Page 41 of Pucking the Grump

Flo: I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t mean it. I’m just jealous. The man is clearly in love, the deepest, sweetest, most wonderful kind of love. And I’m guessing you are, too, if he’s looking at you like that, and you’re not running the other way, as fast as your fabulously toned legs can carry you.

Remy: I think so. And I think it’s too late to run. Even if I wanted to.

Flo: Then don’t run, Red. Stay and love him and be happy. It’s not rocket science, girl.

Remy: But what if it is? For me, at least? I’ve never done this. I’ve never tried to stay and stick or be anyone’s “other half.” What if I suck at it? What if I can't give him what he needs? What if I break both our hearts, or my dad finds out before Stone retires and breaks his face? Or MY face? Or both our faces, and we have to have reconstructive surgery so extensive that we won’t recognize each other when we get out of the hospital, and we spend the rest of our lives scouring the globe for our long-lost love, tragic and alone, with terrible nose jobs?

Flo: Okay drama queen, take some deep breaths while I make you a list to remind who the fuck you are:

ONE: You are Remy fucking Lauder, a women’s hockey legend who probably could have played for the NHL if the patriarchy weren’t a pouty little bitch and let everyone shine.

TWO: You deserve to have a man look at you like you hung the moon because you are one seriously beautiful and epic specimen. And beneath that hard ass exterior, you’re as kind as they come, girl. Any human being would be lucky to call you his or hers.

THREE: Your dad needs therapy, and his reaction shouldn’t be taken into consideration until that happens. And probably not even then. Your love life is none of his fucking business. Sorry if that seems harsh, but someone has to say it, Remy. He’s already loomed way too large over your life, baby girl. It’s time to fly the nest and put that “Daddy” voice in your head to bed once and for all.

Remy: I appreciate that, Flo, but there’s no way I could have played for the NHL. I’m tough, but not tough enough to absorb hits from men with fifty pounds of pure muscle on me on a regular basis. No amount of expert stick handling can compensate for the fact that I’m a woman with a woman’s density and bone structure.

Flo: I don’t know. I think stick handling can take a girl a long way…

I bet Stone thinks so, too. Also, I find it very telling that you only responded to THAT part of my list. Can’t spell avoidant attachment without Daddy issues, though, I guess.

Remy: I was getting around to responding to the rest! And I know, Flo. I know my dad is a lot. And yeah, he’s probably helped fuck me up a little, but he didn’t mean to, and he’s the only family I have left. But you’re also right about the rest of it. What he thinks doesn’t matter. Stone is the one who matters.

Flo: And you, Remy. You matter.

Remy: I know, but I’m not worried about me. I know Stone won’t let me down. He’s too good.

Flo: So are you. That man was glowing through our entire lesson. Every time he got to touch you, every time you touched him or teased him or made him laugh, it was obvious he felt like the luckiest man in the world. You make him happy, girl. The only question is, does he do the same for you?

Remy: He does. Probably happier than I’ve ever been. I caught myself humming while going over contracts this morning, and I hate contracts.

Flo: And he supports your goals?

Remy: He does. He celebrates my wins like they’re his wins, and he always has.

Flo: And we already know he has a magnificent ass. If the dicking down is even half as magnificent, he’s a keeper, and you should put a ring on it, Toot Sweet.

Remy: The dicking down is even MORE magnificent.

Flo: NO!

Remy: Yes. The dicking down is flat out life-changing, in fact. Multiple O’s every time and four times on Sundays.

Flo: You wretched little bitch. I am SO JEALOUS. But also, so happy for you. Make it happen. Tell him how you feel. Reach for the stars. Sparkle fingers, etc. And when you’re done pouring out your heart, text me to tell me everything.

Now! My turn to be needy. I’m going to send you pictures of three couches. I need you to rank them from most hideous to least. I’m in urgent need of a new one and can’t wait for the company that handcrafted my old couch from angel hair and artisan-ally harvested elm limbs or whatever the hell they use that takes so damned long.

Remy: Gotcha. Lay them on me. And Flo? Thanks for the straight talk. I appreciate it.

Flo: The talk was real, doll, not straight. I couldn’t talk straight if I tried. Which I’m about to prove when you realize every couch we’re considering is pink.

Remy: Wow. So pink. The bubblegum of it all. It burns my eyes a little.

Flo: I know, but it’s going to look so good against my teal accent wall. I’m telling you. No other color will do.

I vote for the least Barbie Dream House-esque couch, thank Flo again, then force my focus back to work for the rest of the day.

But excitement simmers just below the surface, making the hours crawl by.

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