of your husband kissing you before the game?”

This makes me unreasonably happy. “Let me see.”

She shows me the shot—I’m stretching for a kiss, and that feels fitting too. It feels true. It feels like us. My heart balloons as I stare. “You’re good,” I say, then meet her eyes. “Can I post it?”

“That’s why I took it. I had a feeling you’d want it.”

“Thanks, babe,” I say.

As she sends it to me, we chat briefly about the sub of a sub of a sub, and she tells me how the place is working out. “Thank you again,” she says. “I needed this. I have a lead on a place I can move into in the summer, but this has been perfect for now.”

The summer. When this arrangement between Asher and me ends. When we return to our regularly scheduled lives.

That thought weighs on me as I post the photo on my social, but then I furrow my brow at my profile. “Um, do I have a bunch of new followers?”

Leighton stares at the number on my phone. “Do you?”

“I do,” I say, and it’s weird and wonderful at the same time. “It’s not entirely earned, is it? They’re not really here for me. They’re here because I’m…Mrs. Callahan.”

Leighton nods a few times, her expression thoughtful. “The world isn’t fair, Maeve. People don’t always get what they deserve. But, don’t you forget—Maeve Hartley got the Sea Dogs mural gig before she became Mrs. Callahan.”

“Love you,” I say, then I smile thoughtfully. “And I’ve only known you for a few months. How did that happen?”

“I’m easy to love,” she says.

“You are. You’re like a dog.”

“High praise.” She throws her arms around me and then takes off to join her friends.

Feeling contemplative, I look at my phone again and the picture I just posted. I don’t deserve all this attention, but I’m getting it anyway. Including from Eleanor, who’s already liked the new snap.

Well, at least the kiss is real.

The other real thing? The way my heart scampers a few minutes later after Leighton meets her friends and two familiar men come down the aisle toward me. The tall, strapping one with the roguish good looks and burly charm is John, and the lankier, wiry one is Carlos.

When they reach me, I’m up on my feet since it’s so good to see them. “It’s been too long,” I say, meaning it.

“I know, girl. I know,” Carlos says then wraps me in a hug.

“Especially now that you’re family,” John says, giving me a hug too.

Yes, they’re in on the deal. But there’s no “wink and a nod” in family at all. They say it like they mean it, and my throat hitches. That’s an inconvenient reaction—this surplus of feelings.

Letting go of John, I try to tamp down the emotion, giving them both a smile as the three of us sit. “And family goes to hockey together,” I say. Wow, that did not help me feel any less.

“Of course they do. Our first date was a hockey game,” Carlos says, looking at his husband with affection.

“Shut up,” I say, my jaw dropping.

John nods, big and proud. “What can I say? I was confident. I wanted to impress him, so I shelled out for tickets.”

“It was a minor league game,” Carlos points out, laughing.

“But you were still impressed,” John insists, his gaze drifting down to his husband’s gold band.

“Fine, fine. You got me there.” Carlos gestures to the ice, where Asher’s lobbing easy shots on goal as the warm-up winds down. His tone shifts from teasing to genuine as he adds, “And hockey was somehow meant to be for us when we decided to have a family.”

“The universe had a plan when the adoption agency found us a son,” John says, heartfelt too, and…dammit.

My throat constricts. All this talk of meant to be is making my eyes a little watery too. No, not a little. A lot.

I swallow, trying to stave off this waterfall. The last time I felt this way was when their son slid a ruby ring on my finger, and said it was meant to be.

The way I’ve felt about our friendship for so many years.

The way I always want to feel about it.

But the dreams of romance are getting harder to ignore when Asher’s always a step ahead of me, cooking for me, caring for me, looking out for me. Most of all, lifting me up, supporting me, and knowing what I need maybe before I know it myself.

“Your son’s amazing,” I blurt out to the two men who raised him.

They smile warmly and say in unison, “We know.”

Carlos squeezes my shoulder, shifting gears. “How was dinner the other week? I trust the cilantro made the meal?”

“Of course it did,” I say, impressed but not surprised with Carlos’s finesse with herbs—he works in finance, with a focus on restaurants and the food-service industry.

“Oh!” John says excitedly to Carlos. “You should give him a recipe with rosemary next time. Your rosemary is to die for.”

Carlos’s deep brown eyes light up. “I detect no lies in that statement. I’ll drop some off tomorrow.”

“With some vitamins,” John adds with a laugh.

Carlos laughs again, a warm, loving sound that tells me they aren’t making fun of Asher. “Yes, since we already have plenty.” Carlos turns to me, explaining, “He sent us some vitamins the other week, even though we told him we’re all set.”

And Asher sent me neck exercises late last night and set an alarm on my phone to make sure I did them. But I don’t add that, though the neck stretches were, admittedly, helpful. Still, I don’t know what to make of Asher’s concerns. Especially since John looks great, and I have no idea why Asher’s worried about osteoporosis, except well, he’s kind of a worrier, and I suppose you can’t tell anyway if someone has it just by looking.

But I file away the fact that they already have the vitamins Asher was so determined to get them. I don’t say anything though, since it’s not my place to ask. Except, it already seems I have the answer to one question—does Asher worry a lot about your health?

He does.

“So tell us all about the mural job,” Carlos says. “We’re so excited for you and it sounds like it’s leading to all sorts of things.”

“Asher said you’re getting new gigs from it,” John adds. “He was really excited when he got the cilantro. Such a huge break for you.”

It’s happening again. My throat is tightening, and it’s not only from the fact that Asher told them about my life and career. But from the fact that they not only remember, they also care enough to ask me.

I tell them about the café where I’m finishing the tree painting tomorrow, then a request from a new night market to carry some of my decorative mirror designs, and even some requests from galleries to look at my pop art kiss portfolio, and it’s so nice to share with his parents. They dote on me and treat me like their real daughter-in-law and it’s almost embarrassing how much I love it.

But I love even more the reaction my jersey gets when Asher races onto the ice at the start of the game against the Los Angeles Supernovas. I rise and cheer him on with everyone behind me seeing the custom-made jersey—custom made for one woman only.

Me.

It has his number and his name, like all the other Asher Callahan jerseys.

But this is the only one that says Mrs. in front of his last name.

Carlos hoots when he sees it. “Damn, he likes claiming you,” he says.

“He really does,” I say, and once again, I feel like a part of their family, and I love it far too much for my own good. I can’t let myself get too caught up in the moment.

“Besides, it’s a damn good name,” John says, and Carlos laughs, like they have an inside joke.

“That’s why we picked it, babe,” Carlos says to his husband.

That raises an interesting point. Do both his dads have the same last name? I don’t actually know, because do you really need to know your friends’ parents’ names? “Did you pick that last name for Asher? Rather than use a hyphenated name?”

Carlos grins. “Actually, neither one of us wanted a hyphenated name, so we picked a new last name and moved our given names to middle names, and that way the three of us could have the same last name.”

My heart swells. It’s just a name, but the gesture and the reasoning fills my heart. “That’s lovely,” I say.

They both smile my way. They invite me to their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary dinner in a few weeks’ time, and they don’t stop including me for the rest of the game. They involve me in everything. From their discussions about their favorite shows—they’re hooked on First Dates too—to trade rumors surrounding Miles’s younger brother, Tyler, who plays for the Supernovas, as well as their predictions for when that trade might be. “Trade deadline just passed. Bet they get him in the off-season though,” John says confidently.

Oh! Maybe that’s the trade Eleanor was dropping hints about. Possibly she was discussing it, but it didn’t come to pass before the deadline? Then I laugh quietly. I don’t know the ins and outs of trade machinations, but maybe she does like me if she’s dropping breadcrumbs about trades.

That makes me feel like maybe I do deserve some of the attention I’ve been getting. Asher definitely does when he scores the first goal of the game near the end of the first period. After he fist-bumps with the guys on the bench, he turns to me, locks eyes, and blows me a huge kiss.

I catch it, then turn around, looking over my shoulder, showing off the back of my jersey just for him. He mouths Mrs. Callahan.

And he looks even more pleased than he did when he scored that goal.