Page 25 of Exes and Oh Hell No

She barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so dramatic, puck boy. Can’t handle a little truth, huh? The big city has gone and made you soft.”

I exhale sharply, annoyed by the conversation.

But she keeps going. “You still love her, Ford. You never got over her.”

Her words are a punch to the gut.

My chest locks up, breath sawing in and out.

“This is it. The moment of truth. Make it count.”

Make it count.

Her gaze softens, a faraway look in her eyes. “Isn’t that what Pap would say if he were here?”

Grief rises fast, wrapping around my ribs like barbed wire.

I picture Pap on the frozen lake behind this house, teaching me how to skate.

His weathered fingers handing me my first hockey stick.

His name is on the rink where I played in high school.

Hockey and Pap… they’re synonymous to me.

Gram gives me a watery smile. “Shoot your shot, center boy.”

Shoot your shot. Pap’s favorite saying.

Her fingers still. “A biscuit in the basket.”

I grin, my throat tight.

She’s channeling him now.

Giving me his words, his wisdom.

“Light the lamp,” I murmur.

She nods, her smile widening. “You’re making me miss my show, boy.” She winks. “Go on and sneak around the lake to Harper’s house like you used to.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “So you knew?”

“I always knew. So did Pap. But we kept quiet.” She levels me with a look. “You’re unstoppable when you want something.”

I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna go get a shower.”

She squeezes my cheeks. “Go rub one off. I’ll be down here, watching my show.”

Who the hell taught her the expression “rub one off?”

“Can the damn floor swallow me now?” I pull back, my brows drawn in annoyance as I shake my head. But there’s a smile on my face. “Thanks, Gram.”

“Anytime, lucky seventeen.”

I walk away, feeling Pap’s ghostly presence permeating the house.

My jersey number is 17, which is also the day I was born.

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