Page 59 of Slap Shot Daddies

My cheeks flush with heat, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to dispel the images.

Yeah. I'm definitely heading straight to hell.

The sermon finally concludes, the soft murmur of "amen" rippling through the crowd. I join the flow of people moving toward the banquet hall for the potluck.

The banquet hall smells just as I remember, a blend of casseroles, freshly baked dinner rolls, and the distinct scent associated with gatherings of elderly people.

There's a sweet undertone in the air too, likely the inviting aroma of peach cobbler wafting from the dessert table.

Long folding tables span the room, dressed in white plastic tablecloths, each one adorned with an array of covered dishes lovingly prepared and brought in by different families.

The room buzzes with activity, people bustling about, their voices merging into a lively din as they heap their plates with a variety of homemade delicacies.

It’s overwhelming.

I barely make it two steps inside before I’m engulfed in a wave of eager faces, each person clamoring for attention, wanting to know if I’ve finally decided to move back home.

“No,” I reply, my voice tinged with the weariness of repeating it for what feels like the hundredth time. “I love Minneapolis.”

Beside me, I can almost hear my mom's disappointment as it manifests in a subtle deflation.

I haven’t even managed to pick up a plate when she suddenly clutches my arm, her nails pressing into my skin just enough to make me wince slightly.

“Oh, sweetheart, I have to introduce you to someone,” she insists, her tone far too eager.

I already anticipate what's coming and steel myself as she pulls me toward a lanky figure standing awkwardly by the dessert table.

“This is Peter,” my mom announces with forced enthusiasm, practically thrusting me in his direction. “He’s such a nice young man, just moved back to town.”

Peter stands there with noodle-like arms, his head already showing signs of balding, and his voice emerges as a timid whisper.

He’s the complete antithesis of the three men in Minneapolis who have thoroughly set my standards sky-high.

I attempt to focus, but my interest barely rises to the level of polite acknowledgment. Fortunately, Peter seems to sense my disinterest, and after a few strained moments, he excuses himself and drifts away.

My mom sighs, a sound laden with unmet expectations.

I groan inwardly, putting my phone back on vibrate.

This is going to be a long afternoon.

I jab my fork into the casserole on my plate, nodding absentmindedly to whatever conversation swirls around me, though the words barely register.

My phone buzzes again in my lap, and I steal a quick glance at the screen, trying to appear nonchalant.

I see one of the guys has named our group chat.Kenzie’s Entourage.I giggle inside.

I open the thread, and a flush of heat rushes to my cheeks, turning them crimson.

Reggie>> Missin’ ye, lass. Church as fun as ye remember?

Braden>> More importantly, what are you wearing?

Ambrose>> I bet you’re squirming in those pews thinking about us.

And then, it gets worse.

The next few messages aren’t words. They're images.

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