Page 22 of Puck Yes

I gear up to slap the puck in when an Arizona defender whips in front of me, but I eke out a pass to Stefan before the enemy can steal the puck. My teammate attacks in a flash, sending the little black disc on a one-way flight right through the five-hole.

The lamp lights, and so does my competitive heart. The score is tied now, and I get my first assist with my new team.

It feels like a massive victory even though it’s only one point. But it’s mine, and I’ll take it.

When I’m on the players’ bench during the face-off, I catch sight of a purple furball up in the stands. She’s shaking her gigantic furry ass, waving her fluffy arms above her head, hyping up the crowd.

Then, she cups a furry hand—or is that a paw?—to her ear, urging the fans to make some noise.

Sounds like they’re sayingArmstrong.

A smile tugs at my lips.

But I don’t let the sound go to my head. I don’t let the smile finish forming. And I definitely don’t let my focus go to Ivy or to my father in the stands. I don’t look for the mascot or my dad for the rest of the game. I can’t afford a distraction.

We win, two to one. It’s a relief more than a thrill.

* * *

After a quick sesh with the press, where I sing thejust happy to be heretune, I head down the corridor, headphones in, AC/DC cranked sky-high. I hope the head-banging music drowns out the emotions I don’t want to feel around my dad. By the time I round the corner, I’m ready to see the guy. He waits for me, a smile on his face, a full head of hair on his head, a Vacheron Constantin on his wrist, and a woman twenty years younger on his arm. He’s a smart guy, and his bank account would testify to his acumen when it comes to money management.

But his ticker’s softer than a down pillow.

Mine must be made of lead because I can’t be happy for him and his new squeeze. But…track records matter.

I take out my earbuds. “Hey, Dad,” I say, giving him a quick clap on the back.

“Nice assist. How did it feel, your first game with the new team?”

“It was good.” I don’t want to answer truthfully in front of Cora, for no reason other than I don’t trust her. But I do need to be polite. “Hi, Cora,” I say to the woman who at thirty, is three whopping years older than me.

She flicks her ash blonde hair off her shoulder, looking as polished as my father. “You played so great tonight. Your dad and I are so proud of you,” she echoes.

Because they’re a unit. Because he’s attached to her now. Just like he’s been attached to every girlfriend and wife he’s had since my mom left us many, many moons ago.

Me? No thanks to attachments. I tried it in Seattle with Tia, an art gallery manager. We dated for most of the season. But toward the end she kept telling me I was too focused on my career, that I needed to show up for more of her events even though most of them were right before my games. That made it alittlehard. When I was traded to Los Angeles, she didn’t even want to try long distance. “You’re cold and aloof anyway,” she’d said.

Well, thanks.

Tia’s behind me, though, and San Francisco’s in front of me. Romance is not on the table for me like it isalwaysfor my dad.

“Can we take you out for dinner?” he asks as Stefan walks toward us.

“You’re always hungry after games,” Cora puts in, like she knows me. She doesn’t. She just made a good guess.

But Stefan swoops in. “Good to see you, Mr. Armstrong, but I need to steal this guy away. Got to celebrate that win.”

“Of course,” my father says, understanding the benefits of teamwork.

I’m just grateful for the save. I’m even more grateful for the text from Ivy that lands as I’m walking to Stefan’s car to head to dinner.

Ivy: How was the first night at your new job?

A small smile tugs at my lips. I feel like I can answer her honestly. Maybe it’s because there’s no history with her, no expectations. Or maybe because this whole thing started with her unloading all her job weirdness onto me. I do the same.

Hayes: Nerve-wracking. But weirdly fun too. How was your first night mascotting?

Ivy: Is mascotting even a verb?

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