Page 35 of The Pucking Proposal

I look around to confirm that nobody’s close enough to eavesdrop. Mom and Dad are out on the back porch, chatting with Shepherd and Ben as they watch over the turkey fryer. It apparently takes that many sets of eyes to make sure it doesn’t explode and catch the house on fire.Which begs the question from me: Sure, it’s yummy, but why the hell would you risk it?

Either way, it’s only Hope and me in the kitchen, setting the table and supervising the oven, which contains six different casseroles and covered dishes.

“Remember when I told you I had an unexpectedthinghappen before the season opener? When I saw somethingdifferent?” I tilt my head, emphasizingthinglike she won’t know exactly what I mean.

“Hmm,” she hums, tapping her chin like she can’t quite remember the conversation. She’s totally lying. She knows exactly what I’m referring to, so I arch a brow sharply and turn back to the cabinet like the conversation is over. She huffs out a sigh and spins me back around. “Of course I remember.”

She looks so eager for me to spill, probably thinking I’m gonna share how I bitchily put Dalton in his place after his performance at Chuck’s that night. But that’s not what happened. I think ... he might’ve, kinda, sort of put me in mine.

Which pisses me off all over again.

“After they won the opener, they lost the next game,” I remind her, and Hope rolls her hand, telling me to get on with the story. She might be out on the road with Ben half the time, but she keeps up with the team.

“I don’t watch all the games, but I have been watching all your reports, and the scores. The Moose have been killing it, which means Shep’s gonna be unbearable at dinner.”

I slide my hair behind my ear, not meeting her eyes. “Well, about that winning streak ... I might have a little-bitty, teeny-tiny, nothing-important part in that.”

“Joy, what did you do?” she hisses, grabbing at invisible pearls around her neck like I must’ve done something horrible. Or illegal. Or both. “Did you screw with the ice or the pucks? Are they heavy or light or something?”

She thinks I’m helping the team cheat, but that’s not it at all. Not a bad idea, necessarily, but they don’t need to cheat. As long as Dalton shows me his dick before the game, they can’t lose.

“No, nothing like that. But Dalton got it in his head that he needed me to see ...it... before the game. Like a superstition, for them to win.”

We’ve both heard approximately a hundred different superstitions over the years, from Shep and teammates alike, ranging from meals they eat on game day, to lucky socks that never get washed, to prayers they say before stepping on the ice. This is nothing like that. I knew it when Dalton asked me, but actually saying aloud what we do before each game, to another person, makes it sound that much crazier.

Thinking I’m kidding, Hope starts to laugh. “What?” When I don’t laugh, she sobers. “What! Is he flashing his thing at you before every game? Joy!”

“Ssshhh!” I hiss, crowding into her and guiltily looking over my shoulder at our gathered family outside. “Don’t let Shepherd hear you because it’s not that bad. Dalton asked, and I told him it was fine. Besides, that’s not even the problem.”

She freezes, eyes locked on me. “You keep calling him Dalton.”

I meet her eyes, knowing full well that she can see right through me. I can’t hide from my sister. I’ve never been able to. “I know.”

All her righteous indignation on my behalf evaporates. “You like him,” she says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I hate him,” I counter, and when she cocks her head, challenging that statement, I add, “Mostly. He’s maybe not as bad as I thought he was.”

“Grab the plates and let’s set the table,” she instructs, picking up the silverware and marching farther away from the back door and potential eavesdroppers.

In the dining room, I spill everything. I tell her how I thought Dalton was crazy, but I went along with it for the sake of the team and because he seemed so dead set on it being good luck. And then I tellher how what started as a flash and dash, quickly became more. “We’ve basically been partaking in a voyeuristic self-love situation on the daily.”

“You watch him?” She gasps, and then she slaps her hands over her mouth. “He watches you?” I think she mumblesoh my godfrom behind her hands.

“It’s not as much of a big deal as you’re making it out to be. We’re adults, with needs, that we’re taking care of.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” she argues, flailing her arms around like a scarecrow caught in a tornado. “If it’s no biggie, why do you look like your brain’s running faster than a double pedal drum?”

I don’t know what that means since I’m not surrounded by music the way she is, but I can guess simply because I know what my mind has been doing. I feel like there’s a hamster hyped up on speed and caffeine, running full throttle on a wheel to nowhere, while surrounded by strobe lights that’re flashing at a seizure-inducing rate.

The end result is ... “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I admit heavily. “It’s not only the watching. It’s the talking, the hanging out, the—” I freeze, dropping my chin because I can’t meet her eyes as I confess, “I was jealous when a fan flirted with him at the festival and he didn’t shut it down. I had to sit there and act unbothered while she batted her lashes, draped herself on him, and basically offered to fuck him at his convenience.”

“What did he do?” she asks, naive hope sparkling in her eyes.

“Nothing.” I make it sound as awful as it felt to witness.

She arches a brow at me in a scarily similar way to how I look when I do it. “Did he go with her? Dance with her? Lie back and watch the embers float up into the sky? Touch her? Did he do anything to encourage her?”

As she lists off things Dalton could’ve done, I shake my head to each one, getting more frustrated by the item. “No, none of that. But he didn’t tell her ‘thanks but no thanks, skank’ either.” She looks at me in disappointment, not for Dalton’s lack of reaction, but my judging one. “I know! I’m frustrated with me too!”

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