Peach Soda and Goalie Tape

By the time I reach the concrete corridor, he has his mask under one arm and a strip of torn goalie tape stuck to his blocker. I peel it free and hold it up.

“That came off your left pad.”

“It survived the final save.”

“It is now on my glove.”

“Celebrations should involve less adhesive.”

“You all right?”

He looks at me. “You tell me. You’re the one with the clipboard.”

“Not tonight.”

“Good. I hate your clipboard.”

“You hate being told no.”

“That too.”

Cal crashes through the corridor in half his equipment, yelling about his assist. Graham sends him away to find his shirt. When the rookie is gone, the hallway gets quiet again.

I pull a cold peach soda from my bag.

Graham looks at the label, then takes it from me.

“A penalty in a can,” he says.

“Lucky, apparently.”

He turns the can in his hand. “I’m ready to reconsider.”

“So am I.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“Are you ready to leave with me?”

“Yes.”

Twenty minutes later, his gear is locked at the arena and I am following him up two flights in a brick building near the river. His keys hang from a carabiner, sorted by size. Of course they are.

His apartment has a clean kitchen, orderly mugs, a bowl of oranges, and a couch built for a man who has spent fifteen years making himself large in a net. The peach soda waits on the counter, wet with condensation from the walk over.

He shuts the door. Neither of us heads for the bedroom yet.

“Before we start,” I say, “say it plain.”

“Hector signed my clearance. You transferred my care. You don’t supervise me. You have no work authority over me.”

“And I am here because I want to be. Not because you were on my schedule.”

He takes one step closer and stops.

“Do you want to be here?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to kiss you.”

“Ask me.”

His hand cups my jaw. “Can I kiss you, Nadine?”

“Yes.”

His mouth meets mine, slow at first, then sure. I put both hands on his shirt and pull him closer. He makes a low sound into my mouth that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with four weeks of waiting.

“Still yes?” he asks.

“Still yes.”

He kisses my neck, then my collarbone. His palms travel under my sweater, finding the skin at my waist. I lift my arms, and he pulls the sweater over my head with a care that makes me laugh.

“You can take off a jersey in three seconds,” I say.

“Jerseys have fewer straps.”

“My bra is not a hostile defense.”

“I’m learning the system.”

By the time we reach his bedroom, my shirt is on the floor and his T-shirt is hooked over a chair. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me.

“Hip?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“Say more than fine.”

“No pain. No pull. No heroic lateral pushes planned.”

“That is the best answer you have ever given me.”

He puts a pillow beneath his right knee, practical as ever. Then he draws me between his legs.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. “Tell me if something does not feel right.”

“You trained well.”

“I had a strict instructor.”

I kiss him again. He unfastens my bra, then takes one breast in his hand, thumb resting over my nipple until it hardens. His mouth follows. I lean into him, one hand in his hair, my body already asking for more.

He lays me back on the bed and looks at me once more.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

He spreads my thighs and puts his hand between them. Two fingers move over my clitoris, slow and exact. I close my eyes.

“More?” he asks.

“Not yet. Keep doing that.”

He does. No guessing. No pride. When I lift my hips, he presses two fingers inside me and lowers his mouth to my clit. His pace stays patient. I feel him learn the small changes in me, the places that make my legs go loose.

“Graham.”

“Right there?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

He does not stop. I come with his name in my mouth and one hand holding the sheet beside my head. He stays close until I settle, then lifts himself beside me.

“That better than pool work?” he asks.

“Much better.”

“Good. I hated the pool.”

I reach for him. His cock is hard in my hand, and his eyes close when I stroke him. I take my time, because I can. Because neither of us has to rush now.

He opens the drawer beside the bed and holds up a condom.

“Yes,” I say.

He puts it on, then lies back against the pillows. I climb over him, careful of his right leg, careful of everything that matters.

“Comfortable?” I ask.

“Very.”

“You would tell me?”

“I would.”

I guide his cock to me and lower myself slowly. He fills me inch by inch, his hands steady at my hips. I pause when I need to, then take the rest of him.

“Still good?” he asks.

“Yes. You?”

“Better than good.”

I start moving. He keeps his hips controlled, short strokes at first, the same discipline he used on the ice. It makes me laugh against his shoulder.

“What?” he asks.

“Your lateral push is finally under control.”

“This is a terrible time for feedback.”

“You like direct questions.”

“I do.”

His hand finds my clit again, two fingertips keeping the rhythm while I ride him. The pressure builds fast this time. I brace against his chest and come hard, my body tightening around him.

He says my name and follows soon after, holding me close while he comes inside the condom. When it is over, he keeps his right leg easy and lets out a laugh.

“Any notes for the chart?” he asks.

“Your compliance has improved.”

“High praise.”

I know how we get here. A bad push. A hard no. Four weeks of boring work. A pond under streetlights. A kiss delayed on purpose. A final save. A question asked twice.

Graham opens the peach soda without complaint. He takes a drink and raises the can toward me. “Lucky after all.”

Minneapolis is clear, cold, and finally on our side.