Page 70 of The Pucking Proposal

I grit my teeth, swallowing down my commentary on why she chose to stay an extra day. I’m assuming it’s because her brother was mad as hell last night, probably ranting and raving about what a bitch I am given his grand exit that left me reeling in a messy puddle of existential crisis on my bathroom floor.

“Thank you again for the ticket,” Rayleigh says politely.

“Of course, honey,” Mom replies, smiling warmly. To me, she asks, “What’re our odds today?”

I watch the two teams warming up on the ice, forcing my gaze across the entire arena and not focusing on the one man I don’t want to see. Still, I already noticed that he’s wearing his lucky socks beneath his knee pads, that he tapped the left and right pipes of the goal and knocked his head against it. I hope that’s enough of a pregame ritual for him because we sure as hell didn’t do a penis parade last night. He’ll finally see that it wasn’t the superstition bringing him good luck, but rather, his own skills and talent. Even if he is an asshole, I can objectively admit that he’s a good goalie.

“It’ll be an easy win with how the Moose have been playing. Shep and Voughtman have been working on their pass drills, Pierre’s slap shots have been unstoppable. On defense, Miles and Hanovich have been pushing forward, trusting that Days has the goal protected. So given the win over the Royals last night, it should be a repeat.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Dad look at each other as I finish my completely flat, monotone analysis.

“Your mouth to the players’ hearts and referees’ heads,” Dad murmurs, but he and Mom seem to be having an entirely different conversation, just the two of them. I’m pretty sure Mom mouths the wordDaysto Dad, who shrugs.

The puck drops, and play starts fast and furious. Shepherd battles with the Royals’ center for control, pushing down the ice toward theirgoal. There’s a long stretch of back and forth, but ultimately, Pierre scores, putting the Moose up by one point within a minute of the game starting.

“Moooose!” the crowd cheers.

When play resumes, the Royals’ right winger takes control of the puck. He does some fancy footwork and unexpectedly gets past Miles, instantly aiming for an obvious shot on goal. Dalton should block it easily. Hell, a middle school goalie could block it. But the puck goes sailing past Dalton’s skate, and the red light behind him comes on.

Dalton pops up out of his butterfly, looking behind him like he’s as confused as the crowd is about what happened. But he taps his stick to the ice and resumes his position in front of the goal for the next play.

“Shake it off,” someone yells at him.

But Dalton doesn’t shake it off. Though Shepherd, Voughtman, and Pierre fight hard and succeed at making two more goals, by the time the second period is coming to a close, the Royals have scored four more times on Dalton.

I look over to the scoreboard as the players disappear into the locker room and the Zamboni comes out to resurface the ice.Royals: 5. Moose: 3.

Rayleigh leans over to quietly ask, “How’d things go last night? Dalton seemed pretty intent on finding you.”

I check behind me to make sure Mom and Dad aren’t listening, but they’re looking at something on Dad’s phone. June clues in on the conversation, though, and adds, “Dalton didn’t say a word when he got home last night. Slammed the front door, his bedroom door, and was gone before I got up this morning.”

Oh. Well, I guess he wasn’t telling her about our fight then.

“He found me. Told me Mollie was lying, as if I’d believe that.” I sigh heavily, watching the Zamboni’s hypnotizing laps around the ice. I want to believe him, but that’s probably my own stupid heart lying to me some more.

I expect June and Rayleigh to agree with me, but June snorts. “The barracuda looking for a meal ticket? I’ve never met the woman and I could tell she was lying straight to my face. She called him adollfor fuck’s sake. Has she even met him?” June shakes her head as if the entire thing is absurd. “I mean, I still checked, but come the fuck on!”

Surprised, I say, “But they have”—I cut my eyes to make sure Mom and Dad still aren’t paying attention—“fucked. And really, that wasn’t the issue. I was.”

“You?” Rayleigh says, her brows knit in confusion.

June and Rayleigh lock eyes in front of me, and then they both lean into my shoulders supportively. I sniffle a bit, telling myself it’s because the arena is cold and not because tears are threatening to fall again.

“He told me he loves me,” I whisper. Both women’s jaws drop in surprise, and Rayleigh starts to smile until I add, “And then he said he deserves better than me.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” June growls.

I shake my head, swiping at the tears that have begun slowly trailing down my cheeks. “He’s right.”

I did a lot of thinking last night. It was hard because my brain was fuzzy with wine, but also because self-analyzing is inherently difficult to do.

I thought about Buchanan, my first lesson in relationships, and about the guys I’ve dated since then, all of whom I kept at a distance by telling them my priority was my career, which was true but also not why I didn’t want anything serious with them. I thought about my mom and dad, and how they love each other. I thought about my sister, who took a huge risk on her husband, changing her whole life for him, and how they’re ridiculously, disgustingly happy together.

I told Dalton that I don’t date athletes, dismissing him as a real possibility from the beginning. All because a guy I dated years ago was too weak to tell me that he’d outgrown our romance and he wanted to live freely, including seeing other people.

I let that hurt, pain, and betrayal fester inside me and never took the time to scoop out the infection it left. It’s affected every relationship, or potential relationship, I’ve had since then.

It never mattered until Dalton. And now I’ve messed up something much more special than anything I’ve ever known.

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