Page 10 of Wrong Pucking Player

“So pucking ready.”

There’s my bestie’s key correction word.

Pucking.

Ten years and counting.

“Then let’s get this pucking evening started,” I encourage and offer my hand.

Time to leave my troubles behind.

PUCKING ACCEPTANCE?

~MACKENZIE~

I’m not the slightest bit surprised to see Wyatt’s dad chilling in Mikayla’s kitchen.

Literally, reading a newspaper, probably checking the sports section, while popping a couple of Lay’s chips into his mouth.

Westley Everett Cyrus—or to many people of Strattonville, Coach Cyrus—was honestly one of the best coaches in Canadian history. He, as well as Coach Johnson, were some of the most sought out for years back in my early teens.

Coach Johnson actually rocketed to higher places thanks to the Stanley Cup Win he and the Toronto Maple Leafs claimed over ten years ago. The fame and fortune not only encouraged their friendship in an oddly competitive way, but it had opened so many doors in the sports world.

That is until Mikayla’s mom’s passing.

You wouldn’t realize how one person could hold the hearts and futures of so many. I’m not even sure if Mikayla’s mom even realized how important a figure she was in so many of our lives. What I do know is her death rocked not just Mikayla and Coach Johnson’s lives, but it hit Coach Cyrus and Wyatt’s lives as well.

Not many people knew this, but Coach Cyrus was also Dr. Cyrus.

He didn’t share it with those outside of our close-knit family and friends, but he was now specializing in cancer research in hopes of escalating the production of the cure to many types of cancers with drugs that have far fewer side effects than the intensive form of chemotherapy.

The crazy part is, the cure for cancer was out there in the books, a long time ago.

Yet here we are, the year 2025, watching so many perish from the disease after going through vigorous therapy, all thanks to the harsh reality of medicine being nothing but a business transaction for many.

Sometimes, I believe he pursued such a specific department in Mrs. Johnson’s memory because deep down, he really loved her. It’s something he never wants to admit, nor that he enjoys Coach Johnson’s company more than his empty home up north now that all his sons are out and pursuing their lives and careers.

It’s a shame that the pushback against revealing a cure was too much for him, and that was why he was taking a break while he returned to what always brought him a sense of joy.

The thrilling competitiveness of hockey.

His blue eyes are identical to his son’s when he lifts his gaze from his paper to acknowledge our arrival. One look, and he’s arching an eyebrow Mikayla’s way.

Peering specifically at her extra bright red hair.

“Should I even ask?”

I notice Coach Johnson’s smirk from the corner of my eye. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, observing his best friend with that look that’s questioning why on earth this man is still here at this time. We’ve long learned that if Coach Cyrus is still in Mikayla’s place past six, he ain’t going home.

He’s cracking a beer, relaxing on the couch, and waiting for Coach Johnson to choose what they’re watching for the evening.

Then, when they can barely keep their eyes open, they’ll retire to their designated rooms.

Master bedroom and makeshift bedroom room.

“What’s good, Coach Cyrus,” I casually announce, as if I wasn’t dating his son for two and a half years. Honestly felt longer since I’ve known him since I was around thirteen.

I have a strong feeling from how he was analyzing that sports section that he’s here this evening for sports business. With the hockey season on the verge of beginning, I’m sure he’s going to get offered some sort of coach biz that will keep him busy full-time versus his past years of commitment where he’s either been a sub or worked part-time as he juggled the hospital and labs.

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