The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“What. Was. That?” Hope demands two seconds after grabbing my hand, yanking me off the dance floor, and dragging me to the ladies’ room, where she shoos out a woman trying to fluff her hair and tits.

Totally low key, definitely not making a scene, like, at all.

I’m at a loss for words so I shrug, trying to play it off. Hope plants her hands on my shoulders and shakes me. “Joy! That man just . . . I mean, he . . . What was that?” she repeats, sounding like she witnessed little green men jumping out of a cake, not a man being a jerk, which is basically an everyday occurrence in my experience.

Searching for an answer, I stutter out, “I have no idea. Less than zero. Days hasn’t said that many words in total to me before. That’s including actual interviews over the years. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” I throw my hands wide in confusion. “He’s certainly never been bossy or asshole-ish like that. He’s always been . . . a remote, cold hockey robot. He was on a whole ’nother level out there.”

“He was?” Hope challenges. Laughing, she smacks me on the ass. “Not like you were on your best behavior either.”

“Me?” I squeak, offended that she’s putting any of the blame on yours truly for that shit show. Hope stares at me point-blank, not buying any of my bullshit. “I was happily dancing, minding my own business, when Dalton walked over and got all ‘you shall not fuck,’ like he has any right to boss me or Voughtman around. Not that I’m interested in Max Voughtman,” I clarify, “but Dalton acting like I was going all reverse-cowgirl in the middle of Chuck’s irritated me.”

“And . . . ?” she prompts.

I glare back at her, but eventually I surrender and sigh. “Fine, aaand I might’ve taken it a little bit too far.”

Hope relaxes slightly. “Okay, weird on him, needlessly goading on you, but I think you need to explain a whole lot more about what happened at the rink last night. You said he was different. What does that mean?”

I snap my mouth shut and become exceedingly interested in the tile floor, not wanting to share the embarrassing moment of being cock-stunned enough to think Dalton was asking me out when he wasn’t. Not even with my sister who knows every detail of everything I’ve ever done.

“Did you screw him in the team locker room, Joy? Are you for real right now?” she whisper-screams, jumping to the furthest conclusion in a single bound.

I slam my hand over her mouth, terrified someone overheard her. “No,” I hiss, nearly nose to nose with her. “But I saw his dick. And got a little stupid. I misinterpreted something he said and thought he was asking me out when he wasn’t. He’s apparently a good soldier who follows Shep’s rules where we’re concerned. Not that I wanted to go out with him!”

Hope’s eyes jump back and forth, focusing on mine and reading my thoughts through the blue irises that match her own. “You swear you didn’t have sex with him?” she mumbles behind my hand.

I nod. “I swear.” Slowly, I release her, trusting she won’t say anything else ridiculous, especially at a volume loud enough for people in the hallway outside to hear.

“Okay,” she says, calming down, which is good because then at least one of us is being chill. I’m still freaking out on the inside, confused as hell about what happened and why Dalton went all caveman on Voughtman and me. “I knew you wouldn’t break your no-athlete rule, but he had me questioning everything, and I didn’t know if you and Max or you and Dalton were a thing. Or if you’d started experimenting with throuple-dom.”

“Neither. And definitely not both.” I put my whole heart and soul—and pussy—into the assertation to make it crystalline clear. “No athletes after Buchanan.”

Hope’s eyes go soft and hazy with pity because she was right there beside me during the whole Buchanan debacle. She snuck out of the house to drive to the university with me, stood back while I knocked on his dorm room door, clutching the flowers I got him too tightly, and watched as Buchanan opened the door with a grin that immediately fell from his face when he saw who it was. He wasn’t expecting me, that was for sure.

Neither was the girl in his room, who was half-naked and obviously didn’t know of my existence. Hope was also there for the drive home while I sobbed in the passenger seat, in the ensuing weeks when I alternated between rage and depression, and, finally, when I healed enough to swear off athletes. One was enough for me, and nothing I’ve seen in my years of sports reporting has swayed me to think otherwise.

Athletes are singularly focused, and not on their partners, who always take a back seat to their one passion—their sport. As a result, relationships with athletes tend to be short-lived, one-sided, or, worse, filled with disrespectful cheating.

“They’re not all like that,” Hope says, restarting the same argument we’ve had dozens of times before. “I mean, in general, a lot of guys are like that, I guess. But it’s not exclusive to athletes unfortunately. You just need to find a good guy, like Ben.”

She makes it sound like ordering a caramel Frappuccino at Starbucks. Hello, one good guy, please, with loads of whipped cream and an extra drizzle of loyalty. It’s definitely not that easy, though, and my sister is a lucky bitch. Her husband isn’t simply one of the good ones. He’s the best, which she absolutely deserves, and I’m truly thrilled for her. Just the way he treats her more than compensates for the weirdness of being a secret heavy metal god who wears masks everywhere.

“I will. One day, I’ll have the whole meet-cute thing and get swept off my feet,” I assure Hope. “But right now, I’m staying focused on work, and that means no time for guys, and definitely no athletes that might cheapen the hard work I’ve put into my career.”

Hope gathers me into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you, Joy. You’re so strong and ambitious. I kinda want to be you when I grow up.”

She’s joking about that last part, but I bask in her being proud of me because I value my sister’s opinion more than anyone’s in the world. Even my mom’s, though I’d never risk my life by telling Mom that. “Thanks, sis. I’m proud of you too.”

I am. She left everything she knew behind to live a life of adventure, and for my life-must-be-planned sister, that was a major leap of faith, but it’s paid off in happiness.

She sighs and leans against the wall of the bathroom, considering me. “Okay, so not dating or screwing any Moose. No clue who pissed in Dalton’s protein oatmeal. The only thing left is . . . what’s his penis like?”

I should’ve known she wouldn’t let that tidbit go unnoticed. I roll my eyes and laugh. “We are not talking about that,” I say, waving my hands to reinforce the no. “Besides, we’d better get back out there before Shep notices we’re missing.”

“Spoilsport,” Hope pouts, but there’s a spark in her eye that says this conversation isn’t over. She’s good at reading between the lines.

But I can’t believe she asked. I also can’t believe I don’t want to tell her.

Back in the bar, the victory party keeps rolling along as if nothing happened. For most of the people here, it was no big deal. But for me, it feels like my whole world has gone a bit wonky as Hope and I sidestep through the crowd surrounding the bar. At the far end, I can see a group of about fifteen people, including Mom and Dad, talking and laughing, probably rehashing the game rotation by rotation. They’re definitely—and thankfully—unaware of any weirdness on the dance floor.

“Next.”

“Two Mich Ultras, please,” Hope tells the bartender. Then she tacks on, “Put it on Shepherd’s tab.”

“Did I hear my name?” our big brother asks, popping up behind us like we conjured him. He throws a nod at the bartender, approving the charge as he lays a heavy arm on each of our shoulders, pulling us to his sides. “I’m so glad you came, Hope. Feels like good juju to have the gang all here, ya know?”

“This is one game I wouldn’t miss for anything,” she assures him, looking up at him with affection and a fair amount of admiration as the bartender drops off our bottles.

Over the years, we’ve had our ups and downs as only siblings can. We’ve been there for all the bests and worsts—from holidays, graduations, and birthdays, to stolen toys, tattling, and actual scuffles. But through it all, at the root, we’re close-knit and love each other.

I tend to be the float between Hope and Shepherd. With my sister, I share a bond like no other that’s difficult to explain to someone who’s not a twin. She’s part of me and I’m part of her, neither of us ever alone in the world as long as the other exists. With my brother, I share a deep-rooted love of sports that has carried us through some times when he was more annoyed by Hope and me than appreciative of having little sisters to look out for. And looking out for us is something he’s always done. He’s not just my older brother by what the calendar says but more so by action.

“You staying for long or jetting back out?” Shep asks. “It’s been a spell.”

Hope’s grin is the epitome of bliss as she answers, “Flying to LA tomorrow afternoon. Ben’s waiting on me.”

“Tell him I said ‘hey’ and that he needs to plan a break in the tour schedule for the playoffs. We’re going all the way this season!” Shep’s speaking his dreams into existence, manifesting it with his words, putting the power of his heart into the declaration. It’s a common sports tactic to hype yourself up, and I’ll hear him say it at least a gazillion more times over the next few months.

Actually, I’ve always found it funny, the way athletes play with karma or fate or whatever. Speak it into reality, fake it before you make it . . . but saying it can ruin it.

“Already done,” Hope says with a nod as she takes a drink. “I think the Moose might be Ben’s second-favorite hockey team now.”

Her husband knew jack-shit about hockey when they met and had the balls to tell Shepherd that he didn’t have a favorite team. Shep’s been working on him to get him on the Moose support squad ever since.

“Second favorite?” Shepherd echoes, his brows slamming down in offense.

Hope shrugs. “He likes the Menaces, mostly because their jerseys are black with the tiniest bit of dark gray. He says it suits him better than neon green.”

“Neon? It’s Christmas green at best,” Shepherd argues, missing the point entirely because of course Ben’s favorite team would have black jerseys. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but solid black, onstage or off.

“Pine? Or maybe dill-pickle green,” I suggest, looking around at the sea of Moose green-and-gold jerseys.

“Speaking of pickles—” Hope starts, but I’m not letting that sentence even get a hint of oxygen.

Instead I cut her off quickly, “Yeah, let’s get an order of fried pickles!” I shout it, sounding nearly ecstatic at the thought of the greasy snack that’s my sister’s favorite, not mine.

Hope’s smile is one-sided, because she knows exactly what pickle I thought she was going to mention. “That sounds delicious. I bet you could suck down a long, thick pickle all by yourself, right, Joy?”

I don’t smile. It’s more a baring of my teeth as I warn her to watch her step. Neither of us want the mess of Shepherd finding out I saw Dalton’s dick, though admittedly, me more than her. Even if Hope’s just fucking with me, calling him long and thick has my mind going places I don’t want to go, and I stare daggers at her.

Shepherd looks from Hope to me, his blue eyes going dark. “We’re not talking about pickles, are we?” At our poor imitations of innocence, he lifts his arms from our shoulders and takes a step back. “Nope, I’m good. No need for pickle convos here. I’m gonna go see if the guys need . . . something . . . anything.”

With that, he nearly sprints away from us, and I have to grudgingly admit that Hope’s a manic genius.

“Smooth, sis,” I tell her, sipping my beer. Hope isn’t the slightest bit insulted. In fact, I think she looks mighty proud of herself for scaring Shepherd off.

“Wanna dance and see if we can get into any more trouble?” she offers in a falsely innocent voice. “Show off a little double trouble?”

I gape at her in shock. “Who are you? And what have you done with my sweet, quiet, no-trouble sister?”

She laughs and pulls me back out to dance some more. And though I feel like there are eyes on me, every time I look around, no one seems to be paying me any attention. Not even Dalton, who is sitting on the far side of the room, looking decidedly sullen and angry considering the big win they had tonight. But thankfully, there are no more interruptions in our celebration.