Page 64 of Slap Shot Daddies

Kenzie wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, her breathing shallow and uneven, as if each inhale is a struggle against an invisible weight.

She looks so embarrassed, her eyes darting around like a cornered animal, and I swear she’s about to bolt any second.

“I-I’ll clean it! Oh, fuck, I’m such an idiot! I’ve been feeling horrible all day,” she stammers, her voice a shaky whisper.

I reach out gently, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension coiled beneath her skin. “Stop. You’re sick. It’s no big deal,” I say softly, hoping to ease her frantic mind.

She shakes her head, her voice tight and strained. “No, I…I need to get home. I’m…” Her words trail off, a torn look across her small face.

“You sure?” I offer, my voice laced with concern. “I can take you. Or you can crash at our place. We’ll look after you.” My offer hangs in the air, heavy with sincerity.

Her eyes flick up to mine, and for a fleeting moment, I see something raw and unguarded there, vulnerability.

She considers it, just for a heartbeat, but then shakes her head again, more firmly this time, her resolve hardening.

“No, Braden. I just need to get home. I’ll text you later, okay?”

I nod, though the thought of her being alone when she’s feeling like this gnaws at me. “All right. But if you need anything, anything, you call me. Or Reggie. Or Ambrose. Got it?”

Her lips twitch into a weak smile, like the sun struggling to break through a clouded sky. “Got it.”

She turns and hurries out, her hand pressed to her stomach, each step a testament to her determination.

I stand there, feeling my own stomach churn at the acrid scent of puke clinging to me.

I watch her go, my chest tight and uneasy. I wave over the janitor to clean up this mess. He hands me one of his rags before he starts his work and I wipe myself off as best I can.

I jog across the sprawling parking lot, clutching my balled-up hoodie like it's a bundle of toxic waste.

Reggie sits idling in the driver's seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, while Ambrose lounges in the passenger seat, eyes glued to the glowing screen of his phone, scrolling absentmindedly.

I yank the car door open, and as I slide into the backseat, the acrid stench of puke clings stubbornly to me like an unwelcome shadow.

Reggie wrinkles his nose immediately, his face contorting in a mixture of surprise and disgust. “Bloody hell, mate. What happened to you?” he asks, his voice tinged with incredulity.

Ambrose doesn’t even bother to look up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is this what you smell like after every practice before you shower?” he quips, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I groan, tossing the offending hoodie into a plastic bag I find crumpled in the backseat. “Kenzie threw up on me,” I explain.

Both heads snap toward me, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” Reggie exclaims, his eyes widening in alarm.

“Is she all right?” Ambrose asks, his voice dropping to a tone of panicked concern.

I nod, though the tight knot twisting in my stomach says otherwise. “She said she’s fine. Just needed to get home. I offered to take her or bring her back to ours, but she insisted,” I reply.

I begin to peel the shirt off of me, rolling it into a ball and stuffing it down to my feet.

Reggie exhales a heavy sigh, shaking his head slowly. “Poorlass,” he mutters, sympathy etched across his features.

Ambrose’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with worry. “I don’t like her being alone when she’s sick,” he admits, his voice firm.

“Me neither,” I confess, the tension in my voice mirroring the tension in the car.

We fall into a shared silence as Reggie maneuvers the vehicle out of the parking lot.

The air inside is thick with the lingering smell of puke and the pungent odor of exhaust, but none of us mention it.

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