Page 63 of Punked By the Playmaker
The song came to an end, the start of another pop hit eliciting a cheer from the kids, while simultaneously cutting off whatever Arizona was about to say.
It was probably for the best. Any longer in close contact, and I was in danger of confessing that the more time we spent together, the more obsessed with her I became. I thought about her constantly. Coming home to her was the highlight of my day, and while the sex would no doubt be off the charts, I was content with the company we shared without it—something that was completely new for me.
Arizona was different from other girls I’d been with. Not one of them had ever called me out on my bullshit, that’s for sure, but there was one very prominent distinction that couldn’t be ignored.
None of them had been my wife.
When I wasn’t traveling, my hockey schedule was perfect. I was home in the morning to send the kids off to school, then went to the rink for practice, weight training, and meetings, and was back before they got off the bus.
Arizona often worked late, catering to her clients’ schedules, so in the afternoons, it was just the three of us. Today, Maisie was in her room putting the final touches on a project for history class, while Austin and I were snacking on the couch, watching the early slate of hockey games, which had become our post-homework ritual. He was a quick study, memorizing the rules with ease when I’d initially explained them, and after only a few weeks, he could analyze a play better than some of the announcers.
It was kinda nice having a pseudo-sidekick who was quickly falling in love with the sport I’d dedicated my entire life to.
Glancing over at where he sat beside me, I teased, “You’ve got a little something on your lip.”
Austin immediately reached up to wipe away what he assumed to be crumbs from the chips he’d been eating.
“Did I get it?” He turned his face for inspection.
“Afraid not.”
Scrubbing harder at his mouth with his whole hand, he asked, “What about now?”
Chuckling, I shook my head. “Sorry. I was joking about that tiny mustache you’ve got brewing.”
He pressed two fingers to the hair above his upper lip. “Oh, that.”
“What’s the play, my man? You wanna grow it out or get rid of it?”
For a minute, Austin considered his options before declaring, “Get rid of it.”
I rose from the couch. “All right, let’s do it, then.”
His blue eyes bulged. “Like, now?”
“You got something better to do this afternoon?” I challenged.
“No. It’s just . . .” A frown tugged at the corners of his lips. “Never mind.”
Instantly, I understood his hesitation.
“If it wasn’t clear, I was offering to teach you, bud.”
Austin peeked up at me shyly. “You were?”
I jerked my head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on.”
He was off the couch in a flash, following me to the owner’s suite, where the bathroom featured a double sink. Opening a drawer, I pulled out a can of shaving cream and two fresh razors. Passing one to Austin, I moved to the linen closet and grabbed a couple of washcloths before returning to the sink and pulling my shirt over my head.
“First thing you wanna do is get the skin wet,” I explained, turning the faucet to warm and motioning for Austin to do the same.
He continued to follow my lead when I soaked a washcloth and dragged the damp fabric across my face.
“Now we’re gonna put on the shaving cream.” I squirted a generous amount onto my palm, then gave some to Austin. “Rub it between your hands, then spread it over your cheeks, upper lip, and jaw.”
With his eyes fixed on the mirror’s reflective surface, he watched as I demonstrated exactly how to do it before following my example.
It struck me that this was a major milestone for Austin, and I said, “Let’s take a picture.”
