Brushing her curls out of the way, I trail a line of kisses across her bare shoulder. “I love your hair. What else?”
Examining herself in the mirror, she finally blurts out, “I like my eyes.”
Crossing both arms around the front of her shoulders, I tell her, “I love your eyes.”
She stays silent, looking at herself in the mirror.
“What else?” I coax.
Glancing at herself up and down, she shakes her head to tell me nothing.
That breaks my heart, but I know it’s not the truth. Stevie is just having a bad day, but that’s okay because I have an endless list of what I love about her body.
“Okay.” I kiss the side of her head. “Then look in the mirror and tell me what you don’t like.”
Brows furrowed, she finds my gaze in the reflection, confusion covering her features.
“If you have such a short list of the things you like, then tell me what you don’t like.”
I watch as Stevie internally battles with herself, not wanting to say any of it out loud.
Her stare wanders the length of the mirror, and her tone is soft, her volume almost inaudible as she finally whispers, “I don’t like my thighs.”
My palms cover her bare legs as goosebumps decorate her light brown skin. “I love your thighs.” I squeeze them in my hands. “I especially like when they’re warming my cheeks as I’m going down on you.” That pulls a small laugh from my typically wild girl. “But my favorite is when you’re sitting in my lap, facing me, and your thighs straddle my legs. I like getting to see you.”
Stevie’s head cocks to the side, her brows pinching together.
“What else don’t you like?”
Blue-green eyes wander her reflection. “I don’t like my stomach. I wish it were flatter.”
“I love your stomach.” Both hands graze over it. “I love that it’s soft and that I have something to hold when we’re cuddling. Or fucking.”
She tries to hold back her slight smile. “I don’t like my boobs.”
“Stop.” I jolt back, slightly offended. “That can’t be true. Those are two of my favorite things.”
Finally, a small laugh escapes her. “I don’t like how they’re two different sizes.”
“Vee, that’s because you’re human. And I don’t pick favorites between them.”
Her gaze continues to work the length of the mirror. “I don’t like my stretch marks.”
I find the ones she’s staring at. “These?” I ask as my fingertips trace the jagged lines on her hips. “You don’t like that your body can adapt? Because I think that’s pretty fucking cool.”
“Well”—she looks down, admiring—“I like them a whole lot more when you’re touching them.”
Sharing a soft laugh, I hold her as we look at each other in the mirror.
“You don’t have to love your body every single day. That’s unrealistic to expect, but I’ll be here loving it for the days you can’t.”
“It’s just hard right now during playoffs, with all your teammates’ wives and girlfriends matching every game. They’re all perfect, and I look nothing like them.”
“What makes them perfect? Because of their clothing size? That doesn’t make someone perfect. And regardless of size, looking like everyone else is boring. You’re stunning, Vee, and what makes you different is what makes you stand out. In the best way possible.”
She offers me a slight smile through the mirror.
“Do you think I look like the guys I grew up playing hockey with in Indiana? Fuck no, I don’t. And now, in the league, my peers don’t look like me. But look at us together.” I nod towards our reflection. “You can’t look at us and say we don’t fit in. We go together perfectly.”
Her blue-green eyes gloss over in the reflection. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Zee.”
Oh, fuck. My heart. The words. The girl. It all makes my heart race and for my lungs to be short of oxygen.
“Same here, sweetheart.”
I pepper kisses on the side of her head as I watch a smile pull at her lips through the mirror. And though I love every single curve on her body, that one right there is my favorite.
40
STEVIE
“Are you done with your part of setting up the plane?”
“Hmm?” I absentmindedly ask my coworker, keeping my eyes glued to my tiny phone screen.
“Are you done with your part of setting up the plane?”
Tara’s sharp tone causes my head to snap up and look at her. Her brows are lifted, eyes pointed, and arms crossed over her chest. “Yes. Everything is done. Just waiting for the game to end.”
Tara’s disapproving stare bounces from my face down to my phone and then back again before she slips past me to the galley.
Rolling my eyes, I slide into the nearest seat as I continue to watch the game on my phone—round two, game six, and currently seven minutes into the overtime period. Chicago is ahead three to two on this series against Vegas, and if they pull out the road win tonight, we’ll be headed for round three, only one series away from the Stanley Cup Finals.
“How are they doing?” Indy falls into the seat next to mine, but before I can answer, a deep throaty moan slips from her. “Holy shit, these seats.” She melts further into the lux leather. “No wonder the boys all pass out the second they get on the plane. These seats are amazing.”
“Overtime,” I tell her, wishing I could laugh along with her right now, but I’m far too stressed. “Seven minutes in. First to score wins.”
My index finger absentmindedly ghosts over the skin of my thumb, wishing I had my gold ring to spin.
“How’s Zanders doing?” Indy’s whisper is as quiet as can be.
“He’s doing well. He’s played a shit-ton of minutes tonight, though.”
“Oh, there’s Rio!” Indy points out as number thirty-eight hops the boards, and I know when Rio takes the ice, his blue-line partner is right behind as number eleven joins him in the game.
Zanders’ shift is spent primarily on the offensive end as Chicago controls the puck. Maddison gets a good look in front of the goal as the announcers’ voices raise, assuming he’s about to score, but one of Vegas’ defensemen picks it out of the pocket, clearing it out of their zone and extending their season’s life a little longer.
But before it makes it past the blue line, Rio pops his stick out, keeping the boys onside for another play.
The puck bounces around the team in white, exhaustion evident in their sloppy passes and slow maneuvers. Thankfully, Vegas is equally as careless, everyone on the ice just as tired from the lack of a shift change.
My heart is racing as I squirm in my seat, unable to calm myself down as I keep my eyes glued to the tiny screen in my hands.
The puck makes it back to Zanders as he quickly looks to pass it off but instead, he winds up, letting loose on a slap shot from the blue line in hopes it’ll find one of his teammates in front of the goal.
But it doesn’t find one of his teammates. Instead, it flies past the goalie, finding the back of the net and pulling out the overtime victory.
“Oh my God!” I yell out. Indy jumps up from her seat, screaming with me as we hold each other in a hug, jumping around and cheering.