Page 6 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

That lasted until the first game of the season, when Ryder literally destroyed the Arctic Avengers on the ice.

“It’s because he had time to mature,” my dad had said in shock after the final buzzer. We were mopping the blood off the stadium walls after what went down in the books as the worst ass-whoopin’ in the history of minor league hockey.

“He’sthinking. You can see his brain working,” my uncle had whispered.

“It’s not right. Hockey players aren’t supposed to be that smart,” his brother had added, wide-eyed.

Drunken ramblings of my male family members aside, I’d dismissed it as a fluke.

Someone named Ryder wasn’t smart. The Arctic Avengers needed better coaching was all. Ryder was just a wannabe hockey star who got lucky. I refused to acknowledge him. Refused to watch Ryder after that loss. He’d flame out. Soon. Any minute now…

But… tonight on the ice? He was even better than the last time I’d seen him.

Yeah, normal rookies would be all over the ice, eager puppies wanting to please the coach and team owner. Trying to prove their worth. Not Ryder. He was powerful. Methodical. Calculating.Ruthless.

I wonder if he fucks like he plays.

“For someone who has a stalker, he’s unnervingly focused.” My little brother plopped down next to me. Was I expecting him? No. But when you’re one of six, your dad is one of ten, and your mom is one of eight, then it’s actually strange tonotrandomly run into a family member.

“I thought they’d be losing this game for sure.” Timmy sounded miserable. “The stalker was all over the news.”

I looked up at the ceiling. The stadium had been decorated for Christmas—cardboard elves in hockey skates slowly rotated from the rafters. Nearby, inflatable reindeer pulled a sleigh made out of hockey sticks.

Sighing heavily, I grabbed my little brother’s ear.

“Ow! Dakota!”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” my little brother whined. “Maybe I just want to spend a fun holiday evening with my big sis and our favorite sport?”

“What do you want, Timmy?”

“I just need a favor.”

“Uh-huh.” I released him.

He held out his hand with a grin.

“Ugh.” I poured some of my caramel popcorn into his palm.

“So,” he said as he crunched the snack, “don’t be mad, but…”

I slapped the back of his head.

“Hey!”

“Were you and Granny Murray behind the stalker plot?”

“Granny Murray’s the stalker?” he yelped. “Damn. I wouldn’t have bet all that money if I’d known.”

“You were betting money?” I screeched, making the pugs snort.

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered nervously. “Mom’s not here, is she?”

“No, but she will be as soon as I text her and tell her what you’ve been up to. How could you? Sports gambling?”

Timmy grabbed my arm. “I didn’t lose yet. The game’s not over.”

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