Page 4 of Naughty Wishes

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I manage to get through the rest of the day without typing “ménage” or “kinky dentists” into the search engine of my hospital computer. After work, I pick up the boys for hockey practice.

“I’m starving,” Peter says as he climbs into the vehicle. Despite Dan’s protests, we had to buy a minivan to fit all the hockey equipment and the vast quantity of food needed to sustain two growing boys on hockey road trips. I shudder to think what will happen when they hit their teens.

“You didn’t give me enough for lunch.”

“Cooler is in the back.” I glance up at him in the rearview mirror. Our oldest boy, now ten, is a spitting image of Dan, from the thick brown hair, to the dark eyes, and from his height—already over five feet tall—to his athletic build. “And I gave you two sandwiches for lunch, a thermos full of soup, two pieces of fruit, a bag of carrots, and a bag of chips.”

“I ate it for my morning snack,” he says, reaching for the cooler. “Then I had to beg my friends to share theirs with me.”

“I ate my lunch for lunch.” Justin, who inherited my auburn hair and hazel eyes, beams at me in the mirror while at the same time punching his brother in the ribs to divest him of the cooler. “But it wasn’t enough. Maybe we should stop for a pizza.”

“You’re having pizza at the Richardson’s tomorrow night,” I tell him. “And don’t hit your brother.”

“What are you going to do without us?” At eight, Justin is the baby of the family caught between wanting a bit of independence but still needing hugs and cuddles from Dan and me.

I choke on my coffee—a necessity for hockey moms who spend long hours standing around in a freezing rink. “Not getting into trouble like you.”

Peter snorts a laugh. “They’ll watch Netflix and go to bed early. That’s what happens when you get old.”

“Mom’s not old,” my lovely Justin says. “She’s two years younger than dad. He’s the old one.”

Not old enough, apparently, since he’s the one all raring to go for a kinky Saturday night.

“I have a sore tooth.” Justin says. “Can we go back and see Dr. Steadman? The parachute toy I got at my last checkup broke. Maybe he’ll give me a new one.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I imagine I am in Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m busy at work,” I tell him. “We have the state inspectors coming to the hospital for a visit on Monday.”

“But it’s sore.”

“It’s probably getting ready to fall out. I’m sure it will feel better tomorrow.” Desperate, I play the competitiveness card. “Peter had two wiggly teeth at once, and he walked around in pain for a whole weekend without complaining.”

“That’s true,” Peter says, nodding. “I’m too badass to feel pain.”

“I’m badass,” Justin complains.

“You’re eight. Don’t say badass,” I admonish, simply because it’s a parental requirement, but I don’t take it farther than that because I want Justin to be a “badass” so I don’t have to make an emergency trip to the dentist where I might be required to talk in a coherent manner about our upcoming “appointment” when we’re alone dealing with the invoice. Or do people even talk openly about such things?

“I’m looking forward to Saturday night,” he says, giving me a wink.

“Yes. I’m super excited. I wasn’t sure where you wanted to have sex with me and Dan so I’ve washed the kitchen floor and vacuumed the living room, the hallway, and the bedroom. I’ve put a plastic cover on the dining room table so it doesn’t get scratched, and extra towels in the bathroom. Oh, and I’ve got fresh sheets on the bed.”

He nods because he is experienced with these things and approves of my location choices. “I hope your bed is big enough for three.”

“It is if we’re not sleeping in it.” Imaginary Kylie delivers the killer comeback with a knowing smile.

“Then stop whining and suck it up.” Peter yanks me back to reality when he grabs the cooler from the front seat, pumping his fist in victory.

One hour and two coffees later, I am huddled on the bench beside my hockey mom friend, Alexis Morales, watching the boys play. After putting aside her Culinary Arts degree and giving up the prospect of a promising career as a pastry chef to raise her kids, Alexis was devastated when her husband ran off with his secretary and left her with two kids, an empty bank account, and a huge load of debt. Not one to take things lying down, Alexis moved in with her mother, hired a lawyer from Dan’s firm, and dragged that bastard’s sorry ass through the court. She used some of the proceeds from the sale of their house to buy the local bakery when the owners retired, and took a job at the local post office to pay the bills while she renovated. Her cute-as-a-button-mini-me daughter, Megan, is six, and her son, Quinn, is Peter’s age and plays on the same hockey team.

“I think it’s about ten degrees colder in here today,” she says. “I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“It might be because you’re wearing fashion boots and no gloves.” I hand her my coffee and she takes a little sip, then runs a hand through her purple streaked hair—her new signature move to indicate she’s on the hunt. Alexis is slim and fit, her skin deeply tanned, dark eyes framed by criminally long thick lashes. She started working out after her divorce, lost fifteen pounds, and is constantly nagging me and her best friend, Lily, to join her for her early morning runs. Like that’s going to happen. I am so not a morning person. Dan and the boys don’t even try to talk to me before I’ve had my first cup of coffee.

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