Page 63 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“I’ve never seen a game like it,” my dad crowed.

Several of my uncles had had enough beer that their masks were off, and they were giddy watching the game.

Ryder was a machine, no, a high-precision missile.

“Goal!”

“Holy shit!” My family and I all jumped up out of our seats.

“Is this normal?” Gracie asked as she stuffed one of the pugs into his half-done sweater to measure.

“That’s too small for him. You always make them too small,” I said, eyes glued to the ice. To Ryder.

Gracie tsked. “He gained weight.”

“I think you need to just take another knitting class. It looks like it’s narrowing.” I measured the sweater with my fingers.

“Oh, did he score again? Shoot.”

The camera zoomed in on Ryder, grinning as the goal count appeared above his head on the large monitor.

“Look at that smile!” Gracie grabbed me, sending one of the pugs sliding off her lap.

Ryder was gazing up at me. The camera zoomed in on his face, brilliantly handsome. I waved to him, and the smile broadened.

“That man is in love with you. You’re in trouble, Dakota!” Gracie teased. “I predict that I’m going to be knitting baby outfits this time next season!”

“Just because you’re trying to dump those tiny sweaters off on someone doesn’t mean I’m going to be pregnant,” I grumbled.

“Someone needs a snack,” Gracie singsonged.

“I don’t want those hot dogs my mom smuggled in.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

Gracie handed me the pugs so she could rummage for food. I turned back to the game and Ryder.

“Dakota, what the hell?” A skinny man in an Icebreakers jersey and a mask crouched in the seat next to me. The mask lifted up.

“What do you want, Timmy?”

“You were supposed to make him suck,” Timmy hissed as Ryder did some hockey jujitsu, faked out three defenders and the goalie, and slapped the puck in the net before anyone could even register what had happened.

“Uh… goal!” the announcer said, slow on the uptake.

Several rows away the talent scouts were nodding appreciatively and making notes as Ryder skated away, fluid like he was flying, like he hadn’t been going ninety miles an hour for the last forty-five minutes.

The Frosthawks looked exhausted.

Ryder looked like he could go all night.

“You screwed up, Dakota. He’s never played better in his life. This was not what you were supposed to do!” my brother hissed. “They’re supposed to lose. The Icebreakers are up twelve goals.”

“The Frosthawks are supposed to be the feeder team for Boston. They’re playing like the Ice Spirits. This is embarrassing,” the announcer said into the speaker. “It’s like peewee hockey out there… Oh! O’Connell scores again!”

“Dayum, son,” my cousin exclaimed a few rows away.

“What’s he on?”

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