Consider Me (Playing For Keeps Book 1)
Consider Me: Chapter 45

OLIVIA

“YOU THINK they’re gonna win tomorrow, Miss Parker?” Brad leans against the storage room door, watching me load the equipment from class. It’d be lovely if he’d help but standing and watching while he gabs is his MO, so I can’t imagine he’d change now at the end of his high school career.

Next week is exams, which means the curriculum is done. For the most part, we’ve been shooting hoops and sitting on the bleachers while we talk about nothing but hockey.

“I think so.” I hope so. Carter’s motivated. It’s been all Hank and hockey-talk around the house, with a side of moving my stuff in. I don’t know where he replaces the time, but on the days he’s in town, I come home from work to replace Carter’s been to my house, brought another box of my things to his place. Our place. That feels weird to say. “I’ve never seen the boys all so serious.”

It’s eerie almost, like I’m walking through the twilight zone. On off nights, the team is gathered in the basement, watching videos of their previous games, talking about where they went wrong and how they can be better. There’s no alcohol, no junk food, and very little laughing going on.

The thing that gets me the most is the lack of junk food. Carter hasn’t had Oreos since mid-May. We’re a week and a half away from July. He caught me sneaking some into my lunch bag yesterday morning and the look on his face was utter betrayal. But the package was already open. It would be a travesty to let them go stale.

“I think they’ll win.” Brad pushes off the wall, gathering balls from the floor, tossing them in the basket. His smirk tells me my expression must be highly amusing. “Me and the guys are gonna watch the game outside the arena on Friday if they make it to game seven. They’re setting up screens. We’re gonna sneak alcohol in our shorts.”

“Don’t tell me that, Brad.” I’d totally do the same if I were eighteen. “Also, pockets are the first place security will look.”

“Thanks, Miss Parker,” Brad chuckles, pulling the door closed for me. The kid even gets down on the ground to click the lock into place.

I wipe a nonexistent tear from my eye. “Are you growing up?”

His head rolls with his eyes as he follows me to my office, watching me grab my bag, and walks alongside me down the hallway. “I’m sorry we kinda gave you a hard time this year.”

“All in good fun.” I smile and wave at a group of girls who call out their good-byes. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Brad pushes through the exit, holding the door open. “Just so you know, you were the best teacher I ever had. You treated us like real people, not a bunch of kids you had to work with every day to take home a paycheck. You made school fun.” He gives me a salute. “Thanks, Miss Parker.”

If I weren’t an overly emotional wreck at times, my nose wouldn’t be tingling like I want to cry. Clearing my throat, I load myself into Carter’s truck that I’ve unofficially adopted, smiling for the fourth time at the note he stuffed in the cupholder somewhere between last night and this morning. It’s definitely not work-appropriate, so I have to unfold it seventeen times before I get to the good stuff.

I’m gonna eat you like the last slice of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving when you get home.

That’s not why I’m rushing home. That would be because he leaves tonight for tomorrow’s game, and I want to squeeze in all the time with him I can. He’s been a wreck this week between worrying about getting Hank moved in and the finals. They lost last night on home ice, and he was so hard on himself. They’ve been in the finals once before, Carter’s first year as the captain, and he blames himself for their loss, saying he was too inexperienced to be the leader they needed.

“Babbbyyy,” Carter calls from the living room the second I walk through the door, Dublin at my feet, licking my toes as I slip my sandals off.

I replace him sprawled out on the couch, arms in the air, making grabby hands for me. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. You can plant yourself right—” he points aggressively at the bulge in his shorts, “—here.” He gestures at his face. “Here would also be acceptable.”

“Dirty boy.” I climb on top of him. Regardless of his request, his arms wind around me, tugging me down to my side, tucking my body into his. I run my fingers through his hair and down his back. “Are you nervous?”

He nods, lips touching my neck as he throws one leg around both of mine, forcing them between his. “I wish you could come. I’ll need you if we lose.”

My chest tightens. “I’m sorry, Carter.”

“I know you have to work. It’s okay. I’m just gonna miss you, but I always do. Will you stay up to talk with me after?”

“I’m always only a phone call away.” Pulling his head back, I kiss his lips. He’s been needier than usual lately, softer, which almost seems impossible. Though he has a domineering streak a mile wide, he’s mostly just a big, cuddly teddy bear. But the stress of everything that’s been going on and all his responsibilities are weighing him down, and I can see how badly he needs this upcoming break.

“Adam’s picking me up for the airport in an hour and I just wanna snuggle you until then.”

“That sounds nice.” I slip my hand between us and pat his belly when it chooses this moment to rumble. “But we should probably get some food in here before you get hangry.”

I whip up a quick stir-fry while Carter tells me about getting Hank settled into his new place. He cried when he said good-bye to Dublin, which makes me emotional. Even more so when I look down at Dublin, lying at Carter’s feet at the kitchen island. But Carter promises that Hank seems happy, and that’s all that matters. We’re going to do our best to make sure Hank and Dublin still get to spend lots of time together, and I’m glad he’s only a ten-minute drive away.

Carter’s digging into his second helping when he asks me a question, looking down at his plate. Actually, it’s several questions, spilled out in the form of word vomit, which is usually my forte, not his.

“Do you wanna get married? What kinda wedding do you want? Big? Small? Chocolate cake or vanilla?” He makes a noise, like he can’t believe he asked that. “That’s a stupid question.” He twirls his hand, laying his palm faceup in the air. “Chocolate, obviously. Maybe decorated with those tiny Oreos. Or big ones. Double stuffed.”

He raises his head to peer at me only after silence has stretched between us for a good ten seconds. It’s a slow raise, too, tentative, maybe a little nervous, and I watch pink splotch up his neck and pool in his cheeks, which, again, is usually common for me, not him.

The silence is broken when he offers me a crooked, wobbly grin, and I start laughing, folding over the counter, because what the hell is happening right now? Whatever it is, he looks equal parts terrified and adorable.

“Carter,” I somehow manage through a fit of giggles that steals my breath. “Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

“What?” His head shakes furiously. “No.”

“Oh.” I catch my breath and come down from my momentary high. “Good.” I knew he wasn’t. Obviously. It’s too soon.

White teeth pressing into his lower lip, Carter flashes me a grin that looks every bit devious and devilish as he slowly pushes to his feet, rounding the island to stop in front of me. He twirls a wayward curl around his pointer finger before tucking it behind my ear, touch blazing a path down my neck and across my collarbone.

“Do you even know me? I need an audience. I need flair. I need to embarrass the fucking shit outta you.” His fingers dig into my hips as he pushes me against the cold stone counter. “When I propose to you, everyone in the fucking world is gonna know, and you’re gonna be standing there with your gorgeous face buried in your little hands, because I sure as shit won’t be quiet about it, and you’ll be all like, Carterrr, stop ittt. You’re embarrassing meee.”

“That’s not how I sound.” It’s all I can manage right now.

His face dips, lips touching the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my ear. “It’s exactly how you sound.”

His fingers thread through my hair, pulling my head taut. “One day, I’m gonna ask you to marry me. You’re gonna say yes, because that’s the only acceptable answer; no isn’t an option.” He nips my bottom lip, his hand dancing down my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “And then I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you in front of our family and friends, and you’ll be Mrs. Beckett, and I’ll fuck you so hard that night you’ll feel it in your throat for the rest of your life.”

“Jeremy!”

Cara’s shriek startles every single one of us. Alannah throws the bowl of popcorn in her lap, Dublin darts in to clean it up, and Kristin nearly spills her entire glass of wine all over Jem, who’s playing at her feet. I’ve never seen Jeremy look more terrified than he does right now, eyes wide, body still.

“It’s a simple forty-five-degree fold! Forty-five degrees! A child could do it!”

“I can do it, Care,” Alannah says confidently, puffing her chest out.

“Yes, thank you, Alannah.” Cara sweeps her arm out, lifting a brow at Jeremy. “See? Your daughter can do it.” Her eyes go wide as Alannah reaches for the card stock. “Wait! No. You’ve got buttery popcorn fingers; that won’t work.”

Cara looks around the room while Alannah frowns at her hands. “Jennie.” She snaps her fingers. “You’ve got dainty, nimble fingers. Lord knows how; your brother’s got damn sausage fingers. You’ll do.”

“Oh, goodie,” Jennie mutters, planting herself on the floor around the coffee table, grabbing a stack of card stock. “Just what I was hoping for.”

Cara narrows her eyes and Jennie gives her that signature Beckett grin, all charming and dimply. It works on everyone, even Cara. Even in this moment.

Cara’s been screaming all night. She thought it made the most sense if we worked on her wedding favors while we watched the game. She’s the only one who thought it was a good idea, but everyone was too afraid to tell her that to her face. At least we only have to work between periods; she’s too busy shrieking at the TV the rest of the time. Alannah, Jem, and Hank are the only ones who got lucky enough to sit this one out. And I guess now Jeremy.

Cara and Emmett’s wedding is eleven days away, two Sunday’s away, the day before Canada Day. Cara’s high-strung as it is, and she’s reached an entirely new level these past few weeks. She stayed over last night after the boys left for New York and insisted on sleeping with me. She was all too happy to snap a picture of herself in Carter’s bed and send it to him.

She also came to work with me today. You heard that right. She says she can’t get any work done for the wedding while she’s at home, because it reminds her of Emmett, and she misses him. So she sat on the gym floor while the kids helped her with table numbers. I’m exhausted.

“Cara, if I were still young and handsome, I’d marry you myself.” Hank thinks Cara’s the funniest person in the world.

“You’re still handsome,” Cara points out. “And you laugh at all my inappropriate jokes. We’d make a great couple. But I’d always come second to your Ireland, and therein lies the problem. Cara soon-to-be Brodie never comes second.”

Jennie blows out a heavy breath, eyes bulging at the stack of card stock in front of her. “How many more of these do we have to do?”

“I think it’s fun,” Holly, Carter’s mom, says. “I love doing this type of stuff. Maybe I’ll get to do it again in the near future for one of my children.” Her eyes do a blatant shift my way, making Jennie and Cara snort.

“I’m not fucking helping with shit when you and Carter get married,” Jeremy grumbles, arms pinned across his chest. “It’s bad enough I had to do it for my own wedding.”

Alannah rockets to her feet, shoving her finger in her dad’s face. “Two dollars for the swear jar! Pay up, buddy!” She swipes the money from Jeremy’s unwilling hands, then plants herself between Hank and Dublin. “Mommy said I get to keep all the money this week from Daddy’s swearing. I’m making a lot because he’s extra stressed from the hockey games. What should I buy?”

Hank taps his chin. “How about we go for cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes?”

Her face lights. “Hot fudge?”

“Extra hot fudge.”

Wedding prep is forgotten when the third period starts up, and Cara goes from shrieking to silent, which is way scarier. She’s sitting on the couch, kind of, one knee on the ground, fingernails in her mouth while she stares at the screen. I don’t think she’s even blinking. They’re tied at two goals a piece with only three minutes left in the game.

It’s when Emmett gets tangled up with two players from the other team and his stick slips between one of their legs that things heat up. The ref raises his hand and blows his whistle, indicating Emmett for tripping, though it was clearly unintentional.

“That’s fucking bullshit!” Cara screams, jumping to her feet. “Bullshit! It was a fucking accident! Go home, ref; you’re drunk!” She pulls a ten-dollar bill out of her back pocket and slaps it in Alannah’s waiting hand without looking at her. “Keep the change; you’re gonna need it.”

I’m too on edge to pay attention to anything other than the game. It’s do or die; win and go to game seven, have one more chance at the cup, or lose and go home. And now they have to kill a two-minute penalty with less than two-and-a-half minutes left in the game. The odds aren’t great. Both teams are on fire tonight.

Carter’s busy arguing with the ref over the call when his coach calls a time-out. He switches up the lines, sending out a few huge guys who manage to keep the puck away from the net as the opposing team circles our end relentlessly, and with fifty seconds left, Carter and Garrett dive over the boards from the bench.

Carter’s screaming out orders, digging his way between a player and the boards, fighting for the puck, and when it springs free, he sends it across the ice to Garrett.

Garrett hammers it off the boards, around another player, and collects it on the other side before passing it back to Carter, who receives it right before he enters the defensive end.

Emmett’s penalty ends with sixteen seconds left on the clock. He bursts through the door, shouting for Carter. Carter spins around a defenseman, the puck moving so quickly, so fluidly between the front and back of his stick blade I can barely see it. Without so much as a glance at Emmett, he slips the puck backward and to the left.

Emmett winds up as the puck hurls toward him, and the second it hits his stick, it soars through the air.

Bloodcurdling shrieks drown out everything around me as the buzzer glows red, and the Vancouver Vipers flood the ice, falling to one big blue and green pile.

They won. They’re coming home, and they’re going for the cup.