Page 6 of Knotted Laces

Not a question.

Just…a heads up wrapped around an order.

Give good sound bites we can chop up and use on social media, don’t flash anyone your junk, and absolutely no fucking fist fights that can be caught on camera.

The last, one would think is hyperbole.

With this team?

Not so much.

The Eagles and scuffles in the locker room are synonymous. Pat and Duncan. Pat and Asshole Anthony. Pat and hothead Kane. Pat and Lazy as shit Matt. Pat and Duncan again.

For a while, I swear my parents didn’t see a single clip of my team actually playing hockey.

It was all pushing and shoving, fists connecting, bleeped curses and fuckingPat.

And, as fate would fucking have it, the one game my parents have made it to in a while is tonight’s.

The one where we lost.

Because of me.

Cool. Cool.

A fist fight in the locker room that gets splashed all over social media would be the cherry on top of that.

Sighing, I slap on a hat to cover my helmet hair, shove down my whiny baby bullshit, and turn my focus to the press core who are walking into the room, cameras on shoulders, phone with recording apps open already pointed in our directions.

I give my sound bite.

Take my shower.

Pull on my street clothes.

And then I’m nodding my goodbyes to King and Rome, both of whom are still stuck talking to the press, before slipping out into the hall and heading for my car.

My phone buzzes.

MOM: We’re headed back to your house, honey. Will have your post-game snack ready for you.

That makes me feel like something other than a failure (for the record, hungry because my mom is a great cook)…and I hurry to the parking lot.

It’s been ages since she’s made me a recovery meal but I know it’ll be right in line with my diet and fucking delicious and that it willabsolutelybe the best thing to happen today.

So, I don’t waste any time in driving home, in parking in the garage, in grabbing my stuff and hustling my ass into the house.

Apples and cinnamon—my favorite combination on the planet—greet me before I even turn the corner into the kitchen. It’s that delicious smell that has me belatedly recognizing there are voices echoing into the hall, that has me not processing that my house is full of people until I actually step into the brightly lit space.

“Surprise!” they shout.

My brothers—all six of them (biological and otherwise)—and my sister (not biologically related, but still my sister) are filling up the room.

And their spouses.

And their kids—half of whom are passed out in arms or on my couches, while the other half are running around like the tiny terrors they are.

I’m engulfed in hugs and hellos and conversations for several minutes before everyone begins to peel off, my mom shoves an apple-cinnamon oat cookie into my hand, and I see there’s someone else in the room who I missed.

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