"Sophie?"
"Yes, Harlan?"
"Shut up before you make him hard."
She laughs so hard, I want to kiss her breathless. Instead, I step into the damn tutu, yanking it up my legs. I don't even bother looking in the mirror. I already know I look ridiculous.
Am I surprised when I see her snapping photos? Not even a little bit. Will I be surprised if they show up online soon? Also no. I fucked up. She's forgiven me, but she's still going to make me pay.
And you know what? There are worse things in this world than the captain of a professional hockey team dressed in a leotard and tutu because he lost a bet with a savage little ballerina. If it makes her happy, I'll deal with whatever bullshit comes my way over it. If it comes, it'll be from pricks who don't matter.
She matters. That smile on her face right now matters. And showing her that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to earn her matters. Everything else is just white noise and nonsense.
"How do I look?" I ask, planting my hands on my hips when I'm certain the tutu is more or less in the right place.
"Like you lost a bet." She grins at me, her green eyes light. "You ready to go be tortured, Captain?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
She launches off the bed like a graceful cat, landing on her feet without a sound. Unlike me, she looks fucking gorgeous in her leotard. She's also wearing shorts over it. I fully intend to have her out of them by the time she's finished practicing.
She snags a pair of battered shoes from her dresser, and I blink.
"Jesus Christ, Sophie. You been to war in those motherfuckers?"
"Do not judge my shoes, Harlan Ward," she says, her tone pert as she cradles them to her chest like they're Louboutin. "I'll have you know that I had to beat the hell out of these to get them just right. And then I'll have to start all over again in a day or two."
"So…what I'm hearing is that ballet slippers are to a ballerina what skates are to a hockey player," I murmur, holding open the door for her.
She shoots me a questioning look.
"I change skates every few games."
"Oh," she says with a little laugh. "I guess so. I go through four pairs of shoes a week."
My eyebrow climbs toward my hairline. "You're shitting me."
"Nope. They only last about 15 hours of dancing, so you have to change them out or risk the shank or toe box breaking. When that happens, you're more prone to injury."
"That's a lot of…" I trail off, blinking in shock when I see—quite literally—everyone we know at the lodge lined up at the bottom of the steps, their phones pointed in our direction.
"Damn, bro," Briggs calls, clutching Tye's arm as he howls with laughter. "Give us a spin!"
I turn slowly to look at Sophie. "I'm giving you a two-second head start, ballerina."
"I didn't do anything!" she cries, laughing too hard to be believable.
"The evidence suggests otherwise, baby," I growl, holding up a finger. "One."
I expect her to take off, forcing me to chase her. But apparently, Sophie only runs from her feelings, not from whatever threat I pose. She steps right up in front of me, her eyes locked on mine, the devil in her eyes.
"I'm not afraid of you, Harlan Ward."
"Wrong answer." I scoop her up, smacking her ass before I toss her over my shoulder. Everyone downstairs whoops and hollersas she pounds on my back, hitting me with her shoes. I just lock my arm around her hips to keep her steady and jog down the steps.
She bounces on my shoulder with every single one, growling and cursing up a storm. I'm fairly sure I'm going to have a ballet slipper imprint on my ass when she's done, but I don't even fucking care.
I march right through the throng of our siblings and friends, ignoring their taunts and teasing. All I'm focused on is the woman thrown over my shoulder and how much I love her perfect, diabolical ass.