Page 73 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

It was disorienting. Disconcerting.

Maybe everyone was right.

Maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me, something fundamentally unlovable about me.

And worse, I didn’t even know what it was, would never be able to fix it.

“Dakota, please,” I begged. I didn’t even know what I was asking for.

“Just go away, Ryder. Get out of my life.”

27

DAKOTA

Istayed drunk from the evening I told Ryder the truth and took his broken heart and smashed it into a million pieces through the big Arctic Avengers versus Icebreakers game.

“Holy shit, you did it!” My brother sat down next to me in an empty seat.

I’d been banished to the periphery of the block of family seating on the orders of my mom, who was proudly wearing Ryder’s jersey and carrying a sign that read “You’re Still My Favorite Son.”

“Shh!” I hissed at him.

My family already hated me. I didn’t need to make it worse. I’d threatened Gracie into secrecy and told her if she ratted me out, I was going to tell Hudson she was planning on adopting another pug.

“He’s losing.” My brother lowered his voice. “I’ve never seen Ryder play this bad.”

I was sick. If my mom had allowed me to eat any of the snacks she’d brought, I’d be puking them up. I tipped the straight vodka I had in my oversized Stanley cup into my mouth.

Ryder was playing horribly. It was like he was off rhythm—missing pucks, almost scoring an own goal.

His coach was screaming, over the sound of the Arctic Avengers chants, to “Get your fucking head in the game, College Boy, what the fuck!”

“Ryder gets paid either way,” my brother said, trying to reassure me.

“Shut the fuck up!” I yelled at him then took a swing at him with the Stanley cup’s weighted bottom.

My brother cursed and toppled off the seat into the aisle, trying to escape me.

I nursed my vodka and watched as Ryder and the Icebreakers team collapsed.

“I thought I’d be happy to watch the Icebreakers lose to the Arctic Avengers,” Uncle Bic said sadly, “but I’m not. It just feels bad.”

“Yeah.” My dad hunched over. “This isn’t fun.”

Behind me and a row up, several of my cousins were not-so-quietly discussing how I’d done it, ruined a good man, because that’s what I did, I just ruined men. And I should just go ahead and have my uterus removed and be blacklisted from dating.

“Dakota was dating this rich, hot finance guy,” one of my cousins was telling another cousin who’d come into town just for the game, “and he posted a video about how she was so mean to him on their date. I was like, I believe it. And my mom said to be nice and made me do the dishes as punishment, but I was right, wasn’t I? Here we are.”

I ground my teeth and chugged my vodka. We were halfway through the first period.

Around me the fans who’d come to see Ryder looked disappointed. The scouts from the big New York City teams seemed unimpressed.

I’d fucked him over so bad.

“And Ryder misses another goal!” That was Aunt Janet doing the announcements. She had been fired once for salty commentary then brought back on when locals complained bitterly and boycotted the stadium in retaliation.

“I’m not going to say exactly whose fault it is,” Aunt Janet added, “but I’m just putting it out there that’s it’s not Ryder’s fault. So if there are any nice girls in the audience who want to help heal this poor young man who’s been traumatized by my niece—excuse me, an alleged woman who shall remain nameless—come put your name on a list.”

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