Page 49 of The Pucking Proposal

Dad shrugs dismissively. “Sometimes guys are friends and something happens to make them enemies. Might be something small, might be something huge, but it’s never the same after.”

“Wait—” I say, startled at Dad’s revelation. “Wilson and Jenkins were friends? When? I’ve looked through their whole history and didn’t see anything like that.”

Eyes never leaving the screen where Shepherd has the puck and is going hard and fast toward the Rockets’ goal, he murmurs, “High school, I think. Maybe a little before.”

Shep fights for an open shot or pass, but gets blocked by the Rockets’ left defenseman, who drops his shoulder and slams into Shep’s chest. We hold our breaths to see if it’ll be the start of a fight, but Voughtman receives the pass, shoots wide, and play continues on.

“You mean those grown-ass men, who are in charge of a whole team, are playing some grudge match about who got the biggest piece of cake at lunch forty years ago? Using their players like marbles on the playground?” I accuse.

Dad chuckles. “Wars have been fought for less.”

I shake my head, in awe at the complete and utter stupidity of men. “As long as nobody gets hurt for their dick-measuring contest, I guess it’s all good,” I huff sarcastically.

Mom’s head jerks my way, and I grin around the whole chip I’m shoving into my mouth. She doesn’t like it when I use crude language, but she gave up on trying to control that a long time ago. She learned that I’ll listen to her, smile like I agree, and then do whatever the fuck I want, and realistically, I don’t speak nearly as bad as Shepherd does, and Mom wouldn’t dream of trying to wash his mouth out with soap since he’s a solid foot taller than her and she couldn’t reach his mouth unless he let her.

Besides, game talk is a different beast.

We watch the game together, yelling at the screen as if the players can hear us coaching them, supporting them, or telling themwhat dumbasses they are. And before long, the hard-fought game is over.

Moose: 3. Rockets: 2.

We won. But it was close. Too close. Dalton was solid for the first two periods, but the Rockets were relentless, and the third period was too tight for my own taste.

Almost as soon as the game’s over, the metro sports show starts, starring none other than Steve Milligan. I roll my eyes at his annoying, smarmy face, but listen to his analysis of the game regardless. Admittedly, it’s mostly so I can disagree with him, but I’m professional enough to admit that there are things I could learn from the man with decades of experience on me. Even if he’s a total asshole.

“And in minor league news, the Moose barely squeaked by the Rockets’ defenses, winning their doubleheader matchup—”

I throw a chip at the screen, knowing it won’t make it across the room. “Squeaked by, my ass,” I snort.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, getting up to pick up my mess.

I stand, taking the chip from her and putting it on my napkin. “You don’t have to clean up after me, Mom. I’ve got it. That guy irritates me.” I glare at the television, where Milligan is talking favorably about Shepherd at least, but he’s still making it seem like they won accidentally, not because they played their asses off.

“Steve Milligan?” Mom questions, looking at the screen. “Really? I think he’s handsome.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Dad grumbles.

I sigh. “If you two are gonna pick a fight so you can have makeup sex, I’m gonna go.”

Mom laughs, sitting back in her chair. “You don’t have to go anywhere, honey—”

“Yet,” Dad interrupts her, teasing, “It’s still early. But don’t hang outtoolong.”

Mom swats the air in the general vicinity of Dad’s hand. “Jim, hush. Don’t run her off. Joy, what’s wrong with Steve Milligan?”

She truly wants to listen to me, but Mom and Dad are also making flirty eyes at each other like I’m not right here, able to see them plain as day, or am too stupid to know what sexy eyes are.

My parents love each other. A lot. They alsoloveeach other. Also, a lot.

All three of us kids have stories of walking into the kitchen and finding them kissing at the sink, or Dad smacking Mom’s ass when he thought we couldn’t see, or talking in poorly disguised code about “staying in” all weekend.

It’s cute, adorable, and gross, all at the same time. Mostly, it sets the bar really high because that’s what I want. What we all want. So far, Hope’s the only one who’s found it.

Maybe not the only one.

“Milligan’s a misogynistic blowhard who wouldn’t know hard work, talent, or athleticism if it bit him on the ass,” I explain, lumping quite a few issues together but unable or maybe unwilling to give Mom the college-level length the subject deserves. “He shits on players who are doing their absolute best just for viewership and hasn’t done his own analysis in forever. That’s for the peasants to spoon-feed him. He’s barely a fan at this point, much less an expert.”

“Well damn, girl, tell us how you really feel,” Dad says, barking out a surprised laugh.

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