Page 2 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

I see red, but instead of punching him in the arm to shut him up, I start whistling. It’s effective, but not in the way I intended. Richie quits laughing and stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“It’s not funny, douchebag. If I get benched, I get traded. Which means you have to move too. Which also means I’m seen as a liability player who can’t stick with a team, which means after this contract is up, my career might be done too. Which means you might have to start supporting us for once.”

Richie’s ruddy cheeks pale.

“Yeah. Not laughing now, are you?”

He helps me clean up our dinner plates, which might be a first. I guess I scared him with that talk of being traded. We watch some television–I sit in the recliner, not the defiled couch–but I change it from the news so he doesn’t get any ideas. I get bored within minutes and pick up my phone to do the word of the day puzzle, solving it after three tries. Then I navigate to my favorite dating app, Chloe’s words in the back of my mind.

Thing is, I quit bringing home puck bunnies a couple years ago. They just weren’t doing it for me anymore. I blame that trip three Christmases ago when Richie and I flew home for the holidays. We found ourselves falling off our barstools at the local bar with all my brothers. I was heading for the bathroom when I ran smack into a busty redhead in a black tank top and a skintight jeans skirt. She looked familiar but I couldn't quite place her. Hell, I couldn’t even see straight after all those shots, but when she pushed me up against the wall just outside the men’s restroom and ran her finger down my chest, everything below the belt worked just fine.

I ended up taking her into a stall for some privacy. She was a decade or two older than me, based on the lines that fanned out from the corners of her eyes and the gray hair that threaded through the red, but I liked how she took control. She turned around, put her hands on the door, and told me to flip her skirt up and show her a good time. She even barked at me to get her off twice before I was allowed to come. Something about being told what to do was kind of hot. Turns out she looked familiarbecause she’s my old high school chemistry teacher. Believe me, my brothers never let me forget it when we walked back out of the bathroom together, hair disheveled and Ms. Moore walking bowlegged.

I’ve had a thing ever since for older women. If I have to find a girl and settle down like Chloe suggested, it’s going to be with a woman who’s capable and pats me on the head like a good boy. I flip through the over-forty selection on the app, swiping right and hoping for a match.

Operation Save My Hockey Career has begun.

Chapter Two

Molly

“Well, that went well.”

I turn in my chair to see my ex-husband emerge from the hall, both hands scrubbing his face. I know just how he feels.

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” I ask, despite the fact that even a toddler could have spotted the jest in Blake’s tone.

“How about an entire symphony?” He drops into the painted chair next to mine at the kitchenette table nestled in the corner of my small kitchen. His elbows land on the table as he eyes me. “He nixed the therapy idea, like you said. First, he pretended not to know what I was talking about, and when I informed him I knew about the detention, he claimed it was all a misunderstanding.”

I sigh and clutch my coffee cup with both hands. “I thought boys were supposed to be easier as they got older,” I lament.

Blake throws his head of shoulder-length brown hair back and cackles. “Who the hell told you that?”

I frown at him before taking a sip of the hot elixir of life. “Everybody.” This latest parenting crisis is doing nothing to help my insomnia, thus the gallon of coffee in front of me.

Still grinning, Blake reaches over to pat my arm. “Oh, honey, you’ve obviously been talking to the wrongeverybody. I can tell you from personal experience that boys only get more complicated the older they get.Believe me.” This is followed by a beleaguered sigh that I know is intended to have me asking about his love life, but now is not the time. This is about our kid—our kid who is clearly struggling if his detention record at school this year is any indication.

I slide the other steaming coffee mug toward Blake, who snatches it up like its contents were drawn straight from the Fountain of Youth. “I just don’t know how to relate to him with all this anger and aggression. Where is this coming from?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Apart from the shoving match, though, you’ve got to admit the insult was pretty creative. I’ve never been called a finger sniffer, have you?” When I narrow my eyes, Blake throws both hands up. “Right. Sorry.”

“If it was from the divorce, we would have seen it two years ago, Right?” I ask.

“Definitely.”

Nodding absently, I run my finger along the rim of my coffee mug and stare blankly out the kitchen window. Matty was always such a calm kid, going with the flow no matter what. He weathered the divorce better than anyone could have predicted. But ever since he turned twelve this summer, it’s like a switch has been flipped. He flies off the handle at the smallest things, behaving so unpredictably that I’m at my wit's end. I thought maybe his dad might have some magical Y-chromosome insight, but it seems not.

I turn my attention back to Blake and lower my voice. “You know he broke his skateboard last week? He said he crashed andit just snapped, but I saw him bash it against the fence after he fell off a few times trying a new trick.”

“Shit.” Blake’s brow creases before his voice tightens. “I hope he knows we’re not buying him a new one.”

“It hasn’t come up.” I wave it off and worry my lip, reopening the small crack from a week’s worth of biting it. The coppery tang of blood hits my tongue, and I push my chair back from the table to get a tissue. “It’s not the skateboard I’m worried about. We need to figure out what’s behind all of this, and a counselor is the only idea I’ve got.”

Blake rises from his seat and steps close, pulling a tissue from the box on the counter and pressing it gently to my lip. “Hey,” he whispers. His tone is too soft and the gesture too intimate, which he appears to realize when I take a small step back. “Sorry.” He relinquishes the red-stained tissue and backs up to give me more space, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

I detest these awkward moments.

“No.” I force a smile. “It’s fine.” Because it is. My brain knows Blake’s actions come purely from a place of concern and friendship, but my body sometimes takes a minute to catch up.

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