The next morning, I wake up to sunshine streaming in the window, and sunshine in my arms as well.

My alarm quietly beeps at me, reminding me I want to head to the arena in an hour, but I’m in no rush to get up and do my usual routine because Sasha is in my bed.

In Vancouver.

This feels like a big deal. Bigger than her spending two nights with me in Ottawa.

“Morning,” she says sleepily, and my heart bounces up and down like an eager puppy.

I kiss the soft skin behind her ear. “Nice way to wake up.”

“Mmm.” She stretches against me, and I fill my hands with her curves. She drained my body of all possible come last night, with her mouth and her hands and her pussy, and I should probably keep some energy for my morning skate, but damn, she gets my blood pumping.

“You feel good.”

She arches against me, and we rub like that for a few minutes, slow and naughty. It’s not going anywhere, it just feels good. And when she giggles and pushes me away, because she needs to pee and brush her teeth, I follow her. I give her privacy for the first task, but then I yank her into the shower with me.

Work is going to keep me away from her for two games over the next five days. Games, plus practice and press and team meetings.

Every other second is ours.

And not just for sex.

“What are you going to do today?” I ask her.

“I’ll call around, see if I can find a spa.” She takes my hand and slides my fingers over her fuzzy mound, with the short hairs there that she likes to wax away every so often.

I rub my fingers through her lips and around her clit, mentally reorganizing my morning to make room for an orgasm for her. I’ll eat breakfast at the arena.

It’s good to get back on the ice with the team. We’re all jacked up about playing Chicago tonight. They’re having a great season, leading their division, and we haven’t played them yet.

The odds are not in our favour, either.

Coach keeps his notes short and to the point. “Get some rest this afternoon. And come back ready to fight. Now get out of here.”

I walk out with Landvic, who apparently bought himself a Lamborghini for Christmas.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing at the bright yellow monstrosity.

“Shut the fuck up and get in your reliable Mom car.”

I tap the key-fob, making my Land Rover beep. Mom car. What the fuck is that nonsense? “Leave my wheels alone.”

“You opened the door.”

“Get in your banana and screech out of here,” I say, laughing.

I crank the raggaeton on the drive home and tell my SUV I’ll never replace her with a flashy sports car.

When I get back, Sasha’s strolling up the street.

“Perfect timing!” she calls out. “Did you have a good skate?”

“I did.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. Her skin is all dewy and she smells faintly of flowers and grass. “How was the spa?”

“Amazing.” We head inside, hand in hand. “Plus how sweet is it to be able to walk outside in a light jacket?”

“Pretty awesome.”

“And during my massage, I figured out what was wrong with the chapter I’m working on in my thesis.”

I open the door to my apartment. “Quality multi-tasking. I approve.”

“How much time do we have before your game?”

I grin. “I need to leave in two hours. I was thinking we could have a nap.”

“I like the sound of that,” she purrs.

“Good. Oh, and I arranged for a ticket at the box office for the game for you.”

Her brows pull tight. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Because you don’t want to come to the game?”

“Because I won’t use it.” She moves closer and brushes a light kiss across my lips.

I frown. Sometimes I like how she pinches back against my efforts to be more couple-y. I like how she resists, because I fucking love the chase.

But something about this irritates me. “You could just say you don’t want to come to the game.”

“Should I say that?” She’s not picking up on my annoyance, because her eyes dance.

“You are maddening.”

“But freshly waxed, so you’ll forgive me.”

Always. I’ll forgive her to the moon and back, and not just because every last inch of her pussy is mine to bite and slap and lick and—

Sigh. “Completely forgiven. But I don’t think I’m off-side for wanting my girlfriend to come and see me play.”

“I watch all of your games. And I’m not your girlfriend.”

“You aren’t?”

“Not exactly.”

That’s news to my cock. “Huh.”

“Freshly waxed, Tate. Focus on that.”

So I do. I peel her clothes off and we have the most energetic nap in the history of naps.

But when her seat stays empty for the entire game—a match which we predictably lose, although only by a single goal—the irritation returns.