Page 2 of A Major Puck Up

I give the dog some loving while eyeing my brother.

Beckett throws his head back, defeat and exhaustion evident on his face and in his drooping posture. My brother, who is always well dressed, without a hair out of place or a whisker on his face, is covered in a five o’clock shadow gone wrong. So very fucking wrong.

“Your beard is gray,” I say, and that little dig makes me feel a modicum better. God, I am grumpy.

“And your face is ugly. Let’s not point out obvious facts.”

A low laugh rumbles out of me. Jesus, I need to spend more time with Beckett. He might be the only person I like these days, and that’s only because messing with him makes me feel slightly better about myself.

“Sure you don’t want to come to the park with us?”

He’s crouched down, giving Finn a quiet talking-to. The way they are together, the way my brother is Finn’s whole world, creates an ache inside me that I don’t understand.

I’m the cool uncle. Finn loves me. I don’t need to be a dad to be content with my life.

Right?

Beckett stands, head still dipped, and holds out a fist for Finn to bump. Then he looks up at me. “No. As much as I’d love some time with my favorite guy”—he looks at Finn and gives him half a smile—“I need sleep.”

I thumb toward the door. “All right, we’ll get out of your hair. Want me to keep the kids tonight? The team is coming over for dinner, but they wouldn’t mind.”

“Nah, Winnie is sleeping over at Delia’s, Finn is going to Shayla’s, and Addie is going to Dylan’s. We’ll just have the twins, and since you don’t have boobs, you can’t handle them.”

Huffing a laugh, I turn to the window and survey the houses that surround Beckett’s. Last year, my brother moved into the house down the street with his wife and her best friends. They lived that way for a while, in a house overrun with kids. Now, though, Delia, Shayla, and Dylan, along with their husbands, have houses on the same block, meaning my brother and his family have help close by.

He has me and the boys too. Aiden may be my biggest pain in the ass, and Brooks might still be on my shit list because of what his lies this past year nearly cost the team, but I love them and know they’d do anything for Beckett and his kids.

As would I.

Finn slides his aviators over his eyes and starts for the door.

“Coat,” Beckett growls.

Finn turns around, decked out in his newest favorite style choice. For more than a year, all he wore was fatigues and tutus. Interesting combination for sure. But he recently transitioned to a new look that he calls his jean tuxedo. It’s literally a jean jacket buttoned all the way up, washed-out denim pants, white sneakers, and his aviators. The boy also likes to wear shiny jewelry.

He’s hysterical.

“Bossman,” he says, sliding his glasses down on his nose so Beckett gets the full impact of his incredulous expression. “You don’t cover the fit.” The six-year-old runs his hand up and down his body, as if to put himself on display.

“You do when it’s thirty degrees out in Boston,” my brother reminds him, pulling a puffy black jacket off a hook at the door.

The way Finn grumbles as he puts it on has me chuckling as I follow him out the door.

We stop at McDonald’s, which is not at all part of the diet I normally follow. As the new head coach of the Boston Bolts, a team my family owns and I oversee, I typically enforce the same kind of dietary constraints on myself as I do on my players. But sometimes a guy just needs an Oreo McFlurry and fries.

“What do you think? Should I text her?” I turn to Finn on the park bench, still scrolling through the chain of text messages that stopped months ago when I told my girlfriend that it was over. Not because I don’t love her or because I want anyone else, but because I couldn’t keep up with the secrets and lies.

Finn twists his lips and studies me, french fry midway to his mouth.

A laugh from my other side gets my attention. The man seated at the end of the bench is wearing an unzipped oversized jacket over his thin frame. White scruff covers his face, and he’s got a navy-blue Bolts beanie pulled over his ears.

“You tell your problems to a kindergartener?”

“Hey, I’m in first grade!” Finn defends.

He huffs a laugh but gives Finn a nod of apology.

My nephew peers up at me, his brow scrunched. “He has a point. You’ve been telling me about Princess Peaches for a long time.”

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