The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Your place or mine?

I stare at the text from Dalton, debating. I’m playing with fire. My only saving grace will be to keep Dalton at arm’s distance. Or at least I hope that’s enough to save me.

FaceTime.

It’s not a question or an option. It’s a take it or leave it offer that I send knowing he’ll take it. He has to.

You okay?

No, I’m not. After hanging up last night, I was fine for approximately five minutes when there was a pure, quiet calm in my head. And then reality clicked in and I started freaking out. I contemplated calling Hope. If anyone can talk me off a ledge, it’s her, and I would like to get her take on the situation, but if Shep so much as looks at her sideways, he’ll know. Not because she’ll spill—she would never do that to me—but because her face is an open book.

But that’s not what I tell Dalton.

Yeah. FaceTime seems like a better decision than in-person.

I expect him to argue that point with some crude description of what might be “better” if we’re face-to-face, or try to convince me that this is no big deal, that we’re “fine” and “know what this is” like he said last night. Hell, maybe I want him to talk me into this so that when it all goes awry, I can blame him, which is shitty, but closer to the truth than I’d like to admit.

Bad decisions make good stories.

God, he’s like a walking, talking, testosterone-fueled version of me. I swear I’ve used a similar line on Hope to get her to do stupid shit with me. But while what he said might be true, bad decisions can also ruin everything. I don’t think either of us should take that chance.

We need to be smart.

All right.

I can almost hear him sighing when he typed that.

So that’s what we do over the next couple of weeks—stick with phone call peekaboos where we touch ourselves because it’s the safer, smarter option that still gets us both what we desperately want.

And if it was only that, maybe I wouldn’t feel like things are so risky. But it’s not only a quick jack-off for luck on the eve of his games. We’ve drifted into something more, something I can’t—and won’t—put a name to. Mostly because I don’t know what to call it.

We talk every night, whether Dalton is in town or out, and whether there’s a game or not. We talk about our days, our thoughts, our lives. And while it’s not like we’re curing cancer, or discussing world peace, or anything deep, those little conversations are where the danger is. But even so, I can’t help curling up in bed or on the couch at the end of every long day to wait for his call.

At this point, I don’t know if it’s him, the daily orgasms, or the combination of the two that has me in such a great mood.

The weekend before Thanksgiving is a big deal in Maple Creek. Our annual Fall Festival brings tourists from the whole tristate area to our little town to participate in pumpkin carving contests, apple cider drinking, hayrides, and more. For a lot of families, it’s the beginning of their holiday season, so Maple Creek does a good job of keeping traditions alive so that they can have those memories from generation to generation.

One of the most anticipated festivities is the Saturday night bonfire. It’s been going on for decades. I know I’ve seen pictures of the Maple Creek Fall Bonfire going all the way back to the fifties.

“This is so exciting!” Rayleigh squeals, gripping my hand tightly in hers as she leans into my side. “What time do they light it?”

“About thirty minutes after dusk,” I tell her for the third time since picking her up.

I can’t help but smile at Rayleigh’s enthusiasm for not only the festival, but life in general. She’s never met a sunrise she wasn’t grateful for and enthusiastic about making the most of.

She’s one of my newest and best friends. What started as me hiring her as a Pilates personal trainer a year ago turned into coffee chats, mani-pedi dates, and shopping for excessive amounts of yoga pants—mostly for her because she is obsessed with having a full rainbow spectrum of matching outfits since they’re her “work uniforms” and she dresses each morning based on what color’s vibe she’s feeling for the day.

Today is apparently a khaki-feeling day because she’s wearing tan leather-look leggings, a long cream-colored sweater with a white collared shirt peeking out at the neckline and hem, and knee-high brown boots. Her brunette hair is curled to perfection and accented with a chiffon bow. She looks chic as hell, and knowing she would, I dressed cute, too, in dark flared jeans, a baby-pink sweater that’s so soft I’ll have to fight to keep from petting myself, and cowboy boots. Thankfully, the sun is bright and high in the sky, keeping the afternoon warm so we don’t need coats yet. And tonight, if the bonfire and dancing don’t keep us toasty enough, I brought blankets we can wrap up in.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come last year,” I tell her as I scan the crowd of people, seeing some faces I know and lots I don’t.

“Ooh! Can we get a funnel cake?” she pleads, pointing to a food truck emblazoned with the fried yumminess. “And I moved here the weekend before the festival last year. I was living out of boxes and didn’t know a soul, so this”—she waves a hand around—“was basically out of the question.”

I came last year, but it wasn’t the same because Hope was gone. I think she was in North Carolina at the time. But I’m truly glad to be here with Rayleigh this year.

If Hope hadn’t moved to LA, I don’t think I would’ve been as open to a new friendship, so in this small way, I’m glad my sister found the guts to go, because Rayleigh is great. She’s bright, bubbly, and full of positivity, and she knows absolutely nothing about sports, which gives me the opportunity to talk about something else. And I’ve gotten to introduce her to all the awesomeness of Maple Creek, including restaurants, Chuck’s, and our full calendar of seasonal offerings, which gives me a chance to appreciate my hometown totally anew. We’ve done every touristy thing available as she settles into town as a new local.

I pull out a length of tickets, paying for a funnel cake topped with powdered sugar, whipped cream, and strawberries. “Two forks, please.”

We find a hay bale to sit on and dig in. “Tell me everything,” Rayleigh says, one eye on the treat in front of us and one on everything surrounding us.

I take a bite myself and use my fork to give her a running pointed verbal guide to the festival. “There’s a petting zoo over there, a pumpkin patch where you can choose one to carve for the contest or to take home, food trucks aplenty, a few fair-type rides like a Ferris wheel, vendors in the tented area, a hay maze and hayride, and then, of course, the bonfire and dance later.”

Rayleigh’s eyes have gotten bigger and bigger as I list activities off. “I want to do it all,” she says with a happy sigh. I swear there are stars in her eyes. Or maybe pumpkins.

“Then ‘do it all’ we shall,” I agree.

We start with the hay maze, then pet llamas, ride the Ferris wheel, and eat our weight in baked potatoes topped with award-winning chili. As we walk around the bonfire, looking for a spot to call ours, I hear a squeal off to my right. “Oh my god! Can I get a picture with you?”

That high-pitched, loud female voice catches my ear, but what really draws my attention is the answer. “Sure. Come on in for a close-up.”

Dalton.

When I find him, he’s standing with his arm around the waist of a pretty blonde who’s basically hanging on him. Her hand is planted on his chest, her leg is hitched up near his thigh like she wants to hump it, and she’s leaning into him, pressing the entire length of her body to his so he can feel the squish of her breasts.

Of course, Dalton is doing his sexy one-sided smirk face, probably thinking he won the pussy lottery.

“Say Days!” the woman’s friend shouts, holding up a phone to take their picture.

“Days,” the blonde purrs, smirking first at the camera and then at Dalton.

They keep talking for several seconds after the friend lowers the phone, and I swear she offers to suck him off right here and now, in front of the whole town and everyone.

Well, that part might be my imagination, but I wouldn’t put it past her given the sparkle in her eye and the cocky tilt of Dalton’s head as he gives her all his attention.

I don’t mean to move, but my feet don’t get the memo, and before I know it, I’m marching toward him, steam probably spouting from my ears.

I shouldn’t be jealous. I can’t be jealous. We aren’t anything to each other, and Dalton definitely doesn’t owe me anything. But like Elvis, logic has left the building. And every prejudice I have against athletes is coming to life before my eyes, being confirmed in real time.

“Hey, sis,” Shepherd says.

I didn’t even notice that other players are standing with Dalton, also taking pictures with fans. Well, fans, puck bunnies . . . same difference in this instance.

I stammer, the smackdown I was about to give Dalton stuck in my throat. “Uh, hey, Shep. Hanovich. Days.” I put a little extra stank on Dalton’s name, and he looks at me in confusion.

I shoot laser daggers out of my eyes at him and then smile sweetly at my brother. “Looks like you’ve got a great spot for the bonfire. Mind if we join you?”

“No, pop a squat. Who’s your friend?”

Shepherd looks at Rayleigh with interest and I introduce her to the guys, who all shake her hand like the gentlemen they’re most definitely not. When Dalton frees himself from his cling-on bunny to take Rayleigh’s hand, he glances my way and I can see the laughter sparkling in his dark eyes. He knows I’m jealous and is internally laughing at me.

I glare harder, adding acid fire to the laser beams, and he laughs out loud.

Shepherd and Hanovich look at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing. A kid over there was making faces,” he deftly dodges, easily lying though his stupid white teeth and perfect lips.

I spread my blanket out, and Rayleigh and I sit down. Dalton, Shepherd, and Hanovich sit on a huge Moose-logo-emblazoned blanket, and like the huntress she is, Blondie perches right on the edge beside Dalton, leaving her friend sitting on the grass and excitedly side-eyeing her like she’s gonna get a front-row seat to her friend’s hopes and dreams of becoming Dalton’s latest and greatest coming true.

“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” Shep asks Rayleigh. I don’t think my brother has ever met a stranger. New people are just friends he hasn’t made yet.

She nods. “Yeah, I’m going home to see family. Leaving Tuesday to beat the traffic.”

“Luckily, home is here for me,” Shep replies, easily making small talk. “My other sister’s coming in with her husband, and it’ll be the whole Barlowe crew gathered around the table, arguing over who the favorite kid is. Spoiler alert: it’s me. It’s always been me. But we let Joy think it’s her every once in a while so she doesn’t cry.” He throws a smirk my way, charming my friend and putting me down in one fell swoop.

“What about you, Dalton?” the blonde asks him. “Need a place to go for turkey . . . and stuffing?”

“Jesus, just ask him if he wants to fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Luckily, the only person who hears me is Rayleigh, whose spine goes stiff as she looks at me in shock, fighting off a giggle.

“I’m going to see family too,” Dalton says.

Ha! So there! Take your sex-posal and put it where the sun don’t shine!

Blondie deflates a bit, looking to her friend for guidance, but she, too, looks confused by Dalton’s rebuff.

“Maybe when you get back then,” she finally says, adding in a wink in case Dalton didn’t already catch on to what she’s suggesting.

He grunts in response. Not a no, hell no, or fuck off, which I know he’s quite capable of saying because he’s said it to me when a teasing poke gets a little too close to home while we’re giving each other shit.

“They’re about to start the countdown,” I tell Rayleigh, pointing to Mayor Haven, who’s standing in front of the angled stack of wood that’s piled five feet tall and surrounded by a circle of large rocks. Somewhere, there’s also a fire crew, at the ready in case anything goes wrong.

“Tap, tap. Is this thing on?” the mayor says into a wireless mic. Once he hears himself, he smiles welcomingly. “I’d like to thank you all for coming to the annual Maple Creek Fall Festival. We’ve had a great day of fun, but the day’s not over yet. It’s time to light the bonfire, start the music, and get this festival truly going. In a family-friendly, safe, and approved manner, of course.” He side-eyes a group of high school boys, who are roughhousing with each other and laughing hysterically at something. “If you’ll all count with me . . . ten, nine, eight . . .”

We count down together and watch the lighting ceremony, where town delegates light small torches before lowering them to the base of the bonfire. Within minutes, the whole pile of wood is crackling and roaring, with flames hot enough to warm the entire area.

“Happy Fall!” people tell each other all around us, the greeting carried from group to group as we celebrate the season together.

Well, not all together.

I hear Dalton say “Happy Fall,” but I don’t answer, keeping my eyes transfixed on the fire, wishing it’d burn Dalton up and turn him to ashes that I could piss on.

“That was beautiful,” Rayleigh gushes beside me. “Can we dance now?” I look over to find her tilting her head to hear the music better as the band starts to play.

I grab her hand. “Absolutely! Let’s go.”

I wave bye to the group, avoiding eye contact with Dalton entirely to keep from snarling at him. As it is, the entire interaction was perfectly normal to everyone else, with nothing weird about it at all—just the usual banter, chitchat, and polite conversation. Nobody would guess that Dalton and I have been talking every day and voyeuristically watching each other masturbate for weeks.

Nope, no one would guess.

As we join the dancers on the rented wood floor, Rayleigh catches my attention. “What’s up with you and the big guy?”

Shiiit.

“Nothing. He annoys me,” I snap, doing a mindless step-touch as I watch the line dance choreography to figure out how it goes. Not that it’s difficult given the Fall Festival’s pretty much just a polite rave, but the older crowd isn’t doing the Wobble I’m familiar with from Chuck’s. Either way, we can’t go wrong because there are several kids simply bouncing around, enjoying the music.

Rayleigh’s smirk says she doesn’t believe that for a second. If there were any doubts, or hopes I might’ve gotten away with it, she dashes them when she adds, “Interesting that I didn’t specify which guy, but you instantly knew who I was talking about.”

She got me. Except . . .

“You mean my brother, right? He’s totally annoying. Always has been, always will be.” I use a play on Shepherd’s words to sell it, but Rayleigh’s overly aggressive positivity doesn’t extend to giving me the benefit of the doubt.

“Shepherd’s not who I’m talking about. And also, not who you were trying to kill with those glares.”

To avoid answering, I join in the dance with the next turn. Rayleigh must already know it because she joins in easily, letting me keep my secrets for now.

Before long, I’ve all but forgotten about Dalton. Or at least I try to. For all I know, he’s still sitting by the bonfire with Blondie. Or fucking her in his truck. Or at her place. Or his.

I growl and lose my step, stumbling over my feet, but catch up pretty quickly.

Later, as Rayleigh and I two-step to a country song about beer and broken hearts, she spins me and I accidentally bump into a guy along the edge of the dance floor. “Sorry!”

“No problem,” he answers. But then he says, “Joy?”

I look at him again. I know him from somewhere. After a second, it hits me, and I gawk. “Marshall? I haven’t seen you in years. How’re you doing?”

Rayleigh catches my eye, checking if I’m okay, then cuts her glance to a guy beside her who’s holding out a hand. I nod and she dances off with him.

“I’m good. You? Sorry, didn’t mean to make you lose your dance partner. You mind?” Marshall offers his hand.

I hesitate for a split second, thinking.

One, Marshall was a decent guy in high school, and while I have no interest in him, it’s nice to catch up with an old friend. And two, there is no good reason why I shouldn’t dance with him given the fact Dalton’s probably done hooking up with Blondie and moving on to her friend by now. Or having a threesome with both of them, given his reputation.

So I slip my hand into Marshall’s and let him guide me around the dance floor.

He’s a great dancer who makes me look better than I am, spinning me and shooting around my back only to join me right in step. All the while, he easily carries on a conversation. “I hear your dream came true—sports on the local news?”

I nod, not having to count the way I usually do with his strong lead. “What about you?”

“Home visiting for the week,” he says as we cut to the right, “but living in Wyoming now. Welding for the coal mine.”

I smile up at him. “I can see you doing that.” Marshall was a quiet guy in school, often keeping to himself, so working long hours inside a helmet where he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone sounds right up his alley. “It seems to suit you.”

He’s obviously a hard worker. His hands are rough and calloused where he’s gently holding mine, and he’s solid beside me.

Not like Dalton, who’s monstrous.

And that doesn’t matter, I remind myself, because he’s off with someone else and whatever we’re doing is casual. Suuuper casual and meaningless.

“Thanks. I like it up there,” Marshall says before clearing his throat. “Met a guy in the mine, and we’re saving up to buy land.”

I smile widely and swat his rock-hard shoulder. “Marshall! Good for you!” I exclaim, happy for him, and he ducks his head, hiding his answering smile.

“Thanks.”

We dance the rest of the song plus one more, catching up on the old days and current events around town. At one point, I spy Dalton stalking around the edge of the floor, and when we get close, I boldly meet his eye.

He looks ready to spit nails. Or beat the shit out of Marshall.

I toss him a cavalier wink, letting my internal pettiness loose.

Payback’s a bitch. And so am I.