Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Sixty-Two × Can I Punch Him Yet?

Rosie has been around the guys for a total of ten minutes, and I can already feel the vein in my forehead, threatening to come out. It's the jealous one, the pulsating that comes knocking on my front door anytime someone looks at her in a way I would.

"When're you graduating, Rosie?" Dylan inquires, sipping some of his beer before looking over at her. I can tell by the way he wipes his mouth immediately after and maintains eye contact with her for too long, that he's interested.

Not because he comes outright and says it, like yeah, King, I wanna fuck your girl - wanna watch? Most guys have the brains to know that wouldn't end well, and would undoubtedly get them punched in the face. One swift hit that I could excuse as just some practice for an on-ice scrum. It's not like they would report it or tell coach, because they would know - just as much as any court of law, that you don't go after another man's girl.

Certainly not when he's the captain of the team you play for, and has the ability to get you benched or sent down by just one call to the GM.

"Uh, April...I think." She answers, taking a moment to remember when her graduation is. I have it circled on my calendar, along with a big fuck you to Dylan for batting his eyelashes at her. He's one of the younger stars on the team and shows it by his cockiness. Willing to take risks that may cause him to end up in the penalty box, or wiped out on the floor.

He smiles, nodding with too much friendliness in his voice. "That's cool. One of my buddies is taking international business there. What program are you in?" He asks, moving slightly closer to her when someone passing by accidently bumps him. He glances over at them, another player on the team, before turning back and smiling at her. Can I punch him yet?

"Business Marketing." I answer, moving from where I've been hitting snooze on a conversation with some of the others, to watch him. I pass through a few of the guys before going over to Rosie and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. And as if he needed any more of a reminder that she's mine, I grab her face and plant one on her.

I make sure to do it for so long that some of the guys start catcalling us and yelling to get a room. Though, that could be more about the amount of passion that I exude and less about the amount of time put in. It works though, because when she eases me away, Dylan's gone.

And again I say, fuck you.

"Are you drunk?" She laughs lightly, her cheeks turning red from having people see us make out. She's so shy around others, it's cute. I like that when she's just around me, she can be herself. I know I'm selfish, but I want her all to myself. I want to be the one making her smile, laugh, snort when something's so funny that she can't stop herself.

"Not on alcohol." I half-joke, noticing the goosebumps trailing up her arms and pulling off my jacket to drape it over her shoulders. I use it as a multi-purpose tool, moments later, moving my hands underneath it and onto her waist, pulling her closer. "You having a good time?" I ask, having only left her briefly to grab us some drinks, before Dylan started hitting on her.

She glances at my mouth, taking a few seconds before meeting my eyes. "Better than before." She answers, letting me know she's being honest and not just trying to put on a brave face. I know she's not the most social person, or someone that particularly likes crowds. But I had to come out tonight and there was not a chance in hell I was going to miss us spending New Year's Eve together.

I trace light circles on her hip bone with my thumb, doing and finding any excuse to touch her. "Wanna get some food? I think the kitchen's open until eleven." I say, deciding that I've shared her enough with my friends for the last little while, and want time with her for myself. Plus, fries and a milkshake sounds like good fuel for the activities that I hope we'll be doing later.

Also known as kicking off the New Year, right.

"Sure." She nods quickly, making me think she wants to be alone just as much as I do. And also that maybe she's hungry, seeing as the last time we ate was back home. I feel bad for keeping her up late tonight, guilty, even. She's usually fast asleep by now and instead here I am, forcing her to stay out late when she could be sleeping.

Granted, she's been starting to stay up later. Waiting for me to get home after games so that we can catch up - and let's be honest, make out. And falling asleep on Facetime with me when I'm on the road. That's one of the many things I love about Rosie and I's relationship, we can talk about anything, because we're each other's best friend's.

That's right, Mr. Fluffypants, you've been replaced. Just kidding, please don't murder me in my sleep, I beg of you. At the very least, don't do it before I get a chance to say goodbye to Rosie.

We make our way through the crowd of people drunk dancing in the middle of the floor, the couples fighting quietly in the corner, and the plastered bench warmers that can't stop talking about the glory days, until we reach a small table on the far side of the bar. Call it laziness, but despite it being the same proximity as where everyone's huddled over, nobody seems to be hanging out here, which is perfect for me.

"Hey, what can I grab you guys?" A bartender with braided hair and shoulders more chiseled than mine, asks. He looks like a modern-day Tarzan, my hair no match for his luscious locks. I think I'm starting to get a receding hairline.

He looks over at Rosie, which is a formality when it comes to the service industry - looking at the woman, first. But she gets anxious talking to people, so I usually order for the both of us. That's just to clarify and confirm that I'm not some dick trying to control and decide what his girlfriend has to eat.

"Could we get some fries and two Oreo milkshakes?" I ask, having skimmed through the menu already and knowing what to get. There's that, and also the fact that Rosie looked at their menu, online, on the way here. She always looks at the menu of a place before we go somewhere, always wanting to know what she's going to get before she even steps through the door.

I think we balance each other well, in that way. She's a planner, staying one step ahead of everything in life. Whereas I'm more of a go-with-the-flow, type. Did it cause some tiffs in the beginning when I would give her a nonchalant response and she would want an exact one? Yeah. But we've learnt how we both operate and have found a good habit of compromise.

And by compromise, I mean that she decides what we do and I go with it. Happy wife, happy life.

Tarzan looks at us, a little confused as to why we're not ordering shots like everybody else seems to. Or, why we're not doing our best to get plastered beyond belief, before the clock has even stuck twelve. And in past years, I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be doing exactly so. I needed to, in order to feel like I was having a good time and enjoying life to it's fullest.

Now, I feel like I'm enjoying myself the most when I'm with my girl.

Eventually, when he realizes that I'm not joking, or going to change my mind and order a round for the whole bar, he nods. "Coming right up." He picks up the two menus from our table and strides towards the back, presumably where the kitchen is.

"So, do you have any New Year's resolutions?" Rosie asks, the amusement in her voice making it clear that she's not the fondest of setting goals only when it comes to January 1st. She's the type that sets goals all year-round, even setting goals for setting goals and color-coding her underwear.

Maybe that second part is just something I've imagined because I spend so much time thinking about her in her underwear. Okay, that's a lie. I picture her in nothing at all.

"Just one." I answer, running my thumb over her skin, as our hands sit entwined across the table. "Marry you."