Pucking Strong: An MM Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 4)

“That’s a pretty dress.” Karolina traces her finger over the lines of a purple ballgown in her favorite princess book.

“It is a pretty dress. I like this white one too.” I point to the Black girl on the page. She’s wearing a strappy gown with glitter on the bodice.

“Som en brud,” Karro murmurs, her eyes heavy with fatigue. I always know she’s exhausted when she stops translating her Swedish.

I’m sitting on the edge of her bed, reading to her by the glow of her twinkle lights. We got home from Henrik’s game about forty minutes ago, having left before it was over. Karro was getting pretty cranky. When she dropped a piece of popcorn to the ground and burst into tears, I knew it was time to go.

Her Karlsson jersey is slung over the top of her Barbie playhouse. She wouldn’t let me take the streamers out of her hair. But I got most of the glitter off her cheeks. And we brushed her teeth. If this girl gets cavities, it won’t be my fault.

Now she’s snug as a bug, surrounded by her stuffed animals

“Hey.” I brush a hand over her hair. “What does ‘Door minman’ mean?”

She blinks her eyes open, fighting sleep. “Vad?”

“What does ‘Door minman’ mean?” I repeat, trying to say it the way Henrik did. I’m probably getting it wrong. When I plugged it into Google Translate earlier, it asked me if it was Dutch.

She mumbles something in Swedish, which is completely counterproductive. But then why am I asking the five-year-old?

“You know what? Never mind.” Closing the book, I slip off the side of her bed. I glance down at her and smile. She’s toast. Lips parted, she breathes in and out, totally lost in dreamland. I put her book back on the shelf, click off her twinkle lights, and tiptoe out, leaving her door cracked.

I stand in the corner of the living room and look around at the mess of the day. Toys everywhere, coloring books, the apple peels from Karro’s snack. I click on a few lamps and dim the overhead lights.

The apartment feels too quiet after the roar of the arena crowd. And I feel like I have a hive of bees in my chest. I check the time on my phone. Henrik should be coming home soon. Any minute, really. And then what?

He wants to practice wanting me, whatever the fuck that means. And tonight, he kissed me. Did he even like it? I think he did, but maybe I’m just projecting how much I liked it. He said he’s never felt sexual attraction before. When he’s gone through the motions in the past, he said he felt nothing.

My god, nothing?

I can’t even imagine—noveldrama

Wait. What if he was kissing me and he was, like, running back game tape in his head? What if he was counting by fives or making a grocery list? What if he felt nothing? I don’t think I can let him tell me. We’ll have to develop some kind of hand signal instead, and I’ll just disappear into the sunset.

Squashing down my scary thoughts, I try to make myself busy by cleaning up Karro’s art supplies. We’ve been working on her fine motor skills in therapy, so I got her a gem art set. It comes with all these premade designs, like rainbows and five-layer cakes. She uses a stylus to pick up the gems and place them in the right color order to make a picture. She’s obsessed.

And yes, we used some of the gems to make fairy wings on our faces while I introduced her to the magic that is Spirited Away.

I shuffle all the papers together, put them in her art box, and close the lid on the gem kit. I’m still on my knees, reorganizing her colored pencils, when I finally hear the click of a key in the lock.

Oh god.

I refuse to do anything but act cool, even if inside I’m aching to be at the door when it opens, shouting, “What does this mean?!” Instead, I start separating the coloring sheets, setting aside the ones she’s already finished.

The door opens, and Henrik is there, looking like a god in a tan linen suit, white shirt, and no tie. His eyes lock on me, and my heart starts to thrum. “Hey,” I say on a breath.

“Hej,” he replies, hanging his keys on the hook by the door.

“Did y’all win?”

“No.”

Fuck. I was really hoping they’d pull out a win so his mood would be elevated. A good thing with Henrik is that he’s not the type to wallow. Wins happen, and so do losses. Even as an intern, I admired his ability to just focus on the next game.

“I looked for you after the game.”

I wince. “Yeah, sorry. We left early. Karro was turning into a pumpkin, and Colin had an early morning. The Jags play tomorrow.”

He glances down the hallway towards her room. “Is she well?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Just too much sugar. I washed most of the stickiness off her hands and put her to bed. And I’m throwing away the rest of the cotton candy … unless you want it?”

“No.”

Okay, this is easy. I can do this all night. But talking about Karro is always easy. It’s talking about us that has me feeling like I want to take a running leap through the glass wall. I keep shuffling the papers, separating the clean coloring sheets from the scribbled-on ones. Penguin in a scarf. Owl reading a book. Kitten on a rainbow.

Maybe Henrik doesn’t want to talk about us. Maybe the kiss was barely tolerable, and if it’s all the same to me, he’d like to forget it ever happened. Maybe he’s thought about it, and practicing wanting me just doesn’t fit in his busy schedule right now.

Sensing my mood, he sighs. “Teddy …”

I stare down at a photo of a smiling chicken holding a balloon. Its stupid, beady eyes look up at me as it waves with one wing. Oh my god, I feel so called out. Clutching the papers to my chest, I look up at him. “What does ‘Door minman’ mean?”

“What?” He steps around the end of the couch, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it on the chair.

I’m instantly distracted, trying to ignore how cut his shoulders look in that fitted shirt. “The thing you said in Swedish before you—I mean, before we …” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just what did you say?”

“Ah.” His mouth quirks with a smile as he sinks down onto the end of the couch. “Is that what has you acting so strange? I assumed you were dissecting every aspect of my kissing technique, not my Swedish mumblings.”

Oh god, he said it first. I mean, yeah, I threw the door wide open. But he said the word “kiss.” Which means we are so doing this now. “What does it mean?”

Leaning back against the cushions, he holds out his hand. “Come here, and I’ll tell you.”

Did Henrik Karlsson just spread his knees and say, “Come here”? There are a lot of ways I can play this. I could rise to my feet and saunter over like Billy the Kid. Or I could pounce like the needy puppy I am, curl up in his lap, and beg him to hold me.

My body chooses secret option three. Setting the stack of clean coloring papers aside, including the judgy chicken, I crawl around the end of the coffee table and settle myself between his spread legs. Hands on his thighs, I push up, bringing my face almost even with his.

He reaches out, his fingertips ghosting over my lips. I can’t breathe, can’t break this moment. He sits forward, his warm gaze locked on me, both hands cupping my face. Desperate for more touch, I lift my hands from his thighs, wrapping them around his wrists.

The corner of his mouth lifts with a tired smile. “Du är min man. That’s what I said.”

I nod, lost in the blue of his eyes. I can see just how tired he is. Like Karro, he’s past the point of endurance. He always leaves everything on the ice. Night after night, he gives it his all. He doesn’t know any other way. He’s always giving everyone his all. I won’t push him for more tonight, but he has to give me this. “What does it mean?”

“You tell me.”

I lean away, brows furrowed. “How am I supposed to—”

“Listen.” He presses his fingers to my lips. “Hear the words, mitt hjärta. Are you listening?”

“Okay,” I say against his fingertips.

He lowers his hand. “Du är,” he says, rolling the r ever so slightly.

“You are,” I translate.

He nods. “Du är min.” Like in the locker room, he puts the emphasis on this word. As he says it, he brushes his fingertips down the column of my neck.

I close my eyes, leaning against his leg. “Mine,” I whisper. Opening my eyes, I look up at him. “‘Du är min’ means ‘You are mine.’”

“Almost. I said, ‘Du är min man,’ so the meaning changes a little.”

Heart in my throat, I drop my hands back to his thighs. “I’m your man?”

“Not quite.”

“Then what does ‘man’ mean?”

He cups my cheek again, his thumb brushing over my freckles. “To say it is to break a rule. Saying it in Swedish is already a cheat.” He drops his hand away from me, leaning back. “And I vowed I’d not break your rules.”

I follow him, pressing myself between his legs. “We’re already breaking all the rules. You sleep in my bed. Tonight, you kissed me. Now, look me in the eyes, and tell me who I am.”

He holds my gaze. “If you want the rule broken, you break it.”

Oh, this is so fucking happening. I can ponder what a mistake it is later. Climbing into his lap, I straddle him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His intoxicating, shower-fresh scent hits my senses, setting me on fire. His hands brace my hips, and my fingers weave into the damp hair at his nape as I tip his head back. “You are my husband. Henrik, you’re mine.”

We crash together in a fierce kiss. It’s hot and needy, our hands seeking. In his starched dress shirt, he reaches the limit of his flexibility, trying to wrap an arm around my shoulders. But I’m just in a T-shirt and sweatpants. I wrap myself around him, grinding on his lap. “Tell me what you feel,” I pant against his lips. “Please, god, tell me you feel something more than nothing—”

He pulls away, breathless, his blue eyes searching my face. Slowly, he nods. “I feel.” Taking my hand, he presses it to his chest.

I lean in, fingers brushing over his dress shirt as I feel the erratic pulsing of his heart under my palm. “Do you like it? I mean, do you like kissing me? Fuck—don’t answer unless the answer is yes—”

He silences me with another kiss, his beard tickling my mouth as our faces tilt, our bodies seeking more closeness. I’m about to grind my dick against him again, but then I’m groaning, all but stumbling out of his lap. “Okay—fuck—new rules.” I back away, shoulders heaving, adjusting my dick in these formfitting briefs. “Henrik, we need new rules.”

He sits forward, shirt untucked, hair a mess. With a practiced flick of his wrists, he undoes the buttons at his cuffs. Which is so fucking hot, I could probably come without even touching myself.

Focus.

No more pouncing. No more kissing. New rules, Teddy. This man is your fucking kryptonite.

“Teddy—”

“I need a minute,” I bark, raising a hand to warn him back. I swear to god, if he gets off that couch, I’m gonna be dropping to my knees, and then it’s all over. “Just … stay.”

He sits back, watching me pace in front of the TV.

So, here’s the deal. Intern Teddy would have done literally anything for this man. Because Intern Teddy was weak, hopeless, and desperate for love. But I’m Doctor Teddy now. There will be ramifications if and when this falls apart. And I have a career to think about. I have a custody agreement with the little girl asleep in the next room. And my family’s voices are all screaming like a klaxon alarm in my head: Protect yourself.

I mean, my god, we don’t even have a signed prenup agreement. Or a postnup. There are no nups! No protections in place. For me, for Karro. Worse, there are no protections for Henrik, and he has the most to lose. The man is a multimillionaire. He owns real estate in two countries. And don’t ask me how I know, but Florida is a nofault state. If I divorced him now, I could walk away with half his earnings. And alimony. And if I took full custody of Karro, we could throw in a little five-figure monthly child support.

Not that I would ever do any of those things. But we’ve never even talked about it. And now he wants to practice wanting me? He wants us both to be more deeply, emotionally entangled? What, so this can blow up even more spectacularly in our faces?

“What new rules do you require?” he asks, watching me pace.

I stop, spinning to face him. “Oh, don’t even pretend these rules are only for me. They’re for you too. Because apparently, we can no longer be trusted to be alone in the same room. I mean, fuck! If you tell me kissing is finally on the table, I’m never gonna stop. And you said you wanted this to go slow,” I add, pointing a finger at him.

God, I’m worse than the judgy chicken!

“I do,” he assures me. “Teddy, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to ever say or do the wrong thing.”

“Well, that’s not possible for anyone. We’re both gonna say and do the wrong thing eventually. More than once. That’s just what it means to be human.” I spin in my socks, facing him again. “But there’s shit we definitely have to discuss, before this can go any further.”

“Like what?”

I cross my arms, staring him down. “Like, a postnup.”

“What?”

“A postnuptial agreement. It’s a legal contract that outlines how our assets will be handled in the event of our inevitable divorce. Because that’s where this is still going, right? This was all only meant to be temporary, right?”

He leans away, his expression impossible to read. “I said I wouldn’t trap you with me, and I meant it.”

Awesome. Ripping that arrow from my fucking spleen, I go on. “Right, well you have to call Laura. Tomorrow. I want a draft of a postnup on our kitchen island by end of day. We walk out of this marriage only with the assets we each brought into it. I want nothing from you.”

He sighs. “Teddy—”

“The only sticking point will be custody of Karro. Because I’ll be fucked if you think I’m walking away from that little girl,” I add, pointing a finger at him again. “She’s mine too, Henrik. What’s the Swedish for that? I’m gonna tattoo it on my fucking chest.”

A smile flits across his lips. “Karolina är mitt barn.”

“Right. Mitt barn, Henrik. You asked for my help, and now you’ve fucking got it. For life. Because that little girl deserves to have people in her life that love her and are gonna fight for her. And I will fight you, Henrik. I will fight you for her—”

He stands. The move is so sudden and deliberate that it stops my rant in its tracks. Sweeping around the coffee table, he descends on me, pulling me to him with both hands. But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he just wraps me in his arms, hugging me with his whole body.

I suck in a breath, my hands going up to brace against his back. We stand like that for a moment, clinging to each other.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Teddy.”

I blink back tears as he pulls away. He puts a little space between us, his hands brushing down my arms, until he lets me go. “What else do you need from me? What other rules?”

My mind is spinning. What other rules do I need in place before I can let Henrik Karlsson practice wanting me? “I’m on PrEP,” I blurt out. “Are you?”

“What’s prep?”

So that’s a no then.

“PrEP is pre-exposure prophylaxis,” I explain. “It reduces the risk of contracting HIV. And before you and I have any sex, I’ll want to get a clean STI scan as well … even if I haven’t had sex in, like, six months. Better safe than sorry.”

“I haven’t had sex in over six years. When I did, I only ever used a condom.”

As I hear him say it out loud, the reality of our situation hits me like a ton of bricks. Backing away from him, I sink down onto the opposite couch. “Well … so then maybe you can skip the STI screening.”

“And the other thing?”

“I mean, you don’t have to be on PrEP. That’s totally your call. Maybe talk to a doctor? I’ve never really considered going off it because I’ve never settled down with just one person. Condoms alone are definitely more convenient, but it was never worth the risk for me.”

He considers for a moment. “This prep is for having sex with many people?”

I shrug. “I mean, that’s a bit derivative, but sure. That’s one good use for PrEP.”

He glares at me, his arms crossed. “I’ll not share you, Teddy. You are my husband, or you’re nothing.”

Wow. How often have I fantasized about Henrik Karlsson saying those words to me? Swallowing my nerves, I offer a weak smile. “So, obviously that’s one of your conditions we need to renegotiate.”

“What?”

“When we married, you said I’d be free. You said you’d never hold me back. You said I can do whatever I want with whomever I want. It just can’t happen in this house. Would you like to renegotiate those terms?”

He stalks over to me and drops to his knees. Mirroring my position from moments before, he places his hands on my thighs, his dark blue eyes fierce in their intensity. “Look at me, mitt hjärta.”

I look at him, heart in my throat.

“Jag vill ha dig. Do you know what that means?”

I shake my head.

His hands smooth up my thighs in a natural gesture of possession. “It means, ‘I want you.’ Teddy, I want only you.”

I melt for him, folding forward until our foreheads touch. “Henrik …”

“But I cannot want what can’t be mine.” Holding up my hand, he lets the gold of my ring glint in the lamplight. “So long as you wear this, say only I will know your touch.” He takes that hand and presses it to his cheek, holding it there. “I may not know much about intimacy, but I know I need this from you.”

“Only you,” I assure him. “Henrik, I only want you.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around me. The familiar weight of him pressing me back feels so goddamn good. I want to wrap my legs around him and stay like this forever. He nuzzles gently against my neck as he breathes me in, and I crow with happiness.

Digging my fingers into his hair, I pull his head back, desperate to see his eyes. “Say you’re mine too. Maybe with another, I could have shared. But not you, Henrik. Never you. You’re mine, or you’re nothing.”

He leans away, touching my face with searching fingers. The tips brush featherlight over my brow, down the bridge of my nose, along my jaw. It’s like he’s committing me to memory. It feels primal. Sacred. Finally, his hand drops away. “Whatever else I am, I’m yours.”

“Min man,” I whisper.

He nods.

“So … we should do away with that rule too? In English and Swedish?”

“I think it would be best.”

“And the kissing rule?”

He considers. “I meant what I said before. I want to take my time with you. Nothing needs to be rushed. Can it be enough? Can my vow to you be enough? A vow to try?”

Here we come to it. What if he tries and he doesn’t like it? What if all I ever get are a few really good kisses? Can it be enough for me? Can I accept him for who he is and love him in whatever capacity he’ll allow?

I take a deep breath and let it out. “I have one more new rule.”

He tenses. “Name it.”

I place a hand on his shoulder, mooring us together with a more platonic, familiar kind of touch. “No sex in the bed.”

His brow furrows as I’m sure he’s second-guessing his own translation. “What?”

“I mean it, Henrik.” I push him until he’s rocked back on his ankles and I’m fully sitting up. “The bed we share is not for sex. That has to stay sacred. Because, regardless of whatever else happens, I have to stay here. For Karro, for the custody review. And the bed is where we sleep. It’s where you sleep,” I add more gently. “I won’t rob you of your safe space. So … no wanting me in the bed. Agreed?”

He considers for a moment. “Agreed. Thank you, Teddy.”

“But the others go,” I repeat. “The no-kissing one, and the no sleeping in my bed, and the no saying husbands in English and Swedish.” I tick them off on my fingers. “But I still want to pay rent.”

He groans.

“I’m serious, Hen. I have to have some small feeling of autonomy here. Either accept my money, or I’ll start getting real creative with the shit I buy for the apartment. Ever heard of Dadaism?”

Using my knees, he pushes up from the floor and rises to his feet. Bending over, he brushes a kiss to the top of my head. “Keep your money, mitt hjärta. I am not afraid of your ire. Besides, a print of jeune homme triste dans un train would look wonderful next to Karolina’s retrospective on rainbow unicorns.” He leaves me there, clicking off one of the lamps as he walks away.

Did that gorgeous professional hockey player just weave English, French, and Swedish into a clever comeback about Dadaism?

Well, if I wasn’t already in love with my not-so-fake husband, I am now.

Rising from the couch, I click off the other lamp and follow him to bed.