Page 1 of Mother Pucker

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shay

I lookat my watch for the fourth time in the past half hour, begging for time to speed up. There’s so much I could be doing right now, rather than watching a bunch of overgrown barbarians on ice skates dash around after a tiny puck.

Even if they are a bunch of gorgeous, overgrown barbarians with nice asses . . .

It’s a brutal game, and even in the short time I’ve been here, it seems like someone is always getting hurt. Why would anyonewillinglyplay something so dangerous when there are so many more civilized sports like golf, or track, or . . . I don’t know, egg throwing?

Sighing, I rummage for my phone inside my purse. I might as well make my weekly grocery list while I have the time.

My hand wraps around the thick G-spot wand I carry in my purse, brushing over the indentation before I find my phone and pull it out.

I have a collection of such toys nestled in the back of my nightstand drawer, but this purse-sized one always stays with me. It’s a little overused and has seen better days, but it’s reliable, effective, and practical. What more could I ask for?

“Chicken,” I mumble, typing into my text app. “Flaxseed, Ezekiel bread, quinoa–”

I’m jostled, almost losing my grip on my phone, when my son Kai and the man–or rather,manchild–Beckett Langfield fist bump each other across my body.

“Did you see him score, Bossman?” my nine-year-old yells over the din of the crowd, using the nickname all the kids call Beckett. He’s such a quiet kid in general, so I’m always a little taken aback whenever I hear his voice teeter over its normal soft volume. “Rowan ‘Slick’ Parker is going to be the greatest defenseman of all time. I just know it! That play wasduckingfantastic!”

“Language.” I eye my son before scowling at Beckett. Kai may not haveactuallycursed, but I know he meant to. Hethoughtaboutit. Another teaching my best friend, Liv’s, gazillionaire husband has so graciously bestowed upon my son.

I hear an ‘oof’ slide out of Beckett’s mouth, indicating my best friend has likely elbowed him in the ribs from his other side. He pointedly looks at my son and repeats, “Yeah. Language, IceMan.” He uses the nickname he gave my son when he moved into the Boston brownstone with me and my best friends, and Kai smiles.

I shake my head, tucking the long side of my asymmetrical bob behind my ear before going back to my phone, ignoring the chatter between my best friends and their kids. We’re all standing in Beckett Langfield’s private owner box at the arena, watching the Bolts play a preseason game. Well, technically, his brother owns the team, but tomatoes, to-mah-tos.

“Now, what else did I need to add to this list?” I mutter to myself, looking down at my list.

It’s wild to think that only nine months ago, me and Kai were adjusting to our lives without Ajay–from a family of three to a permanent family of two–and now, we’re living with not one,but thirteen other people in the same house. My best friends–all single moms, like me, and women I couldn’t survive without–their kids, and more recently, Beckett and Cortney. Cortney is my other best friend, Dylan's, fiancé, who also happens to be the catcher for the Boston Revs.

Many people might call us crazy for taking a part in what seems like an outlandish social experiment, but one of the best decisions I ever made was during our last girls’ trip when we all resolved to move into Delia’s enormous, but dilapidated, brownstone in Boston and do what we always planned to do ever since college–raise our kids together.

Men were never a part of the original pact, but since Liv actually fell in love with her then fake-husband, Beckett, and Dylan fell for her baby-daddy-to-be Cortney, we’ve just added to our brood.

It’s been one wild and crazy ride over the past few months–a far cry from my and Kai’s quiet, albeit lonely, life in California–but I can’t say I’ve ever had as much fun.

“Asparagus and kale.” I twist my lips as I type into my phone.

I have no interest in ice hockey, oranycontact sport for that matter. I’d much rather be sitting at home, reading a book or researching the negative effects of high fructose corn syrup. But since Beckett promised to take Kai to the Boston Bolts’s game as a gift for his ninth birthday, and insisted we all make a night of it, I’m stuck in this overfilled arena, with obnoxious and drunk fans–who all look like they might have been on their way to a frat party but mistakenly ended up at a sporting event.

If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Kai’s birthday present, we would never be here. He and his dad may have watched the Bolts religiously on TV, but I have no interest in condoning such a dangerous sport to my son.

He could break a bone, or worse . . .

And though he’s been relentless in begging me–with his soft voice and those downturned, puppy-dog eyes, reminiscent of my late husband’s–to let him learn hockey, I’ve been adamant about not giving in.

Though, Ididgive in to that large Slushie in his hands, full of all sorts of terrible sugars, artificial food coloring, and who the hell knows what else. I wouldn’t have, but the kid used those puppy-dog eyes to Jedi mind trick me into breaking my resolve.

I let it go just this once, but I’ll have to detox his body of all that nastiness with wholesome, healthier foods all week.

Come to think of it, I should add sardines, liver, and Brussel sprouts to my list.

I turn to look at Dylan behind me. She mindlessly smooths a hand over her pregnant belly before taking a bite of what I can only assume is a hotdog.

My nose wrinkles. “Dyl, do you know how many nitrates that hot dog contains? It’s emulsified meat glued together with all sorts of disgusting chemicals.”

Dylan’s eyes glitter in my direction, speaking around her mouthful. “The universe told me to give the baby what she wants. And what she wants are nitrates!”

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