"Excellent," I say, excited over the prospect of seeing them. In almost all respects, Lisa has become like a sister to me, and Adam and I get along amazingly well. But best of all will be getting time with Colleen and Samuel. I never knew I had such an affinity for children, but every time Lisa and her family have come here, or we've flown to North Carolina, I find myself spending most of the time playing with the two little rugrats.
"And Lisa says you cannot buy them any toys when they're here," Moira says with a stern look. "She says you spoil them."
"Lisa can go to hell," I tell her with a pointed stare. "Those kids deserve to be spoiled."
Giggling, Moira agrees. "They kind of do, don't they? That's the joy of being an aunt... and well, you're sort of like their uncle. We're allowed to spoil them and then hand the sniveling little brats back to their parents when they're all good and rotten."
"Exactly," I tell her as I reach across the table to take her hand. "But... you and I never talked about kids. Why is that?"
Moira shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know. I guess because we've never really talked about our future. Do you want them?"
"Absolutely... I'm thinking three or four would be good," I say with confidence.
"Maybe let's start with two and we'll work from there. Besides, we're kind of talking about this backward. Kids come after marriage."
"Not in this modern society," I tell her with surety. "I've seen and met plenty of people that have families without getting married."
Moira's face falls a bit, but she can't help but agree with me. Marriage isn't what it used to be, at least from my keen observation skills so far.
"You're right," she says. "It's just... it's a norm for most couples. It's a time-honored tradition and shouldn't be taken lightly."
"I suppose," I hedge. Moira's gaze turns out to the busy sidewalk, a slight frown on her face.
Grinning, I lean over and reach into my backpack, pulling out the small, velvet box that has been burning a hole in it all day. I set it on the table, and the movement catches her eye. When she focuses on the box, I merely push it across the table at her.
"What's that?" she asks with suspicion.
"It's a bomb," I say sarcastically. "Be careful with it."
Moira smirks at me and grabs the box, prying the lip of it open. When she reveals the contents, she gasps. "Where did you get this? It's amazing."
I lean over to the left and look at the four-carat oval diamond encased in an antique setting. "Randall gave it to me when we visited him at Christmas. It was his mother's, and he wanted to pass it on to me."
"Are you serious?" she asks as she tilts the box left and right, looking at the ring from all angles.
"As serious as I am right now when I tell you I want to marry you," I say, and her eyes snap to me in surprise.
"You do?" she whispers.
Reaching over, I take the box from her and pop the ring out. Grabbing her left hand, I slide the ring on. This was a tradition that Randall told me about, and I soaked up all the knowledge. He did tell me that this was usually done on bended knee, supposedly with some type of poetic rant from the man to the woman. That wasn't my style though.
"Yes, I want to marry you," I tell her in exasperation as I grasp her hand. "I'm thinking maybe this time next year? Then we can get started on the children."
"Whoa... wait up a minute," she says as she pulls her hand away from me. "I didn't say I'd marry you."
I raise an eyebrow at her and smirk. "You will."
She huffs out an exasperated breath and demands, "Do you always have to be in control?"
I surge out of my chair and stalk to her side of the table. Grasping her by the shoulders, I pull her upward and plant a punishing kiss on her lips. She opens underneath me and I push my tongue in, deepening our union and kissing the silliness out of her. The kiss goes on for so long that people at the nearby tables start snickering.
Finally, I release her, rubbing my thumb over her bottom lip as her glazed eyes start to clear. "Yes, I have to be in control... most of the time. Now, will you just say you'll fucking marry me?"
Moira's lips peel back into a wide and sinful smile, and she nods her head at me. "Yes, you impossible, uncivilized man. I'll fucking marry you."
I let out a whoop of a cheer and pick her up in my arms to swing her around. Several of the people at the nearby tables start clapping in congratulations.
When I set Moira back down on her feet, I lean in and feather my lips over hers again. "You won't be sorry, baby. I swear I will love you like no man ever has."
Moira nips at my bottom lip and murmurs, "You already do, Zach. You already do."
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Turn the page for a sneak peek of Sawyer Bennett's upcoming novel, Alex, A Cold Fury Hockey Novel releasing October 14, 2014 by Random House - Loveswept.
Chapter 1
Alex
Flexing my jaw back and forth, it moves with a resounding pop but there's no pain. That's either because there truly is no pain or I've blocked it out. Regardless, I push back from the boards, even as that douche Talbot tries to push my face back into them again. The puck is between our legs and we scrabble to kick it loose.
There's less than forty seconds left in the game to break this tie, and I want to get it done. Although I have no desire for the spotlight that will come with making the game-winning goal, it's absolutely preferable than being stuck in overtime or a potential shootout. I'm ready for this fucking game to be over.
Giving a particularly hard push back, I'm able to free my stick from the boards and put the blade to ice. Because we're playing on home ice here in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I know its speed and consistency like the back of my hand, it takes nothing but a short tap on the puck and it shoots back between both of our legs. I juke left and when I feel Talbot follow, I spin back right to skate around him, grabbing the puck just as it clears his blades, and take off for the goal.
One of my natural talents is to freeze-frame the entire ice in my mind, analyze my best course of action and dump the puck as quickly as possible to the guy with the best scoring chance on our team. But now with only thirty-five seconds left in the period--and yes, I saw the clock winding down in my freeze-frame--I don't want to leave it up to one of my teammates to seal the deal. I fake a pass to the nearside, then slip a quick wrist shot toward the goal, watching as it sails cleanly into the net, just between the upper post and the goalie's left shoulder.
Way too fucking easy!
The red light behind the net burns bright and the arena erupts, nineteen thousand fans rocketing to their feet to scream in rapture that Alexander Crossman has broken the tie and most likely won the game. Of course, there's still thirty-one seconds left for my team to screw the pooch.
My teammates throw their hands up in the air, skating toward me to celebrate the goal. I make a half-assed attempt to look pleased with myself, which basically means I let my teammates rub the top of my helmet or tap my legs with their sticks. But that's about as excited as I get when I score a goal.
I hate this fucking shit . . . the adulation, the limelight . . . all of it.
Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and take a seat. Some of the guys shout down a congrats and a few nod at me; others ignore me point-blank. I'm not a well-liked guy by most.
Grabbing the water bottle, I squirt a bit in my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out. The crowd goes crazy again, their cheers rising in crescendo as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It's a pretty sweet play and I totally smoked Talbot, but as I watch it I know without a doubt my dad will be calling tonight because he'll find something to criticize. It's physically impossible for him to do anything but.
The announcer's voice comes over the PA system, Carolina Cold Fury goal, scored by Number Sixty-Seven, Alexander Crossman, unassisted . . .
And the crowd erupts into more cheers, drowning out the stats as they are relayed. I do a quick glance around the arena, knowing that the fans are happy as shit I just scored the game winner but also very much aware they can't stand me. I even snicker as I see a sign across the ice proclaiming, Crossman for MVP, Most Valuable Prick.
Classic! I'm the player they love to hate, and I could give a fuck.
I come out, do my duty, score my goals and get my assists, collect my paycheck and past that, just leave me the fuck alone.
If only life were that simple.
For the remainder of the game, I don't even watch the action on the ice. I sit on the bench and lean my head back against the glass, watching the time slowly tick down so I can be free of this shit for the night.
***
"Crossman . . . in my office before you leave," I hear Dan Pretore call out. He's the head coach for the Cold Fury, and while he's probably one of the best coaches I've ever played under, he's a hard-ass as well. I know, without a doubt, that even with two goals and three assists on the night, I'm going to get my ass handed to me.
Slipping on my suit jacket, I zip up my equipment bag and make my way back to the staffing area under the arena. None of my teammates say goodbye, none of them congratulate me. They know it wouldn't do any good, because I won't respond. Some of the newer guys think that's just me being reflective, but the ones who have been here awhile know it's because I'm a mean son of a bitch after a game, regardless of whether we win or lose. In fact, the better I do, the crustier I become, which I get . . . that's some whacked shit and I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with me.