Page 16 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

I am currently under my baby blue comforter, the light from my phone illuminating my face as I look through all the headlines of the “Golden Boy of Hockey, Christopher Jackson.” There is one pic of him captionedTitian Uncle At Work,in which Christopher Jackson is at the beach with the rest of his teammates, but he is off to the side holding a baby close to his bare chest, the thick black lines of tattoos along his chest bleed into color over his biceps. There are other small children playing around him, while others have their hands deep in the sand, making sandcastles. The journalist reports that Uncle Chris, as the kids call him, is known for watching the kids during Team Days to give his hockey mates and their wives a break.

I roll my eyes. Of course, he’s perfect in the media, of course, he looks like the perfect dad, and of course, I can’t stop scrolling about him because here is another article about Christopher going to prom with a bullied senior. Oh, and here is another about him donating a hundred thousand dollars to addiction services in his hometown of Michigan.

I am gripping my phone so tight that my knuckles are white, and I hear the creak of my phone. The tears are creeping along my waterline again, and I can’t fucking breathe without my chest shaking with every exhale.

A weight presses down on my chest, and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. How could I have allowed myself to succumb to the advances of Coach Christopher Jackson right there in the middle of the arena where anyone could see us? He’s fifteen years my senior and literally everyone’s favorite guy, so there’s no bad words written about him anywhere. He stops to pet puppies and donates his winning pucks to a child in the crowd every game.

The beloved golden retriever of the NHL was praised for his loyalty and skill on the ice. And in contrast, I was known as the ice princess - cool, calculated, and unapproachable. My demeanor on the ice matched my reputation, with every move precise and graceful like a swan. I am pretty to look at, sure, but so media-trained, I look like a robot. Smile. Wave. Congratulate. Be humble. And polite, but I’m not beloved. I am just an athletic anomaly who is able to bend and twist their body in ways people are not supposed to, which makes me magnificent, or at least I used to be.

A tear slides down my cheek, feeling cool against my hot skin. The door to my shared dorm room creaks open, followed by a frustrated sigh and the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor. I am hoping that myroommate, Marissa, will change her clothes or pick up some books for class and leave me to spiral down. But then I hear her running towards me, and suddenly, she’s on top of me, her body crashing into mine.

“No,” I groan, her fingers running in quick taps across my body as she tries to pry the comforter I have cocooned myself in.

“You have been like this for three days; get up!” Marissa’s voice is firm as she pinches the comforter and pushes my body onto my mattress, making me hiss when the cold air slithers under my blanket.

“Marissa!” I yell. pulling the comforter taunt against my skin and pushing my face into my damp pillow. “Stop.”

“I’ll stop when you leave your wallow hole and tell me what’s wrong.” Marissa flips me onto my back while her thighs clench around my waist.

She rips the blanket from over my face, and I bare my teeth, hissing as the cold air drills into my damp cheeks and narrowed eyes. Marissa shines her bright white teeth at me, a smug look on her face. She leans in closer, her soft, brown skin glowing under the dim light of the room, her black pixie cut framing her face in sharp, perfect angles. Her nose ring glints as she looks me over with a concerned eye, unwavering in her mission.

“You’ve been crying,” Marissa says as a statement, her eyes narrowed on my cheeks and my eyes avoiding hers.

“I can cry,” I whisper.

Marissa leans back, and I pull myself up to lean back on my elbows. She pushes a strand of hair stuck to my cheek behind my ear. Her bottom lip protrudes out further, and her eyes search my face. “What’s wrong, Josie?”

Her fingertips linger on my lobes, and I flinch away from the comfort; I don’t want her kindness. I don’t deserve it. I wish I did. I turn my head and look off at the pink LED lights shining behind her head. “I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me? I’m your best friend.” Marissa sucks her teeth.

I avoid her eyes, but I can feel her gaze boring into my head, willing me to look at her. Marissa is one of my only weaknesses; the only person I believe loves me for me outside of Mom, better than Mom sometimes. She is the only person who ever bothered to know me asJosie Richards, not the perfect, polished figure skater everyone else sees—the future Olympian everyone is banking on. With her, I can almost forget that I’m expected to always be flawless. This thought only makes me hate Christopher more because he doesn’t expect me to be perfect. I just am, at least to him.

“Get off me,” I grumble, shifting my hips pinned by her thighs.

Her thighs lock around my waist with surprising strength, her small, athletic frame pinning me down as her fingers wiggle dangerously close to my ribs. Her eyes shine with excitement, and she whispers with narrowed eyes. “Talk, or get tickled.”

“Marissa, don’t you dare!” I warn through a strangled voice while twisting even harder, desperate to break free before the tickling begins. Being tickled is one of my least favorite things. Did you know that laughter and jerking movements are actually a fear response? It’s your body reacting to the threat of pain and danger.

“Oh, it’s happening,” she says, her tone light and teasing. “You’re not getting out of this.”

Her fingers dive under the warm blanket, playfully attacking my sides, and I regret the day I told her I trusted her more than anything. The sensation of tickles spread through my body like wildfire, causing laughter to bubble up uncontrollably and mingle with the lingering tears still wet on my cheeks.

“Stop! Marissa!” I gasp, struggling to catch my breath, wriggling under her grip.

“Tell me what’s going on, and maybe I’ll show some mercy,” she teases, her fingers not letting up.

“Privacy! Privacy!” I scream between deep gasps of breaths, but Marissa just clicks her tongue and shakes her head no. “Okay, okay! I’ll talk! Just—stop!”

Marissa sharply pushes out an annoyed sound, leaning back on the heels of her feet. “Finally, I thought I was going to have to bring out the big guns.”

The big guns were invoking the silent treatment, which lasted two weeks and was the only way she found out that Dylan had slapped me after losing a big competition in the second semester of Freshman year. It wasn’t the first time, but his ring chipped my tooth, and it was the first time I had tasted my own blood. That day, I felt like something broke within me, and when I retreated into myself, Marissa pulled me out even when I fought her to stay in my cocoon.

“I can’t tell you who...” I start.

“Is it Dylan?!” She leans forward, her eyes hardening into a wide gaze, but I bite my inner cheek and shake my head no. “Good, because I will kill him.”

I giggle. “I believe you.”

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