Page 6 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“You’re kicking Mickey out?!”

“No,” both of them say quickly.

They’ve heard every nickname Alexandra has ever given me, so they know when she’s talking about me specifically.

If Dad actually wanted me out, I wouldn’t be very surprised.

I wasn’t troublesome, per se, but I was twenty-five now. I didn’t need to keep living with him.

Just have a few attachment issues.

Nothing more.

Maybe.

“Then what’s this about placement?” I ask in hopes we get answers. I wasn’t following where they were going with this conversation.

If Coach Cyrus knew about it, that meant it had to be pretty important.

Father sighs before he’s off his stool, heading to one of the kitchen cabinets. He pulls it open and retrieves what looks like two envelopes.

The mere sight makes my stomach flip while I try not to go all ghostly pale.

How long does it take someone to get over receiving bad news in the mail?

As if sensing it, Mack’s hand lightly pats my knee beneath the island. Her warmth brings comfort, but my nerves are still dancing in the pits of my stomach, hoping this isn’t bad news.

I’ve had enough bad news in my life. Don’t need more piling on my parade when I’ve finally attempted to stay on my path to move on in life. I may suck at it, but I’m pucking trying.

Ugh. I gotta correct that ‘pucking’ habit of mine.

The perfect replacement for ‘fucking’ in this household. Don’t know why it stuck all this while, but I guess hockey dads find more humor in their daughter saying puck and pucking than fuck and fucking.

The brief distraction helps me not focus on Father until he’s situated on his stool and placing the envelopes before us.

Our full names are handwritten on the front of the white surface in that common illegible cursive. Reminds me of doctors’ handwriting. Not a good memory at all.

“These came for you today,” he declares and once again lingers his gaze on Alexandra. “Still posting important stuff to our place?”

“Well, yeah.” She looks insulted. “My building is full of frat boys who come to this town for the hockey dream, only to get wasted and barely sober enough for preliminaries.” Alexandra shakes her head and shivers like she still can’t imagine herself living in that building. It wasn’t her choice, but it was the best she could afford without going bankrupt.

When you don’t have reliable parents, what else can you do but your best?

Coach Cyrus lowers his paper to give Alexandra a firm stare.

Not waiting for him to say anything, she puts her hands up like I would.

“I’m fine,” she assures him before she narrows her eyes. “And don’t tell your jerk-ass son.”

Coach Cyrus smirks as he folds his newspaper.

“I’ll mind my business,” he voices. “For now.”

“Thank you, Coach.”

“Everett,” he reminds.

“Everett, Coach Cyrus, Sir, Cyrus... they’re all the same,” Alexandra concludes and grabs the envelope before her like a trophy. Lifting it in the air, she grins like a fool while trying to use the light from the ceiling light to see what’s inside.

---