Page 12 of Pucked Mountain Man
The storm keeps rattling the windows. By afternoon, we’ve exhausted the other activities in the game room.
Which is how I end up in the hall with a balled-up sock and a broom handle.
The strip of wood is perfect. Baseboard goals if you squint. Tap-tap-tap. My knee holds steady. My heartbeat changes tempo as I pull back the stick and line up my shot.
“Absolutely not,” Stevie says behind me.
My arms fall to my side. “It’s a sock.”
“It’s a bad idea in a sock costume.” She stomps toward me, planting her fists firmly on her shapely hips. “You want to explain to your coach how you re-tore your ACL playing hallway hockey?”
“Actually, it’s called sockey,” I say. “Trademark pending.”
“Grady.”
“You can’t take everything from me.” It comes out whinier than I care to admit. “Please, just ten minutes. I’ll go easy.”
She sighs, vanishes into the linen closet, and returns with two rolled towels. She drops them on either side of the doorframe. “Goals. And you donotplant on that left leg. Glide. No hero stops.”
“Yes, coach.”
She steals the broom. “Faceoff.”
“You’re about to embarrass yourself, Rockstar.”
“Try me.”
We lean over the sock like it’s a puck.
Tap-tap-tap—go.
She moves with more speed and expertise than I counted on. Though, I should have expected it. She might not play hockey professionally or recreationally. But I’d guess Thatcher dragged her out on the ice more than a few times when they were younger.
Her hands are quick. I trail, carefully, letting my arms do most of the work while my feet—and knee—stay steady.
“Nope,” she says as I try to move past, giving me a playful nudge in the ribs.
“Illegal hit.”
“Two minutes for whining.”
We fight for the sock, careful not to throw any elbows—or test my knee too badly. It’s such a joy to see her having so much fun, I pull back. She winds up, takes a shot. The sock sails past my towel.
“Yes!” She throws her hands up, triumphant. “Yes, yes, yes.”
She does a little dance. But her sock foot catches on the floor and she slips. I reach forward, catching her around the waist. My knee twinges—a light pain, but nothing damaging.
I straighten her, hands full of heat.
“You let me,” she accuses, breathless.
“I absolutely did not,” I lie.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Mine do the same, because we’re stupid. “You’re insufferable,” she says softly.
“You’re terrible at backchecking,” I return, just as soft.
We reset. Second shift, she’s smarter. Third, she tries to pivot around me; I block; we tangle and go down in a graceless knot on the runner.
