She scrutinizes me long and hard. “I can live with that.”
I let out a pent-up breath, trying not to show the magnitude of my relief. But rest assured, it is fierce. “Then I guess we’re getting married tonight.”
Noisemakers and some concerning crackles go off on the other side of the office door, followed by a rousing round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” except He’s has been replaced with She’s.
Britta doesn’t so much as flinch.
“One year, Sumner.”
“One year, Britta.”
Chapter Three
BRITTA
March
I’m trying to make an inconspicuous entrance to the Bandits practice, but of course they cannot allow me to be low key. As soon as I’m halfway down the concrete steps, Riggs catches sight of me, and the whole team skates up to the glass in a swarm of maroon and white, banging their gloves against it and chanting my name.
Three months have passed since my impromptu wedding to Sumner.
Since the chaste kiss I gave him while “Auld Lang Syne” blared from the old bar speakers and confetti rained down on our heads. But the Bandits still never waste a chance to let me know I’m their official hero. They’ve gone undefeated since Sumner and I tied the knot, a phenomenon they’re calling the Britta Effect.
Ridiculous.
I appreciate them giving me so much credit, but apart from reciting some vows, I haven’t done much to warrant such a high level of worship. I haven’t had time since becoming a part owner in the bar and taking on more responsibilities, like payroll and inventory. However, starting today, I will definitely be earning my $50,000. The paperwork has been compiled and filed for Sumner’s green card, and while we haven’t gotten a date for our official interview yet, we were advised by his immigration lawyer to start studying. Each other.
Down on the ice, Sumner takes off his helmet and gives me a serious nod, shoving one of the guys who chants my name with a little too much enthusiasm. I curtsy to the team by way of thanks, and they graduate to smacking their sticks against the glass before returning to practice. Sumner doesn’t go with them, though. He skates to the bench area, leaves his stick and helmet behind, and exits the ice, throwing one thick leg over the white waist-high board and then, still wearing his skates, climbing the stairs to where I’m sitting.
I try hard to keep my pulse ticking along at a normal pace, but there is no use pretending I don’t find this quiet giant appealing, with his hockey pads and sweaty hair. Someone in the bar referred to Sumner recently as a motherfucking powerhouse and that’s exactly what he looks like now.
Strong enough to carry a baby elephant on each padded shoulder. Ready to crush someone. And apologize afterward.
I’m not volunteering to be crushed, I remind myself, but I can’t help but feel a very distinct tug low in my belly when he gives me a half smile.
And the world slows down as he grabs the front of his shoulder pads and pulls them off over his head, taking the practice jersey with it. He’s wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt underneath, but my God, it rides up all the way to his collarbone, and my ears begin to ring, my ovaries performing a complicated tango.
My husband is ripped to shreds.
And thick with it.
Uhh. Daddy? questions my brain.
There is hair on his chest. Like a really nice amount—and this is a weird observation that I wouldn’t normally make on a man, but he has great nipples. They look like they’ve been stretched tight, along with the rest of his skin, to accommodate all that pesky muscle, the edges slightly puckered from the cold.
“Hey, Britta,” he says, tossing his gear onto a seat and then swiping back his sweaty hair.
“Hi,” I respond, trying to sound cheerful, but I sound like my throat is being stepped on instead. “Good practice?”
“Yeah.” He indicates me with a jerk of his chin. “Better now.”
My skin starts to tingle ominously, the organ in my chest pumping a little faster.
Uh-oh.
Sumner drops heavily into the seat beside me, bending forward to remove his skates, and his triceps flex in a way that makes me bite my lip.
Usually, when Sumner comes into Sluggers, he’s wearing a sweatshirt, but
he’s not wearing one now. All that muscle definition is simply out in the open for public consumption. Or private consumption, really. Mine.
Objectively speaking, of course.
I mentally shake myself and cross my legs, finding a more comfortable position in the seat. “Are you ready to study?”
Sumner straightens, gives a quick scan of the immediate area. “You want to study here?”