Page 30 of Charming Crosschecks

“When he looks at me…” Molly’s voice faltered, and she felt a lump rise in her throat. She hated how vulnerable she felt admitting this, even to her mother. “I don’t feel like the short, shy girl who always got overlooked. I feel like he sees me—really sees me—and likes what he sees.”

“Molly, honey, that is how it’s supposed to be,” her mother said gently, her words like a warm embrace.

“It’s never been like that when I’ve dated someone,” Molly confessed, her thoughts spilling out faster now. “It’s always been questions, confusion… but this guy?—”

“Honey,” her mother interjected, her voice soft yet firm. “You just finished telling me that you felt betrayed…”

“I did—but then…” Molly trailed off, a wry smile tugging at her lips as she remembered the moment. “They did this thing where they all banded together, standing behind Gerry, and he was like, ‘This is my girl.’ And I was like, ‘Noooo, you hurt my feelings,’ but then he was like, ‘Yeah, you’re mine,’ and I was like, ‘Yeah, I am.’”

She let out a groan, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my gosh, I sound like I’m ten years old.”

Her mother burst out laughing, the sound full of affection. “I’m like, you’re like…” she teased, mimicking Molly’s tone playfully. “I can honestly say that you’ve never been at a loss for words before, honey. Just take things slowly and see where they go.”

Molly bit her lip, her voice quieter now. “Am I crazy for liking him?”

“Isn’t love a little crazy?” her mother replied, the warmth in her tone wrapping around Molly like a hug.

“I neversaid I was in love with him,” Molly protested weakly.

“Sure, honey,” her mom said, the hint of a smirk audible even through the phone.

“Mom…” Molly groaned, but there was no real annoyance in her voice.

“Just be careful and let him show you what kind of man he is,” her mother advised, her tone serious again.

“I will,” Molly promised, clutching the phone tightly as if her mother’s words could anchor her. “I promise.”

CHAPTER 9

THIERRY

During the firstperiod of the game, the puck blasted toward Giroux like a missile, ricocheting off the boards with a sharp crack. It careened straight at Boucher, who expertly intercepted it and fired it back at him.

Gerry skated hard, his blades carving into the ice with precision as he glided forward, his movements fluid and almost mesmerizing. The crowd’s roar blurred into white noise as he zeroed in on his target, weaving past two defenders with a mix of grit and grace. He could hear Batiste yelling something behind him, the words indistinct but undeniably colorful. A chuckle rumbled in Gerry's chest, muffled by his facemask, as he made his way toward the goal with ease.

The slap of his stick against the puck echoed in the arena, followed by the resoundingclangof it hitting the back of the net, making contact with the metal frame.

Score!

Cheers erupted from the stands, and for a brief moment, Gerry let himself soak it in, his chest heaving with exhilaration.

By the second period, the game had turned scrappier. A chaotic jam-play near the goal had players hacking and slapping at the puck in a frenzied cluster. Sticks clashed violently, and bodies shoved and collided in a tangled mess. A cacophony of curses—both in English and French—rose above the fray, sharp and biting.

“Hey! You leave my mother and my grandmother outta this,” Gerry snapped, his voice cutting through the melee as Batiste and Coeur exchanged increasingly absurd insults with the other team that was currently badmouthing his entire female lineage.

“We’ll be having a ‘celly’ at the Gazpacho household, eh?”

“Ta mère aime les garçons sexy... comme moi,”Batiste taunted with a wicked grin.

“Oh yeah, bro! You know it. Remember last time when she had that little number and was asking you over? You practically had to pull his mother off you!” Coeur fired back with a laugh.

“We were talking about Thierry’s mama…” an opposing player growled, standing tall in indignation and momentarily forgetting about the puck.

“Which is why we are discussingyoursnow!” Batiste bellowed, tossing off his gloves with theatrical flair. “You got a problem,Gazpacho? Eh?EH?!”

“It’sGaspard…” the player corrected, his irritation palpable.

“I know what I said!” Batiste roared, his booming voice drawing attention—and giving Gerry the opportunity he needed.

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