Page 1 of Stick Move

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NOAH

Yeah, okay, the only person I can blame for the excruciating pain I’m currently experiencing is…me.

That’s right.

The fact that I’m writhing on the ground, cupping my aching balls because they’re halfway to my throat is no one’s fault but my own.

I certainly can’t blame the girl laughing hysterically as she watches me gasp in discomfort. Hell, she has no idea that the connection between her toe and my nutsack has temporarily debilitated me. And I can’t blame the woman who called my name, causing me to turn at the exact wrong moment, either.

Maybe I can blame her.

If I hadn’t shifted my stance while pushing my daughter on the swing, her foot never would have connected with my balls and I wouldn’t be rolling on the ground, entertaining all the kids, as well as a few adults, at the neighborhood playground.

But I won’t blame the woman who called my name and is now waving wildly as she comes my way. Being raised by two hard working parents, I was taught at a very young age to own up to my mistakes and take responsibility. Which is why I’m a single guy, raising a four-year-old girl alone.

Wait, I don’t think that came out right. What I’m trying to say is Camryn isn’t—never was—a mistake. She might not have been planned, and her puck bunny mother ran off weeks after Camryn was born, but raising her and loving her was the best decision I’ve ever made, and the truth is, the kick to the nuts was my fault, because I’ve been distracted lately.

“Noah,” Julie, who I’ve known since our kindergarten days, calls out as she gets closer, pulling me from my thoughts as the pain between my legs somewhat eases.

“Becky,” Camryn shrieks and kicks her legs, wanting off the swing as Julie and her little girl Becky reach us.

Julie smooths her hand over her hair and crinkles her nose as she looks down at me. “Are you okay?”

I let go of my balls. “Peachy,” I say, calling on one of my mom’s favorite phrases, but thinking of my mom once again brings pain to my heart. She’s far too young for the diagnosis she just received.

Julie laughs at my response. “I didn’t know we’d be seeing you here today. What a lovely surprise.”

I’m not sure why she’s surprised. It’s Sunday, and every Sunday when I’m not practicing, playing, or with my team at an away game, I take Camryn to the park. Since it’s three weeks until the pre-season, anyone who knows me, knows this is where I’d be today.

“I’m here,” I say for lack of anything else and push to my feet. “It’s nice to see you too, Julie.” I turn to her little girl. “Becky, did you see the geese?” I point to the nasty Canadian geese swimming in the pond like they own it. I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice, but their damn geese are just plain mean.

Becky nods at me as she shades the sun from her eyes. “I want to play with Camryn.”

I reach for my daughter to slow her down, and after I help her off the swing, she grabs Becky’s hand and jumps up and down.

“Daddy, can we go play in the castle?”

“Yeah, sure. Just stay away from the pond.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

I give her a smile, not really wanting her to go because now I’m stuck with Julie, who is constantly urging me to bring Camryn to her place for a children’s play date. From the way she’s always touching me, I suspect she might be looking for an adult date as well, and I’m just not going there.

For the record, that’s not ego speaking. I don’t have much of one, or any at all, to be honest. I might be tall, dark, and athletic, but I fall short of society’s physical standards. The acne on my face in my teenage years, now deep, ugly scars, have not only disqualified me from becoming anyone’s Prince Charming, it caused me years of grief in high school.

Crater Skater.

Yeah, that’s the name the popular rich kids called me. Teenagers are so damn nice, aren’t they? It terrifies me to think what Camryn’s teenage years will be like. If I could put her in bubble wrap I would. But thinking of her growing up reminds me why I was distracted earlier. I need to find a new caregiver for her. My mother took kids into her home for years, Camryn included, but after her diagnosis, I can’t ask more of her. My chest constricts as a new kind of sadness and desperation takes hold.

Julie weaves her arm through mine as I watch Camryn run off to play. I have no hard feelings toward Camryn’s mother—even though abandoning her daughter was a dick move—but I don’t hold grudges. They don’t do anyone any good, least of all for my daughter. I do, however, worry I’m failing her by not having a mother in her life. My own mother did what she could, but it’s not the same, and I’m not going to run out and marry the first person who shows interest. Tons of women show interest, but again, that’s not my ego speaking.

It's very clear to me that the women who follow hockey players around, and those here at the park, only fall all over me because I’m Noah Jones, center for the Boston Bucks. What is it my ex-girlfriend bunny said she read on the bathroom wall once? Oh yeah. I remember now. For a bucking good time, call Noah Jones. Ridiculous. But it does cement what I know. What I’ve always known. Women want crater skater for a good time, and nothing more. Hell, Julie here barely spared me a glance in our younger years and now, after her divorce, she’s all over me.

“We should nail down a play date.”

My gaze slides to the woman holding my arm as she emphasizes the words nail down, and her eyes gleam with interest as she blinks heavily coated eyelashes at me. “In two weeks, I’ll be going non-stop with the team,” I remind her.

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