Page 4 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

Coach Isaac Cross Johnson.

“We can explain,” we say in unison.

Hope I can get myself out of this pucking situation.

Pucking What?

~MIKAYLA~

“Should I even ask?”

Our eyes land on Coach Westley Everett Cyrus—Wyatt’s father—who’s popping a chip in his mouth while he’s scanning the latest newspaper column that enjoys updating the world with sports states.

It’s become a normal occurrence to see Coach Cyrus in our kitchen, snacking on one of my Dad’s favourite snacks and reading up the latest news in this small town. My Dad is leaning against the kitchen counter, observing his best friend with a look that screams ‘why are you still in my house’.

Can’t deny that they love each other’s company.

Even if they won’t admit it outloud.

With the season just about to begin, I’m sure all the coaches in Strattonville are wondering which team will be the biggest bitch to beat to get their set of fine hockey players into the playoff league.

Heck. All coaches in Canada are going to become drill sergeants by next week.

“What’s good, Coach Cyrus?” Alexandra announces.

I swear, you’d think after dating his son, she’d talk to him like he was an adult and not a teammate.

Then again, she’s gotten used to calling him Coach and not Cyrus Senior.

The man gives Alexandra a glare before he rolls his eyes and gives up all hope of correcting her. His gaze lands on me, and he arches an eyebrow. He stops himself from saying what’s really on his mind.

“I know,” I begin as I put my hands up to stop him from giving me his honest commentary. “Period problems.”

Now he looks more confused as he slowly peers over at his colleague like he needs saving.

“Women’s hair turns red when they’re on their period?”

McD laughs as if she’s lost her damn mind while I can’t help but smile and hold back my own laughter.

The poor man has only raised boys, so I guess it’s understandable.

Maybe.

Certainly, they talk about female anatomy in sports physics.

At least, they did with us.

“No.” My father looks hopelessly back at his best friend of thirty long years.

“Good Evening, Mr. Cyrus,” I greet.

“Hello, Mikayla.” He gives me a loving smile. “And you can call me Everett.”

“I know,” I reply.

I’ve known Coach Cyrus my life my whole life.

He was one of those fabulous uncles who would come during holidays, spoils the shit out of you, then be gone until the next holiday. I didn’t mind, and he was super close to my parents for eons. They grew up together and paved their paths.

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