Page 8 of The Pucking Proposal

I am. She left everything she knew behind to live a life of adventure, and for my life-must-be-planned sister, that was a major leap of faith, but it’s paid off in happiness.

She sighs and leans against the wall of the bathroom, considering me. “Okay, so not dating or screwing any Moose. No clue who pissed in Dalton’s protein oatmeal. The only thing left is ... what’s his penis like?”

I should’ve known she wouldn’t let that tidbit go unnoticed. I roll my eyes and laugh. “We are not talking about that,” I say, waving my hands to reinforce the no. “Besides, we’d better get back out there before Shep notices we’re missing.”

“Spoilsport,” Hope pouts, but there’s a spark in her eye that says this conversation isn’t over. She’s good at reading between the lines.

But I can’t believe she asked. I also can’t believe I don’t want to tell her.

Back in the bar, the victory party keeps rolling along as if nothing happened. For most of the people here, it was no big deal. But for me, it feels like my whole world has gone a bit wonky as Hope and I sidestep through the crowd surrounding the bar. At the far end, I can see a group of about fifteen people, including Mom and Dad, talking and laughing,probably rehashing the game rotation by rotation. They’re definitely—and thankfully—unaware of any weirdness on the dance floor.

“Next.”

“Two Mich Ultras, please,” Hope tells the bartender. Then she tacks on, “Put it on Shepherd’s tab.”

“Did I hear my name?” our big brother asks, popping up behind us like we conjured him. He throws a nod at the bartender, approving the charge as he lays a heavy arm on each of our shoulders, pulling us to his sides. “I’m so glad you came, Hope. Feels like good juju to have the gang all here, ya know?”

“This is one game I wouldn’t miss for anything,” she assures him, looking up at him with affection and a fair amount of admiration as the bartender drops off our bottles.

Over the years, we’ve had our ups and downs as only siblings can. We’ve been there for all the bests and worsts—from holidays, graduations, and birthdays, to stolen toys, tattling, and actual scuffles. But through it all, at the root, we’re close-knit and love each other.

I tend to be the float between Hope and Shepherd. With my sister, I share a bond like no other that’s difficult to explain to someone who’s not a twin. She’s part of me and I’m part of her, neither of us ever alone in the world as long as the other exists. With my brother, I share a deep-rooted love of sports that has carried us through some times when he was more annoyed by Hope and me than appreciative of having little sisters to look out for. And looking out for us is something he’s always done. He’s not just my older brother by what the calendar says but more so by action.

“You staying for long or jetting back out?” Shep asks. “It’s been a spell.”

Hope’s grin is the epitome of bliss as she answers, “Flying to LA tomorrow afternoon. Ben’s waiting on me.”

“Tell him I said ‘hey’ and that he needs to plan a break in the tour schedule for the playoffs. We’re going all the way this season!” Shep’s speaking his dreams into existence, manifesting it with his words,putting the power of his heart into the declaration. It’s a common sports tactic to hype yourself up, and I’ll hear him say it at least a gazillion more times over the next few months.

Actually, I’ve always found it funny, the way athletes play with karma or fate or whatever. Speak it into reality, fake it before you make it ... but saying it can ruin it.

“Already done,” Hope says with a nod as she takes a drink. “I think the Moose might be Ben’s second-favorite hockey team now.”

Her husband knew jack-shit about hockey when they met and had the balls to tell Shepherd that he didn’t have a favorite team. Shep’s been working on him to get him on the Moose support squad ever since.

“Second favorite?” Shepherd echoes, his brows slamming down in offense.

Hope shrugs. “He likes the Menaces, mostly because their jerseys are black with the tiniest bit of dark gray. He says it suits him better than neon green.”

“Neon? It’s Christmas green at best,” Shepherd argues, missing the point entirely because of course Ben’s favorite team would have black jerseys. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but solid black, onstage or off.

“Pine? Or maybe dill-pickle green,” I suggest, looking around at the sea of Moose green-and-gold jerseys.

“Speaking of pickles—” Hope starts, but I’m not letting that sentence even get a hint of oxygen.

Instead I cut her off quickly, “Yeah, let’s get an order of fried pickles!” I shout it, sounding nearly ecstatic at the thought of the greasy snack that’s my sister’s favorite, not mine.

Hope’s smile is one-sided, because she knows exactly what pickle I thought she was going to mention. “That sounds delicious. I bet you could suck down a long, thick pickle all by yourself, right, Joy?”

I don’t smile. It’s more a baring of my teeth as I warn her to watch her step. Neither of us want the mess of Shepherd finding out I saw Dalton’s dick, though admittedly, me more than her. Even if Hope’s justfucking with me, calling himlongandthickhas my mind going places I don’t want to go, and I stare daggers at her.

Shepherd looks from Hope to me, his blue eyes going dark. “We’re not talking about pickles, are we?” At our poor imitations of innocence, he lifts his arms from our shoulders and takes a step back. “Nope, I’m good. No need for pickle convos here. I’m gonna go see if the guys need ... something ... anything.”

With that, he nearly sprints away from us, and I have to grudgingly admit that Hope’s a manic genius.

“Smooth, sis,” I tell her, sipping my beer. Hope isn’t the slightest bit insulted. In fact, I think she looks mighty proud of herself for scaring Shepherd off.

“Wanna dance and see if we can get into any more trouble?” she offers in a falsely innocent voice. “Show off a little double trouble?”

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