Page 74 of Three Pucking Words
I’ve never met this woman, and I hope I never do. For her sake, not mine. “I’m sorry she said that to you, honey.”
Honor shrugs, but I can tell she’s sorry too. “I named Puck after her favorite Shakespeare character,” she admits quietly, leaning her head against the back of the couch cushion and closing her eyes. “He was mischievous and always butted into the other character’s business and caused chaos. Kind of like her.”
Her lips twitch upward but slowly disappear again. “She used to readA Midsummer Night’s Dreamto me when I was little. Only little bits and pieces of it. It wasn’t until high school that I read the whole play. By then, Mom wasn’t around as much for me to talk to her about it.”
When her throat bobs, I can’t tell if she’s struggling to swallow because it hurts or because she’s emotional. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She opens her eyes and wets her dry lips. “I named Puck after the character because I thought it would bring me closer to my parents somehow. Mom loved a character named Puck and Dad loved hockey. It was kind of ironic given how I felt about them my whole life. I’ve been angry at them for a long time, but never enough to write them out because too much else has happened that has taken up my mental space. My health. My divorce.” Her head shakes slowly, as if not wanting to think about it. “Puck brings me comfort. He gives me peace.”
“I wish they could have brought you that when you needed it,” I offer. My family helped me through a lot of tough times from Inez telling me she was pregnant to her untimely death. I may not see them, may not talk to them often, but they’ve been there for me when it counts. It’s unfortunate that Honor can’t say the same.
I reach for the bakery bag and open it when I can tell she doesn’t want to talk anymore. “I know you don’t have much of an appetite, and I wish I could make soup the way you do, but I thought these might be a good substitute.”
With furrowed brows, she peaks inside. I watch surprise flash across her face, followed by a ghost of a smile. “Cannoli.”
“Thought it would be a good pick me up,” I tell her, taking the large dessert out and passing her a napkin and fork.
It’s an out of the personal conversation we’re having, but she doesn’t take it like I think she will. “What was your childhood like? You grew up in Vermont, right?”
I nod, watching as she forks some of the cream filling out of her cannoli. “Right outside of Burlington. I’d like to think my childhood was perfectly mundane. My parents run a greenhouse near my hometown that does well. I go home to visit and help them out once in a while. Which usually consists of me carrying heavy ass planters from one area to another or mowing the ten acres they have. They’re good people. Good parents. I have no complaints.”
“Do you talk to them often?”
“Not as much as I like,” I admit. There’s no real reason we don’t speak more. They’ll ask how things are going or congratulate me on a game. Mom asks for pictures of her granddaughter, and Dad asks if I can help him fix the roof next time I’m up. They don’t treat me like I’m an NHL player—one the highest paid players on New York’s team. To them, I’m their son. That’s it.
Sometimes, I miss the fresh air and the starry nights. I miss my parents and the freedom of existing without people giving a shit who I am. I don’t get the peace here in the city, but I’ve always thought this is where I fit in more than rural Vermont.
As if Honor can read my mind, she asks, “Do you think you’ll ever go back home? Or are you planning on staying here?”
I could ask her the same. “I’m not sure. For now, I’m here for as long as I’m on the team.”
Which could for years.
Or it could be for a few more seasons.
That depends on a lot of factors.
Ones I’ve been thinking about a hell of a lot more often whenever I come home radiating in pain and soaking in ice baths and showers until I can move my arm better.
“But,” I add with a sigh, “I can see Gemma growing up in Vermont. Or somewhere similar. Outside the city, you know?”
She nods. “I get it. The city is a fun place to live, but I couldn’t wait to leave. When Max and I got married, we’d considered moving upstate. But he was a big tech guy with some connections to a gaming startup in Chicago, so we ended up moving to Illinois.”
New York to Chicago? “Doesn’t seem like you got out of the city,” I point out. “Whose choice was that?”
I already know the answer even when she says, “His dream was to create his own game, and the people he needed to fund that was there. We lived in the suburbs, so it wasn’t like we were in the city itself.”
“But that isn’t what you wanted,” I note.
“No,” she murmurs. “It wasn’t.”
The more I hear about this prick, the more I hate him. “What was the game he wanted to create?” I ask.
Honor rubs her lips together and changes the subject. “I’ve been to Burlington before. It’s nice. I got a dessert pizza with real maple syrup and apples on it and went to the Ben and Jerry’s factory.”
She doesn’t want to talk about her ex, which only makes me more curious about him. But I choose not to push her on the topic.
“We take our maple syrup and Ben and Jerry’s seriously,” I tell her, watching as she nibbles on more of the cannoli filling.
