Page 15 of Dirty Puck

“You heard me. While you were busy embarrassing her, did you bother to look at her little boy? His glazed eyes that never looked straight ahead? That boy most likely has medical issues. Did you ever think that she dances to pay for his care?”

“I don’t give a fuck why she dances.”

“You should. I raised you alone. If you’d needed medical care, there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done to make sure you got it, so I better never hear that bull come from your mouth again. I was lucky enough to have met your father while I was student teaching. Not everyone has a good career to fall back on.”

“Can we not? I want to enjoy your visit.”

She huffed, patting my arm, and then left me standing in the kitchen. I hated my mom thinking of me as a dick, but what Bree had done crossed a line today. We fucked. Period. I played hockey for the Charleston Copperheads. In my experience, women were opportunists. Every woman except my mom. It wasn’t my fault Bree opened her legs for some deadbeat. It wasn’t my fault her kid had issues.

It happened every single time, the more beautiful a woman, the more she wanted to live like a movie star. Bree was one of the most beautiful women I’d seen in my life. The sex—fuck. I’d shot the hardest load of my life. The way she’d let me take control, not putting up a fight. Trusting that I’d get her where she needed to be. I ran my hand over my face. This was the shit I didn’t need. So I might’ve owed Bree an apology, but she fucking owed me one too. I would not let myself fall in love again. Never again.

Keep telling yourself that, asshole. You might get lucky and actually believe it.

How could one man be such an idiot? I knew I could fall hard for Bree if I let myself, based on the sex alone. My mom just didn’t understand. I needed to keep my guard up around Bree. Parameters neither of us crossed. For my own peace of mind.

I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and slid out the photo of Elyssa—my ex—before my mom walked back into the kitchen. I’d fucking loved that woman. Thought she was it for me. But in the end, all she really wanted was a lifestyle I couldn’t give her.

Sure, my contract was solid. I made good money. Damn good. But I wasn’t a poster boy like Bishop or Russo. Those guys landedGQspreads and walked designer runways. Me? I was a grinder, showing up, working hard and getting the job done.

Bishop had class, and he only ever loved one woman. Russo? Not so much.

Didn’t matter that I’d loved Elyssa, and certainly didn’t stop her from screwing Russo. Inmybed.

That day, the first time I got arrested. And I don’t regret a second of it. Every charge was worth it. Russo was supposed to be my buddy. We played together. Worked side by side.

He got lucky—no serious injuries—so the team’s lawyer talked it down to six weeks of anger management. The GM traded him out west, and Elyssa followed.

I heard later she cheated on him, too. Figures.

He got exactly what he deserved. I shoved the photo back into my wallet without a second glance. Mom didn’t bring up the topic again and we watched a movie until it was time to head to the arena.

With my mom in the stands, something ignited in me. Failure wasn’t an option. I left everything out on the ice. We walked away with the win. For tonight, at least. Tomorrow,we’d do it all over again. And I planned to bring the fire then, too.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking.

“Ma, you’re a guest here. You don’t have to cook.”

“I’m your mother, not a guest. If I choose to cook for my only son, then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Right.While rolling my eyes at the woman, I walked over to kiss the top of her head. These breakfasts of hers resulted in her only son towering over her. She swatted at me and I laughed, continuing over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Want a cup?” I asked her.

“You know how I take it,” she replied. All my life, two creams and one sugar, which in my kitchen meant two small glugs of whatever flavored creamer caught my eye in any given week. In a world where all the moms in our neighborhood only ate, drank, and lived diet food, my mom still took real sugar in her coffee.

The way she talked shit about what other woman ate, I should’ve known Elyssa didn’t have staying power. She avoided sugar. Avoided oil. Avoided all forms of gastronomic happiness. She lived her life in a calorie deficit. What kind of happiness could I have found with a woman who wouldn’t allow herself a damn piece of cake on my birthday? Before Mom caught me woolgathering, I shoved that thought back in my wallet where Elyssa’s picture permanently resided and got to work on our coffees.

For our Saturday game, the Oilers came at us hard. They were quick, aggressive, and fired everything they had at the net. By the third period, we were clinging to a one-goal lead, and I was under siege. Pucks flying, bodies crashing the crease, deflections I barely saw until they were already hitting my pads. My reflexes were running on fumes, but I held the line.

I couldn’t let the woman who birthed me—the one who worked hard all day only to turn around and drive me to every practice in the early days—leave disappointed. She got to watch her son fight like hell to protect the net he grew up dreaming about.

We spent the rest of the weekend hanging out and doing all sorts of touristy shit before I had to put her on a plane for home. She still taught, fifth grade, no matter that I begged her to retire, to let me take care of her. No dice. She had class Tuesday morning.

For the first three days of the week, I didn’t see Bree once. I knew she worked those days because Antonov joked that even in her ugly uniform, he’d still hit that because he’d get her out of it fast enough. The fucker had no idea that if he kissed her properly, he wouldn’t have to get her out of the uniform because she’d get herself naked.

On Thursday, while I changed after practice, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t still try to apologize. The guys had left already. The front of a cart pushed open the door and Bree moved inside the locker room. “Oh—” She sucked in a breath. “I thought the room was empty.”

“Hey,” I started, but she shook her head.

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