The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Dalton calls on Sunday, and again on Tuesday. I don’t answer.

On Wednesday, he texts me.

Going home for the rest of the week. Miss you.

Pshaw, I think. You miss jacking off with me and are regretting not doing it Saturday night when you had the chance. Because that’s all this is, all it’s ever been, and all it ever will be—a physical scratch we’re both using to cure an itch.

Eventually, the season will be over and his pregame ritual won’t be needed any longer.

He’ll keep playing like the awesome goalie he is, and one day, he’ll meet some puck bunny who charms her way from his dick up to his cold heart, and I’ll be just another funny story about how he got through that one season back in the day.

Because of that, I don’t tell him to travel safely, or say I miss him back. I simply put my phone away and go back to watching Falling Inn Love on the Hallmark Channel. At the end, when there’s no one to dissect the plot holes and level ten stupidity of the character’s choices, I look at the other end of the couch, and then my phone. But instead of texting Dalton, I decide to make popcorn. It’s a poor excuse for what’s usually the best part of movie-watching with Dalton.

On Thursday, around noon, he sends me a picture of a plate loaded with a Thanksgiving feast and the word yum.

I still don’t respond. I’m too embarrassed, too furious, and too confused.

At least there are no games this week, so it doesn’t affect the team, which is all that matters. Right?

“Penny for your thoughts,” Hope says as she comes into the kitchen and invades my bubble to bump into my shoulder, grinning unapologetically. Instead of answering her or returning fire, I hand her a stack of plates, which she adds to the piles on the island in preparation for our holiday dinner.

Hope and Ben flew in last night, and in the less than twenty-four hours since, they’re already going stir-crazy from staying at Mom and Dad’s house. It’s not that our family home is particularly tiny, but the guest room’s full-size bed wasn’t the comfiest for the two of them to share after scrunching up in the small airplane seats on the overcrowded holiday flight. And then there’s the fact that Mom and Dad have apparently grown accustomed to the empty nest lifestyle, and despite Mom’s repeated reminders that they have guests, Dad walked to the kitchen in his tighty-whities like it was no big deal. He grabbed his morning cup of coffee, told a horrified Hope and chuckling Ben “Happy Thanksgiving,” and strutted back down the hall, sipping on his caffeine to start the day.

Hope deemed it the worst way to wake up ever and said she might need to invest in eye bleach and therapy. I feel sorry for them, but not sorry enough to offer my fold-out couch or share my single bathroom. Not when they’re still newlyweds, doing what newlyweds do . . . quite often, I suspect.

“Good to have you home,” I tell her as if that’s what I was thinking about. It’s the truth, I am glad to see Hope and have her here for a few days, but it’s not what I was ruminating on while getting dishes out of the cabinets, and she knows it.

“Good to be home . . . mostly.” She rolls her eyes, and I know she’s thinking about this morning again. “But what’s up with you? Something’s off, and my twinny spidey-senses are itching my brain because I can’t figure it out.” She makes scratchy hands near her head, taking care to not muss her perfectly fixed hair, and peers at me thoughtfully.

I shouldn’t tell her. I should absolutely, 100 percent, not tell her a thing because it’s a huge risk. She can’t control her face, and we’re about to sit down to a holiday dinner with the one person I most need to keep in the dark—my brother. But also . . . I’ve always told my sister everything, and I could really use her take on what the hell happened at the festival, and more importantly, after it.

“You have to promise not to tell Shepherd,” I answer.

Hope’s eyes bug open and her mouth drops in surprise, but it takes only a split second for her to fix her expression into one of utter seriousness that says I can totally trust her. “I won’t. There are lots of things I don’t tell him.”

I’m sure that’s true. These days, there are things she doesn’t tell me, too, and as hard as that is to consider, we’re adults on different paths with full-spectrum lives outside of each other now. It’s not like the old days when we shared a bedroom, classroom, and friend group and were basically living the same life side by side. But I’m still making a choice for both me and Dalton to bring someone else in on our arrangement.

I’m just that desperate for some objective reality on all this.

I look around to confirm that nobody’s close enough to eavesdrop. Mom and Dad are out on the back porch, chatting with Shepherd and Ben as they watch over the turkey fryer. It apparently takes that many sets of eyes to make sure it doesn’t explode and catch the house on fire. Which begs the question from me: Sure, it’s yummy, but why the hell would you risk it?

Either way, it’s only Hope and me in the kitchen, setting the table and supervising the oven, which contains six different casseroles and covered dishes.

“Remember when I told you I had an unexpected thing happen before the season opener? When I saw something different?” I tilt my head, emphasizing thing like she won’t know exactly what I mean.

“Hmm,” she hums, tapping her chin like she can’t quite remember the conversation. She’s totally lying. She knows exactly what I’m referring to, so I arch a brow sharply and turn back to the cabinet like the conversation is over. She huffs out a sigh and spins me back around. “Of course I remember.”

She looks so eager for me to spill, probably thinking I’m gonna share how I bitchily put Dalton in his place after his performance at Chuck’s that night. But that’s not what happened. I think . . . he might’ve, kinda, sort of put me in mine.

Which pisses me off all over again.

“After they won the opener, they lost the next game,” I remind her, and Hope rolls her hand, telling me to get on with the story. She might be out on the road with Ben half the time, but she keeps up with the team.

“I don’t watch all the games, but I have been watching all your reports, and the scores. The Moose have been killing it, which means Shep’s gonna be unbearable at dinner.”

I slide my hair behind my ear, not meeting her eyes. “Well, about that winning streak . . . I might have a little-bitty, teeny-tiny, nothing-important part in that.”

“Joy, what did you do?” she hisses, grabbing at invisible pearls around her neck like I must’ve done something horrible. Or illegal. Or both. “Did you screw with the ice or the pucks? Are they heavy or light or something?”

She thinks I’m helping the team cheat, but that’s not it at all. Not a bad idea, necessarily, but they don’t need to cheat. As long as Dalton shows me his dick before the game, they can’t lose.

“No, nothing like that. But Dalton got it in his head that he needed me to see . . . it . . . before the game. Like a superstition, for them to win.”

We’ve both heard approximately a hundred different superstitions over the years, from Shep and teammates alike, ranging from meals they eat on game day, to lucky socks that never get washed, to prayers they say before stepping on the ice. This is nothing like that. I knew it when Dalton asked me, but actually saying aloud what we do before each game, to another person, makes it sound that much crazier.

Thinking I’m kidding, Hope starts to laugh. “What?” When I don’t laugh, she sobers. “What! Is he flashing his thing at you before every game? Joy!”

“Ssshhh!” I hiss, crowding into her and guiltily looking over my shoulder at our gathered family outside. “Don’t let Shepherd hear you because it’s not that bad. Dalton asked, and I told him it was fine. Besides, that’s not even the problem.”

She freezes, eyes locked on me. “You keep calling him Dalton.”

I meet her eyes, knowing full well that she can see right through me. I can’t hide from my sister. I’ve never been able to. “I know.”

All her righteous indignation on my behalf evaporates. “You like him,” she says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I hate him,” I counter, and when she cocks her head, challenging that statement, I add, “Mostly. He’s maybe not as bad as I thought he was.”

“Grab the plates and let’s set the table,” she instructs, picking up the silverware and marching farther away from the back door and potential eavesdroppers.

In the dining room, I spill everything. I tell her how I thought Dalton was crazy, but I went along with it for the sake of the team and because he seemed so dead set on it being good luck. And then I tell her how what started as a flash and dash, quickly became more. “We’ve basically been partaking in a voyeuristic self-love situation on the daily.”

“You watch him?” She gasps, and then she slaps her hands over her mouth. “He watches you?” I think she mumbles oh my god from behind her hands.

“It’s not as much of a big deal as you’re making it out to be. We’re adults, with needs, that we’re taking care of.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” she argues, flailing her arms around like a scarecrow caught in a tornado. “If it’s no biggie, why do you look like your brain’s running faster than a double pedal drum?”

I don’t know what that means since I’m not surrounded by music the way she is, but I can guess simply because I know what my mind has been doing. I feel like there’s a hamster hyped up on speed and caffeine, running full throttle on a wheel to nowhere, while surrounded by strobe lights that’re flashing at a seizure-inducing rate.

The end result is . . . “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I admit heavily. “It’s not only the watching. It’s the talking, the hanging out, the—” I freeze, dropping my chin because I can’t meet her eyes as I confess, “I was jealous when a fan flirted with him at the festival and he didn’t shut it down. I had to sit there and act unbothered while she batted her lashes, draped herself on him, and basically offered to fuck him at his convenience.”

“What did he do?” she asks, naive hope sparkling in her eyes.

“Nothing.” I make it sound as awful as it felt to witness.

She arches a brow at me in a scarily similar way to how I look when I do it. “Did he go with her? Dance with her? Lie back and watch the embers float up into the sky? Touch her? Did he do anything to encourage her?”

As she lists off things Dalton could’ve done, I shake my head to each one, getting more frustrated by the item. “No, none of that. But he didn’t tell her ‘thanks but no thanks, skank’ either.” She looks at me in disappointment, not for Dalton’s lack of reaction, but my judging one. “I know! I’m frustrated with me too!”

When she stays silent, I finally tell her the rest. “I saw Marshall Cooksie. He’s home for the holiday. We caught up, and all the while, Dalton was glaring at me from the side of the dance floor like I was the one doing something wrong. And later, he came barging into my apartment acting like I was the type who’d take a guy home ten minutes after a spin around the dance floor. He was angry as hell, accusing me of this and that, and then . . . you won’t believe what he did.” I take a big breath, ready to tell her the worst of it. “He tried to kiss me!”

She blinks, her face perfectly neutral as she waits for something more. “He tried to kiss me, Hope,” I repeat.

“And you . . . didn’t want to kiss him?” she mutters slowly, puzzled with my anger.

I growl in frustration and remind her, “He’s an athlete, Shep’s friend, and gives away pony rides like he’s the county fair. So, no. I didn’t want to kiss him.”

She tilts her head, humming doubtfully, but when I scowl at her, she holds out her hands, talking softly like I’m a skittish dog that might bite. “Okay, let’s revisit what you did or didn’t, do or don’t, want. What happened when he tried to kiss you?”

The facts, just the facts. That I can give her. “I pushed him away and he watched me.”

It takes a solid three heartbeats of staring at me blankly before she realizes what I mean, then her eyes go so wide that I can see the whites all the way around the blue. “You let him watch you after all that?”

“Uh, more like . . . I made him watch? And then it was supposed to be his turn, but he left! Said my pussy is his, whether I want to admit it or not, and left like the purebred asshole he is.”

Hope’s jaw falls open, and I can almost hear the gears in her mind turning as she plays and replays what I’ve told her. Finally, a smile starts to bloom on her lips.

I flinch away from her in horror and point at her mouth. “Why does your face look like that?”

“I stand by my earlier statement. You like him, Joy. That’s what all this turmoil, confusion, and jealousy is. You like Dalton Days.” She sounds completely sure of the absolutely wrong conclusion she’s arrived at, and when I shake my head violently to disagree, her smile only grows wider. “You do. But you’re scared, so you don’t want to admit it yet. That’s okay.”

“I’m not scared of anything,” I counter, thrusting my chin into the air like the fearless, badass bitch I totally am. “And at most, I just hate him a little less than I used to, so don’t get all carried away.”

“Okay, if you say so. However, I’d like this moment noted for later, so I can brag that I was right when you finally admit to liking him. Because you do. Like him.” She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, so damn pleased with herself, and I’m equally as pissed off, snarling like a feral tomcat who’ll do anything to defend his territory.

Except in this scenario, the territory is my heart. And I need to defend it against Dalton, because if Hope is right, I’m so screwed. And not in the good way.

She bites her lip, looking like she’s trying to decide on saying more.

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure he likes you too.”

Before I can refute that ridiculous assumption, she sashays back into the kitchen, whistling to herself.

Mom and Dad have been tag-teaming making our Thanksgiving feast for years and have it down to a science, virtually dancing around the kitchen to get everything to the table. In years past, we were assigned duties, but now, after having watched them so many times, we can step into the choreography and actually help. Before long, we’re sitting around a table piled high with a variety of options.

I make a plate as we pass hot dishes around, but when my fork is poised to take my first bite, I have an overwhelming urge to take a picture and send it to Dalton the way he sent me his holiday plate. Angry at the errant thought, I stab my fork into the cranberry sauce and smear it on a bite of turkey, ruining any photo-worthy ideas I might’ve had.

“It’s delicious,” Shep tells Mom and Dad around a mouthful of both mashed and sweet potatoes.

Mom smiles her appreciation, and somehow we manage to stuff our faces and catch up all at the same time.

Hope and Ben are prepping for another tour, but not till later next year, which Mom supports wholeheartedly, but she also asks if there’s going to be a bassinet on the tour bus anytime soon. “Mooom, no!” Hope screeches.

Ben laughs, but also says, “Not unless the universe plays a joke on us. We’ve got time.” He takes Hope’s hand, holding it on the table between them and making goo-goo eyes that’d probably be enough to get my sister pregnant, except I know she’s on birth control.

But Ben’s right. They’ve got plenty of time. Hope and I are only twenty-five, for fuck’s sake. At least she’s happily married. I’m still running away from even the possibility of a potentially more-than-casual, semifriendly situation.

Shepherd holds his hands up, already arguing with Mom before she says one word to him. “Don’t look at me. I remember what Dad told me when I was younger—don’t stick your dick in crazy. I took that to heart and am as careful as a fat zebra on the banks of a river full of hungry alligators. They’re not getting me.” He pats his chest, looking aghast at the thought.

“Time enough for women and babies after you get drafted, so be the zebra. Bring your own condoms, don’t trust hers,” Dad tells Shepherd, still praying for the dream and reinforcing his earlier advice.

Mom rolls her eyes at Dad’s crudeness, but then glances at me. She hrrmphs and drops her gaze to her plate.

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom,” I huff. “Guess I’ll go live, laugh, toaster bath myself given that look of disappointment.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with her. I’m not ready for kids, don’t even know if I want them, but the fact that she so quickly dismissed the very idea where I’m concerned is a cut I wasn’t expecting.

“Oh, Joy,” Mom tuts. “I know you’re focused on your career right now and doing amazing things with it. You’re doing exactly what you’ve always said you would, and I’m so proud of you.” She peers at me earnestly, making sure she’s smoothed things over well enough. Given I’m not really mad at her, I take the compliment. “And same to you, Shep. The only reason I asked Hope is because she used to talk about babies. That’s all.”

“Lorie saw her friend Joanne at the grocery store this week and they got to chatting. Joanne’s got a houseful today,” Dad fills us in as if Mom can’t hear him talking about her. Then, to Mom, he asks, “What is it, six grandkids?”

“Eight. Plus Joanne thinks they’ll have a baby announcement today too. That’ll make nine.”

“Whoa,” Dad says, looking equal parts horrified and excited. “That’s a lotta pitter-patters. And a lot of dirty diapers.”

Maybe they’re not as solidly in the empty nest syndrome as we thought? Admittedly, Mom and Dad will be amazing grandparents, the same way they were, and are, great parents. But it won’t be me that gives them that promotion to grand. Or at least, not any time soon.

“You never know . . . it might be Shepherd who has the first grandchild,” Hope offers. And then in a totally innocent voice, she suggests, “Or even Joy. She could meet someone special, fall in love, and start popping ’em out like tennis balls in one of those launcher things. Pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . pop.”

She’s not throwing me under the bus exactly, but she’s driving it up onto the sidewalk while I sit idly unaware on the bus stop bench. Underneath the table, I grind my toe into Hope’s foot punishingly, but she barely reacts. All I get is a side-eye as she fights back the laugh she’s swallowing down.

“Are you dating someone?” Dad asks me, suddenly deeply invested in the whole conversation.

I shake my head, turning the glare I was shooting at my sister into something kinder when I look to Dad. “No, I’m not. Like Mom said, I’m way too busy with work.”

“Yeah, and she only ever sees hockey guys,” Hope adds sadly. “And they’re all ugly, out of shape dudes who can’t commit to anything, not even an athlete’s foot ointment. Ew.”

I’m gonna kill her. Smother her, quick and quiet, with a pillow over her face while she sleeps.

Shit. Ben would probably stop me.

Fine. I’ll figure out another way. It’ll probably be messier, but she deserves it at this point. I fought off the wolves for her when she ditched everyone to hide away with Ben, and this is how she’s repaying me?

Shep, thinking the dig is about him, grumbles, “Hey! I’m not out of shape, and if I can commit to the daily workouts Coach has us doing, I could commit to someone I care about.”

“You forgot ugly,” Ben reminds him.

Shepherd flashes an arrogant grin, running a hand over his own chiseled jawline. “Figured that one obviously didn’t apply to me.”

Somehow, the focus stays on Shepherd and eventually, the Moose’s season, and never returns to the question of whether I’m dating anyone. Thank goodness!

As we clear the table, I bump my hip into Hope’s to grab her attention. “What the hell was that? ‘Oh, I can keep a secret,’” I mime, throwing my voice high.

She smirks, whispering back, “I did keep your secret. But I also planted a seed that . . . one, you’ll eventually date.” She holds up one finger, and then another. “And two, you do only hang out with hockey players. So once you figure your shit out with Dickton, and tell Mom and Dad, it won’t be such a shock.”

Too impressed with her logic, and cringing at that awful nickname, I don’t correct her assumption that I’ll be figuring out anything with or without Dalton, mostly because I’m still mad at him.

“What about Shep?” I ask.

She snorts, shaking her head as she glances out at the living room where Shep’s once again trying to teach Ben about hockey, despite him not giving a shit about it. “Oh, that’s on you. It’s gonna be a bloodbath. The good news is . . . I think it’ll mostly be aimed at Dalton, not you.”

She makes that sound like it’s a good thing.

And like she was doing me a favor by running that bus up on the sidewalk to scare me.