Page 2 of Mother Pucker

But ice hockey has always been my big brother’s one true love. It was no surprise to anyone, least of all me, when the pros came calling right after college. Sawyer has never settled for a minor-league anything in his life.

He wasn’t just courted by the NHL, he was downright seduced.

Hockey will always own a piece of my heart, too. But unlike my team captain older brother, moving away from home opened my eyes to a world of passion and possibilities off the ice, too.

I learned to appreciate philosophy and underground music from my first boyfriend— a nihilistic English major who drove a Vespa with a sidecar. A French foreign exchange student with an accent thicker than pâté introduced me to modern art and how to handle a wine hangover. Then there was the theater professor with a five o’clock shadow no matter what time of day it was—

My crushes never last long. They burn out quickly, leaving me achy and empty inside. Like a puzzle that’s missing the middle piece.

But my passion for visual media never died. Instead, I found my calling in the seductive, ever-growing power of communications. Much to my father’s dismay— and my mother’s relief— one of their children decided not to pursue a professional sports career.

In the end, Sawyer and I were both drafted by the Houston Snowhawks. My brother shines on the ice as captain. And I’m finally leading a team of my own. Not in a jersey, but from a hard-earned corner office.

The best part? I didn’t even have to hang up my skates.

Working with the Hawks is the best of both worlds. Between team photos, interviews, game nights, and fan events, I’m still on the ice most days.

It’s not unusual for Dakota to have me circle practice for a fresh perspective. A couple nights a week, Sawyer and I hit the rink to blow off steam after work. And I spend every other Saturday volunteering with the Frosty Pucks. The Pucks are a junior hockey league for underprivileged kids run by Emerson Stone—the Snowhawks’ former star forward and the team’s newest assistant coach.

It’s a dream come true— a dream I’ve worked damn hard to make a reality.

“Morning, Payton.” A familiar voice rings out through the empty gym and jolts me free from meandering thoughts. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Skylar Morgan gives me a small wave as she walks over. It’s no easy feat. She’s balancing a teetering stack of freshly folded towels in both arms. Only Skylar’s crisp blue scrubs are visible as she bustles toward the sports massage and physical therapy wing of the workout center.

“Hey, Sky.” I step off the elliptical and grab a towel off of her pile as she comes close, revealing the top of her head. “Are we still on for girls' night next weekend?”

She peeks up at me, only a mischievous pair of eyes and the hexagonal shape of her glasses visible over the laundry.

“Fuck. Yes.” Skylar does a happy little dance, sending the towel tower swaying in time to her invisible beat. “Sofie is bringing guac and a bottle of tequila. Yas is making her sugar-free brownies. They’re awful.”

I don’t need to see her face to know Skylar is grinning from ear to ear.

Being a woman in a male-dominated industry can be hard. Working with pro athletes all day long? They should give out Nobel prizes for this shit.

Which is why I am forever grateful to be surrounded by amazing women. Good coworkers are nice and all, but there’s no replacement for a group of female friends who just get it. I haven’t been working at The Nest for long, but I already feel like part of a sisterhood here.

“Wait,” I cock an eyebrow at Skylar. “Why is she bringing the brownies if they’re awful?”

Sky runs the Snowhawks’ physical therapy department alongside Yasmín Rashidi, the team doctor— and her best friend. Skylar and Yas have been friends since they were basically embryos.

“Because,” Skylar says as if it should be obvious. “As long as I put an avocado brownie on my plate, she won’t bug me too much about eating nothing but junk food for the rest of the weekend. Which reminds me— I have a very important question to ask.”

I shake my head at her devious plan. Despite having the proportions of a miniature Barbie doll, Skylar is somehow capable of subsisting on nothing but salt, preservatives, and double-stuffed cream filling. I’ve never met a vegetarian who eats fewer vegetables than Sky.

“Yes, I’ll pick up pizza on the way.” I laugh as Sky does another dance. “Pineapple and jalapeño, right?”

Skylar nods. At least, I think she does. The ponytail peeking out behind her laundry stack bobs up and down, at any rate.

“See you later, alligator,” Sky says with a whistle before marching off with her towels.

Across the gym, the double doors that lead to the men’s locker room swing open. I don’t turn to see who’s here.

I don’t have to— I can feel him in here with me.

It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to spin around and run in the other direction without a word. Instead, I manage to unravel my tongue long enough to call out a casual goodbye to Skylar. Then I turn on my heel, my face a careful mask of indifference.

I make my way past the elliptical and exercise bikes with the towel draped carelessly across my shoulder. My steps are measured and unhurried. Then I cross the gym into the weight room.

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