Page 24 of Mother Pucker

She lifts her hand to wave at me, and I grin bigger, like a star-struck teenager. There’s a boy right next to her, and even from my spot on the ice, I can see the resemblance between them. But that’s not all I see. It’s his bright-as-fuck smile, his glittering eyes, and the way he bounces on his seat. He wraps both arms around his mom, giddy beyond belief that I’m looking their way.

It’s fucking adorable, and the only way I can show how glad I am that they’re here is to turn around and do the jig I’m known for.

I twerk my hips and do the wave as the music blares through the speakers. The stadium goes wild, fans screaming from all directions, thinking I’m excited about playing in our first season game. Which, I am, of course. I’m glad to be back, but it’s not why I’m dancing.

The next two periods go by in a blur, with me drawing a penalty in the third and getting us a man-advantage when the Tampa center high-sticks me. In the last minute of the game, with us tied at 1-1, I pass the puck to our center–another Langfield brother–Aiden, who bodies past the opposing defense, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the opposing goalie. He lobs the puck with everything he’s got, picking the top corner with his shot, leaving the goalie with no chance at making a save. A second later, the red goal light flashes back, signaling the game-winning shot.

Thunder breaks through the arena and our fans rise to their feet, screaming and clapping. I realize that everyone had completely gone silent earlier because nerves were so high–either that, or I’d drowned out the noise.

Within seconds, I’m wrapped in hugs from the rest of the team as the guys roar into my ears, congratulating me for the assist and Aiden for his near-perfect shot that won us our first game of the season.

“Fuck yeah, baby!”

“Stanley, here we come!”

I’m only barely able to find a window between all the bodies surrounding me, and while I can’t get a great visual of Shay behind the large man in front of her, I see her son jumping up and down with his hands in the air.

And for some reason, that makes this win slightly sweeter.

We’re all hustling back for post-game media, but my head keeps swiveling in Shay’s direction. Fuck, I want to see her. But by the time I’m done talking to the press, having a post-game huddle with the team, and showering, it’ll be well after ten PM. There’s no way I can expect them to stay until then.

Still, I send her a quick email, hoping she’ll see it before she goes to bed.

Hey Doc,

Did you like the little dance I did for you? Pretty sure I saw you crack a smile. You were ogling my ass, weren’t you? Thank you for coming.

- The defenseman with a posterior as ripe as peaches, Slick

I smile, picturing her rolling her eyes and pressing the keys with so much force with her reply, they’re at risk of malfunctioning.

Grabbing a drink from the bin near the locker room, I take a quick selfie to post for my fans like I do after every game.

See that clinch? That’s how it’s done, son. #ComingfortheStanley

My smile slips when my phone vibrates in my hand, and I see the name on my screen. I hadn’t even bothered to reply to the last message from him, so at this point, it just looks like he’s sending me message after message of rants. I don’t know why it still catches me off-guard when he texts. At this point, his messages are a hell of a lot more reliable than he was as a father.

Dad

Good assist tonight, but your form was shit. You were slower than the Zamboni, for crying out loud!

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.

Oh, and fuck you!

As always, I click off the screen, trying not to let his dickishness put a shadow over my good mood.

I haven’t spoken to my dad in six months. The last time was after his car accident, when I called him to ask if he was okay. Instead of showing remorse about driving drunk, he blabbed on about how, by this time in his career, he’d already won two Stanley Cups and that it was embarrassing his son had yet to win any.

And even though I haven’t replied to a single one of his texts since, he knows I’m reading them. It’s probably why he continues to message me.

I should block his ass like my sister, Piper, did years ago, but a part of me worries the man literally has no one else left, not even the woman he married after my mom. And if there's another emergency, I don’t want him to have no one to count on.

That asshole voice inside my head says, maybe I’m still hoping I could count onhimfor something, too–like one genuine praise rather than the constant rants of disappointment. But if it hasn’t happened in twenty-seven years, then why would I expect it to happen now?

My friend, Brooks, who’s our goalie and another one of Beckett’s brothers, finds me in the locker room after my shower. “Yo! The team’s going out tonight for drinks. Joining?”

On most other days, I’d say yes but A.) I’m fucking beat, and my thigh is legitimately in need of icing and rest, and B.) the idea of going out and flirting with a bunch of chicks who just want a chance to fuck an NHL player isn’t appealing in the least today, and C.) there’s a part of me that’s still hoping Shay will reply, and honestly, I’d much rather stay home chatting with her.

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