Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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In the National Hockey League, there are no days off. No three weeks of vacation after you've been working there for a year, no sick days if you're coming down with a case of the I don't wanna go to work, and no paternity leave.
If you have a doctor's appointment, cancel it. A baby on the way that's about to pop, wait and see. A mother that's on her death bed, wait until she's cold.
You might think I'm being dramatic, but the number of guys I've heard recount stories of missing the birth of their first child because of a flight delay, is too many to count. Not because I'm some dumb jock that didn't do well in Math - though, that isn't not true; but because it's a more common occurrence than Tim Hortons trying to rush you through their drive-thru.
During the season, Christmas is one of the main times I look forward to - when I want time off. Not because I like wearing frilly sweaters or trying to convince Rosie to install a massive mistletoe above our bed, but because it means I get three days off. And now that I have someone to spend those three days with, rather than just spending them watching Cass and Link suck face across the dinner table, I plan to take full advantage of them.
"Erik, stop." Rosie tells me, uttering words that she doesn't often use with me. Mostly because I spend enough time with her and pay attention to her cues to make sure they don't need to be used. Unless it's me trying to steal another kiss before leaving for a game, or her leaving the bed in the morning before the sun's even risen; that, I won't contest against.
This four letter word comes out of her mouth when we're in bed on Boxing Day - a day that most spend waiting in line at the mall, all of them on edge and ready to pop if someone dares to look at their overpriced TV. Which isn't even on sale but because some minimum-wage store clerk who has been instructed by corporate to put a yellow sign in front of it, people think it's a steal.
I guess that's the power of demand. Of other people wanting the same thing you do.
"Admit it, then." I respond, my hands quickly moving down her sides and finding the same spot that made her laugh, a minute ago. Yes, I'm tickling Rosie. And yes, I am five years old. The way she's squirming against me and accidently - or strategically, pressing up against my dick, makes me feel like I'm anything but five.
She suffers for a few more minutes, moments; twitching around in a way that's quite different than what usually goes on in the bed. Our bed. I fucking love saying that. I'm also loving the fact that Kayden's at his parents place until later today and we have the place to ourselves.
Not that we go anywhere other than our room and the kitchen (I'd rather eat something that's already in bed with me). But it's nice to know that we (I) can be as loud as we want and don't have to worry about someone banging on the door, asking us to keep it down. Or waiting until practice the next morning to roast the ever-loving shit out of me.
"Fine." She finally says after a few more seconds of laughter. Her face is red and her shirt (my shirt)'s half-ridden up, exposing most of her stomach. Her hair's all over the place and with no makeup or even a trace of it, I honestly think she's the most beautiful woman in the world. "The new Jurassic Park doesn't suck."
I don't even remember how we started messing around in the first place, probably talking about movies and then got carried away from there. Not that either of us really care that much about movies or tv, we're not hugely into that. Even with the new Jurassic Park, it took her about two months to finally agree to watch it with me.
I think that might also have to do with her not being able to sit still. Especially not through a two-hour or however long it is, movie. So when we finally did, she started roasting Chris Pratt for something - because she doesn't like him; and things just went from there.
But let's be real, I'm not a Chris Pratt fangirl - but I will take any opportunity I can to get my hands all over her. Her being Rosie and not Chris Pratt.
"Thank you." I exclaim, pretending that I give much more of a fuck than both of us know I do. Rosie's head is rested back against one of our trillion pillows; and I hit the mute button before making my move on her. And by move, I mean moving my arms over her and kissing her like I mean it.
I like that we can joke around with each other. I like that she feels comfortable enough and trusts me enough to relax around me - which makes sense since we've been together for a few months now and spend a lot of time together. But even then, some couples keep it superficial as fuck. Whereas we actually talk about things that matter - and not just about our future, but life in general.
"You're such a goof." She tells me, when I pull away from her and (sadly) move myself back to my own side of the bed. Which let's be real, there are no sides. It's all ours.
I adjust the pillow behind my head, feeling like this is the first time in months that we've gotten to relax together - without either of us having to sacrifice sleep. Sleep, or having to worry about her waking up early the next morning for work; and me waking up alongside her, trying to convince her to let me drive her in.
"Mhm." I respond, positioning myself on my side (not as if I'm an aerobics instructor) and looking at her. I don't know what it is about being in-love with someone, but something makes it impossible to not get a boner around them. Also, to think about anything other than them for an extended period of time.
Not that I'm necessarily complaining about that, considering the amount of time we've lately been spending in-between the sheets. And I'm not the type of guy that will ever pressure a woman to get any sort of birth control or try and convince her to go glove-free, but I'm really looking forward to not having to use condoms.
Some might even say, excited.
After spending some more time rolling around together - both literally and figuratively, I find myself with a half-naked Rosie laying her head on my chest. Half-naked, well, because the sheet's covering the rest of her.
"What do you think you'd be doing, if you weren't a hockey player?" She asks, tilting her head so that she's looking at me. She looks so fucking beautiful that it takes me a moment to pull myself together and do anything but seep into a pile of mush.
"I'm not sure." I answer honestly, never feeling like someone really cared to know the answer. Sure, people have asked me what I would want to do, but usually it's accompanied by a microphone and bright light behind them. I have to think about what I should say, rather than the truth.
With her, I can be 100% authentically myself. Even if that means not being what the public would perceive or want from me; because a lot of the time being "famous" means someone shoving you into a box and never letting you out. You are contained and confined to whatever it is you got famous for.
Maybe you break out, or try to - but you never do as well as you originally did. Much like someone with a one-hit wonder trying for a repeat, you're never able to replicate the success you once had.
"Something with kids. A teacher, maybe? Or a coach?" Though, coaches of anything but college-level sports don't typically get paid very well. And even when you get to the NCAA level, you're only as good as your school, which is a whole different story.
She nods, thinking about it like she's imagining me trying to wrangle a class full of kindergarteners. Maybe not kindergarten, but definitely middle school or high school. I've always liked the idea of passing knowledge on to the people after me. Then again, I never did really well in school, hence why I would go with coach.
"What do you think you'd do?" I ask, returning the same question with a ping-pong paddle swing. When she gives me a confused look in return, as if to say I'm not a 6 foot 5 hockey player, I rephrase. "If you weren't working for the Pirates."
She chews on her lip. "Technically I'm not working for them, yet." She reminds me, voicing the same thing she's been concerned about for the last few months: getting a full-time job after graduation with them. If you ask me, it's guaranteed.
Putting my feelings for her aside, who wouldn't want her working for them? She's always early, stays late, works hard, and does whatever she can to help the organization. There's no logical reason why she shouldn't get a job with them...other than me.
