Page 7 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Thankfully, I no longer live on the couch, but I haven’t gone running in a bit. I’m afraid if I put on a pair of sneakers, I won’t want to resume wearing high heels. My mother says they help make my legs look longer and are more professional.
I glance down at my feet. “The soles and balls of my feet would love that.”
Juniper gives me an odd look.
“My mother said ladies wear—” I point to my foot, showing how the knockoff red-soled Louboutins give my legs the illusion of length.
“Do you listen to everything your mother says?”
“You haven’t met her,” I mutter.
My life is like a triathlon. I’m constantly running from my mother and sister’s comments, reminding me how I’m just not good enough. How I’m ordinary ... average. Average height, medium auburn hair, medium brown eyes. I’m also a bit bubbly, as my sister once so thoughtfully said about my figure. They’ve established the pack dominance hierarchy. I’m the omega, so can you blame me for wanting to prove myself?
For the swimming relay portion of the triathlon, ever since the breakup with Jonathan—mistake number two—I’ve struggled to keep my head above water. He pushed me into the deep end and I haven’t quite found my way out. Mom and Celeste threw me a rope, but mostly so they could tell me how I’m doing life wrong.
Margo A Go-Go is the cycling part, but on a stationary bike because I just can’t seem to get ahead, pay my rent without a juggling act of funds, and do better than the living paycheck-to-paycheck grind.
While watching the players race up and down the ice, thoughts about my multi-sport endurance challenge, aka my life, recede. I admire the mental and physical game in front of me,soon finding myself absorbed in the play until Juniper jumps from her seat again and yells nonsensically.
Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to gauge her response since I don’t quite understand the rules yet. Is she mad at the team? The puck? The men dressed like zebras? I can’t tell.
All eyes are on the players speeding up and down the ice, passing the “flattened ball” like they’re doing a giant Etch-a-Sketch. I imagine the cameras zooming out and we’ll see they created an image of a knight or a king, depending on the winner.
Even though I’m a New York resident and on New York turf, I secretly want Nebraska to triumph. You could say I’m loyal to a fault.
When a hush falls over the arena, my gaze is once more drawn to the player fully outfitted in padding and a helmet. But by his stance, I can tell he’s staring down the opposing team, daring them to try to make a shot. The guy is formidable, a veritable tank, imposing. He’s not going to let the puck into the net. I know it. He’s laser-focused and has his team’s back, no matter if they have the home arena disadvantage.
As the puck sails toward its target, with one decisive slice of his stick against the ice, like a guillotine dropping, he blocks it.
Even though Juniper is a Kings fan, she cheers. The play was that amazing.
I have no idea who the goalie is, but I can tell he’s the kind of person you want on your team, in your corner. His wife or girlfriend—or puck bunny, as Juniper explained hockey groupies earlier—is a lucky woman.
CHAPTER TWO
The gameagainst the Empire State Kings was a complete shutout. Granted, there were plenty of penalties, and Ted, one of our defensemen, dropped his mitts at one point, but no one lost any teeth, so I say it was a success ... and we won three-zero.
All the same, Coach Badaszek gives us an earful during the post-game debrief. “I want cleaner play. You’re gentlemen, not cavemen.”
The answer is a chorus of grumbly growls.
“Pilsen deserved that facewash,” Pierre says, also on defense.
“Coach, with all due respect, hockey isn’t a clean sport,” Micah says.
Badaszek’s lips press together in a thin line as if he’s holding back some choice words but knows our captain is correct. Instead, he says, “I want each one of you to showcase your skills and not get by on brute force.”
Vohn Brandt, our assistant coach, says, “Boys, listen to your mother.” Then he goes on to unpack some of the plays.
I’m half convinced Badaszek is going to blow a gasket, but they have their good cop, bad cop roles locked in and Vohn isn’t afraid to lay down the law.
He says, “Reddford, that pass during the second period may as well have been a grenade. Do you want to see Savage’s guts all over the ice? No, you don’t. I want smooth passes like Silky Hands over here.” He gestures to Micah.
He raises and lowers his eyebrows, gloating.
“Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Lemon. You cherry-picked all first period.” Badaszek grunts.
The lecture continues ad nauseam. For once, there’s no target on my back because I played aces, given the goose egg final drop.
