Page 8 of Puck it Off

"Maggie, at least let us drive you home—it's late."

As if I would take Reece up on that offer now. "I am home. I live above the studio." In a tiny, cramped studio apartment. But they don't need to know how small it is. "But don't worry, I didn't steal any of your precious sperm, so I won't be raising your child in my apartment."

The hurt look on their faces confuses me. They're the ones who wanted a one-and-done booty call, but now they look like I've kicked their favorite puppy. I feel myself caving—wanting to console them, but in the end, I let them walk past me and out of my life.

I slam the door with all the anger built up inside me, making sure to lock it before I escape to the scene of the crime, as I plan to never speak of it again, to clean up any evidence of what happened here tonight, when I notice a black garbage bag that wasn't there earlier and realize it's the one Owen was taking with him.

Did he accidentally forget it? Or is he saying he trusts me with his sperm?

I spend the next thirty minutes scrolling through my phone looking up how long sperm lasts outside the body because if I can't be the mother of their children, I can at least respect their wishes and dispose of their sperm properly so no one else can use it without their consent.

seven

Owen

"Whatthehellwasthat all about?" Zander curses, kicking an empty metal trash can in his anger. "I thought she would be ours, like Bowen, Kyson, and River have Aubree. And like those damn Minnesota Norse, all have."

Zander's the youngest out of the three of us at twenty-five. At Twenty-eight, Reece and I have a little more experience with women than he does. "Don't worry. She'll be ours. Something must have spooked her." I glance at Reece for confirmation only to be met with a shrug. "Let's give her some time to adjust to a relationship with the three of us," I add when I see Reece isn't going to help.

After what happened in Maggie's studio tonight, there's no going back. She's the missing piece of our lives we didn't realize was missing.

I've never believed in soul mates or the saying,she's the other half of me.It's like we're all a quarter part of a relationship—a relationship that revolves around Maggie May.

Growing up with only my mom, we didn't have much. But what we did have was an apartment not much bigger than the size of Maggie's by the look of it filled with singing and dancing to all the greatest classic rock songs.

Maggie May by Rod Stewart, is still one of my mom's favorites. It seems like she was the older woman in the relationship with the father I never knew. When he found out she was pregnant with me, he ran from the role of a father and a husband, leaving her a single, unwed mother, who worked hard so her son could someday play in the pros.

I thank God every day I was able to make that dream come true, so now she no longer has to work two and three jobs at a time. Instead, she has a house of her own and a husband who loves her. I can't wait for her to meet our Maggie May.

But first we have to convince Maggie she's ours.

We have a game tomorrow night against the Chicago Kraken. It's a make-up game, so it's only one-and-done, not a series where there's the potential to lose a game and still be okay. After that, we can take all the time we need to court Maggie properly.

"It will be okay. You saw how she reacted to us. She just needs a little time to figure out her feelings." I say this more to convince myself than to convince them.

What if I'm wrong and Maggie never wants a relationship with us?

I'm getting too old for the random puck bunny. I want something real, and I want it with Maggie and my two best friends.

We sit in silence on one of the sidewalk benches, watching her studio, looking for any sign of her. After an hour, the studio lights shut off, replaced by the soft glow of a light coming from Maggie's apartment above her yoga studio.

It's hard to tell how big the apartment is from this angle, but that doesn't matter. Maggie deserves a big house—big enough for her to have a home yoga studio and plenty of bedrooms for all our children.

When I left the garbage bag with her that contained our used condoms, it was a sign of trust. But a small sick part of me was turned on at the thought of her impregnating herself with our sperm. I imagine her growing round with our child—the first of many since we all want a big family.

It isn't until the soft light in her apartment turns off that we pull ourselves away from Maggie and return to our respective homes, each of us dreaming of a future with Maggie May.

eight

Reece

Sittinginthelockerroom, I run through my pre-game ritual, I can't help but think about Maggie. Having her sit in the wives' and girlfriends' section wearing one of our jerseys would be a dream come true.

Sex, for me, has always been a way to relieve stress—nothing permanent—no connection. I'm not even sure I know the last names of half my past lovers. There was never a reason to know or care. We both got what we wanted.

But something about Maggie has me wanting more—a deeper connection. She's fun and sweet—or was until something set her off. I rack my brain, trying to figure out what it might have been, but nothing stands out. She was already mad when Owen was retrieving our used condoms, so that wasn't it.

I'm not used to women being mad at me. I'm the golden child. I come from a long line of famous hockey players. Combine that with a hotel heiress mother, and I've never wanted for anything—until now.

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