Page 29 of The Pucking Proposal

“Ooh! Can we get a funnel cake?” she pleads, pointing to a food truck emblazoned with the fried yumminess. “And I moved here the weekend before the festival last year. I was living out of boxes and didn’t know a soul, so this”—she waves a hand around—“was basically out of the question.”

I came last year, but it wasn’t the same because Hope was gone. I think she was in North Carolina at the time. But I’m truly glad to be here with Rayleigh this year.

If Hope hadn’t moved to LA, I don’t think I would’ve been as open to a new friendship, so in this small way, I’m glad my sister found the guts to go, because Rayleigh is great. She’s bright, bubbly, and full of positivity, and she knows absolutely nothing about sports, which gives me the opportunity to talk about something else. And I’ve gotten to introduce her to all the awesomeness of Maple Creek, including restaurants, Chuck’s, and our full calendar of seasonal offerings, which gives me a chance to appreciate my hometown totally anew. We’ve done every touristy thing available as she settles into town as a new local.

I pull out a length of tickets, paying for a funnel cake topped with powdered sugar, whipped cream, and strawberries. “Two forks, please.”

We find a hay bale to sit on and dig in. “Tell me everything,” Rayleigh says, one eye on the treat in front of us and one on everything surrounding us.

I take a bite myself and use my fork to give her a running pointed verbal guide to the festival. “There’s a petting zoo over there, a pumpkin patch where you can choose one to carve for the contest or to take home, food trucks aplenty, a few fair-type rides like a Ferris wheel, vendors in the tented area, a hay maze and hayride, and then, of course, the bonfire and dance later.”

Rayleigh’s eyes have gotten bigger and bigger as I list activities off. “I want to do it all,” she says with a happy sigh. I swear there are stars in her eyes. Or maybe pumpkins.

“Then ‘do it all’ we shall,” I agree.

We start with the hay maze, then pet llamas, ride the Ferris wheel, and eat our weight in baked potatoes topped with award-winning chili. As we walk around the bonfire, looking for a spot to call ours, I hear a squeal off to my right. “Oh my god! Can I get a picture with you?”

That high-pitched, loud female voice catches my ear, but what really draws my attention is the answer. “Sure. Come on in for a close-up.”

Dalton.

When I find him, he’s standing with his arm around the waist of a pretty blonde who’s basically hanging on him. Her hand is planted on his chest, her leg is hitched up near his thigh like she wants to hump it, and she’s leaning into him, pressing the entire length of her body to his so he can feel the squish of her breasts.

Of course, Dalton is doing his sexy one-sided smirk face, probably thinking he won the pussy lottery.

“SayDays!” the woman’s friend shouts, holding up a phone to take their picture.

“Days,” the blonde purrs, smirking first at the camera and then at Dalton.

They keep talking for several seconds after the friend lowers the phone, and I swear she offers to suck him off right here and now, in front of the whole town and everyone.

Well, that part might be my imagination, but I wouldn’t put it past her given the sparkle in her eye and the cocky tilt of Dalton’s head as he gives her all his attention.

I don’t mean to move, but my feet don’t get the memo, and before I know it, I’m marching toward him, steam probably spouting from my ears.

I shouldn’t be jealous. I can’t be jealous. We aren’t anything to each other, and Dalton definitely doesn’t owe me anything. But like Elvis, logic has left the building. And every prejudice I have against athletes is coming to life before my eyes, being confirmed in real time.

“Hey, sis,” Shepherd says.

I didn’t even notice that other players are standing with Dalton, also taking pictures with fans. Well, fans, puck bunnies ... same difference in this instance.

I stammer, the smackdown I was about to give Dalton stuck in my throat. “Uh, hey, Shep. Hanovich. Days.” I put a little extra stank on Dalton’s name, and he looks at me in confusion.

I shoot laser daggers out of my eyes at him and then smile sweetly at my brother. “Looks like you’ve got a great spot for the bonfire. Mind if we join you?”

“No, pop a squat. Who’s your friend?”

Shepherd looks at Rayleigh with interest and I introduce her to the guys, who all shake her hand like the gentlemen they’re most definitely not. When Dalton frees himself from his cling-on bunny to take Rayleigh’s hand, he glances my way and I can see the laughter sparkling in his dark eyes. He knows I’m jealous and is internally laughing at me.

I glare harder, adding acid fire to the laser beams, and he laughs out loud.

Shepherd and Hanovich look at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing. A kid over there was making faces,” he deftly dodges, easily lying though his stupid white teeth and perfect lips.

I spread my blanket out, and Rayleigh and I sit down. Dalton, Shepherd, and Hanovich sit on a huge Moose-logo-emblazoned blanket, and like the huntress she is, Blondie perches right on the edge beside Dalton, leaving her friend sitting on the grass and excitedly side-eyeing her like she’s gonna get a front-row seat to her friend’s hopes and dreams of becoming Dalton’s latest and greatest coming true.

“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” Shep asks Rayleigh. I don’t think my brother has ever met a stranger. New people are just friends he hasn’t made yet.

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