Page 64 of The Pucking Proposal

Honestly, it’s good to hear that even his best friends and teammates see a difference in his behavior, both on and off the ice, because I see it too. He’s happier, lighter, and not as much of an asshole as a first-instinct reaction.

But mostly, I’m thrilled he’s having such a great season.

Even with how well things are going, I think he’s unexpectedly made peace with never getting a call from the majors, despite spending a lifetime chasing an NHL contract, and is satisfied with staying with the Moose until he retires. Without that looming goal, he’s refocused on what he can do to make this season his best—sticking to his Fritzi-prescribed training without complaint, helping mentor DeBoer, and basically playing every game as if it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.

He says it’s me. I say it was in him all along.

And ironically, after the Moose’s long run of winning games and Dalton’s stretch of complete shutouts, there is talk about him getting that call up to the big leagues.

“Who do you think is gonna try to get a piece of him first?” June asks no one in particular as she peers at her brother, who’s stepped onto a chair to make the toast the crowd has requested.

June flew in yesterday to watch Dalton’s game, and now she’s joining me, Rayleigh, and a host of other fans to celebrate tonight’s victory. Dalton wanted the three of us to do dinner last night to introduce me to June, who I’ve heard so much about, but I’d told him to enjoy the time with his sister and maybe keep us on mute for a little longer so we don’t screw anything up when it’s all going so well—us, the games, and even him and Shepherd.

But Dalton’s losing patience with me.

He hides it well, and he’s not putting any real pressure on me, but we’ve spent months sneaking around, hiding what we are, and lying to people. He thinks the longer we keep it from Shepherd, the worse the fallout will be, and it’s not that I think he’s wrong. In fact, I worry he’s absolutely correct. But I don’t want to mess up the best season Dalton’s ever had by stirring up stupid shit with my brother. If we can let it ride until the end of the season and deal with it then, I think it’ll be better for us all. In a way, I’m protecting Dalton and his dream. It just doesn’t always feel like it, to him especially.

To answer June’s question, I deadpan, “Probably the floor. He’s got a lotta faith in that chair he’s standing on.” She laughs at the dig at heroversize brother and the seen-better-days wood chair wobbling beneath him. “Realistically, the Otters will probably call dibs since the Moose farm players for them, but there’s always a chance it could be another team. All depends on who needs a goalie, and when.”

A hot blade stabs into my heart at the idea of Dalton finally getting that call, but it being for a team thousands of miles away. While I would never stop him from going, long distance would be hard. I’ve seen it time and time again with other players and know what ultimately ends up happening 99.9 percent of the time.

“Maybe if Dalton stays local, Shepherd will get called up too,” June suggests hopefully. “That way they could stay together.”

She glances across the room to where my brother, Mom, and Dad are chatting with Voughtman, Pierre, and DeBoer. If I had to guess, Dad’s probably hyping them all up for game two tomorrow and Shepherd’s saying not to worry because they’ve got it in the bag.

June and I met only an hour ago, but we’ve developed a fast bond from being the younger sisters of brothers whose first, last, and only loves were always hockey, telling stories about getting dragged to practices and games as kids, and sharing our amazement that they still live in the pressure cooker of that world. While I coped by also becoming hockey obsessed, June dealt with it quite differently. She lives her life in a sterile laboratory as a cosmetic chemist formulator and spends zero time with hockey other than cheering on her brother, mostly from afar and occasionally in person when she’s able to get away. Apparently, no one in her life cares that she has a professional athlete sibling. I wish I could relate to that, but here in Maple Creek, I’m often the gateway to the great Shepherd Barlowe.

“That’d be awesome,” I admit. My brother’s been having a good season, too, but nothing like Dalton, and I say that objectively as a journalist and stats analyzer. “But not likely. The Otters’ center is top tier, and they have alternates on the bench already.”

June frowns sympathetically, understanding exactly what that means for Shepherd’s chances with our local NHL team. Turning to Rayleigh, she asks, “Who’re you dating again?”

“Oh! I’m not. I’m here because of Joy,” Rayleigh says quickly. “She keeps trying to get me hooked into hockey, but mostly I’m hooked into the friend group. When they start talking offensive this and defensive that, I smile and nod.” She demonstrates, her eyes going vacant and her smile vapid as she lifts and lowers her chin robotically.

“Sorry,” June tells her, reaching for her hand on the table. “I thought all the girls here were paired up with one of the players, or wanted to be. Kinda always been like that.” June scans the crowd with an easy smile, seemingly not worried at all about who might be dating her brother even though there are fans and Moosettes surrounding them, and Shepherd currently has Dalton in a headlock, acting like he’s pushing his head down in a blowjob move that’d get most guys thrown up on by any reasonable gag reflex.

Meanwhile, Rayleigh is eyeing me with interest, with one eyebrow arched so high that it’s disappeared behind her newly cut bangs. She doesn’tknowDalton and I are dating, but I’m sure she strongly suspects it after our Pilates session ages ago and my complete lack of discussion on my dating life ever since. Thankfully, she hasn’t asked questions. Until now with that eyebrow.

“Excuse me, gonna hit the ladies’ room,” I tell Rayleigh and June, making my escape from her silent interrogation.

“Oh, I’ll go too,” June says, joining me.

We weave through the crowd, wait our turn for a stall, and finally, I lock the door behind me to take care of business.

A few moments later, I hear a voice say, “You’re Dalton’s sister, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi, I’m June.”

I peer through the crack in the stall door and see a woman talking to June while they wait their turn.

“It’s so great to finally meet you,” she gushes. “I’m Mollie.” She says her name like it should mean something, as if it has inherent weight or importance, and I rack my brain trying to find something, anything, about this woman in my mental file cabinet, but come up empty.

She’s pretty, though. Mollie has dark hair that brushes below her breasts in perfect curls, her eyes are rimmed in black liner and glamorously long lashes, and she’s wearing a Moose jersey that’s been cut off to a belly button–skimming length. I notice the number on the jersey is Dalton’s and have an instant, soul-deep hate for her, but I remind myself that I overreacted last time, so I can chill. For a second at least.

“Nice to meet you, Mollie. Do you know Dalton or are you a fan?” June smiles warmly and points at her jersey.

Mollie laughs, the sound tinkling and fake. “More like both. Did he really not mention me? He’s such a doll.”

The second of not overreacting is over because something in her tone sends a cold shiver of dread down my spine. I catch my breath, not daring to move even though I’m finished, have my jeans buttoned, and only need to flush. But I want to hear every bit of this. I squint to focus on the thin crack so I can see it all too.

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