Page 87 of Dirty Puck

No. It was more than that. I could tell by her demeanor. “Babe. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Oh, my God, why can’t you let this go?”

“Because I don’t like that distant look you get in your eyes every time he calls. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“What do you want me to say, Baker? You want me to admit I was stupid for letting him into my bed? Fine. I was stupid. Happy?”

Whoa. “You weren’t stupid. You were what, seventeen? Your mom was gone. Your whole world had fallen apart andthere comes this guy who promised to take care of you. That’s not stupidity, that’s necessity.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m not sorry,” she said almost defiantly and I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince because it sure as hell wasn’t me. She’d done nothing to be sorry for. “I got my Benny out of it.”

Hell yeah, she did. I held her, pressing my lips to her head. She wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her face against my shirt.

“I’m embarrassed that you know he didn’t want us.”

“Fuck that, Bree. That says nothing about you and everything about him. Getting to have you and Benny in my life has been a gift. If that idiot can’t see that, well, I’m kind of glad about it.”

“Glad?”

“If he wasn’t an idiot, then you and I wouldn’t be friends right now.”

“You just like the sex.”

“It doesn’t suck.”

That got her back. She slugged me in the gut, but she slugged me with a smile. For the life of me, I’d never understand how that dick tossed her aside. He had this incredible woman in his bed, in his life, and he’d fucked then run from his responsibilities.Idiot.

With all the weeks of preparation and anticipation, we’d actually reached the benefit weekend. The arena crew transformed the concourse into a damn winter carnival. Booths, banners, photo ops with players and their families, and a silent auction table that spanned half a wall. The wives absolutely brought it. Bree, naturally, never stopped until every detail was nailed down. How the hell she found the time between taking care of Benny, my mom, Claudia, and me, I couldn’t figure out. But she did.

Saturday night’s game was a sellout.

And the benefit?

It blew every expectation out of the water.

We were out on the ice doing warm-ups when they started announcing numbers—donation tiers, goals, projections. Bree stood with the other wives on the players’ platform near center ice, holding Benny on her hip. He wore his Copperheads jersey over a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with his earmuffs snug over his curls.

Jaycee had LJ in a matching jersey, the boys making each other smile and squirm as the announcer introduced the night’s purpose: raising funds to expand access to specialized therapies for kids on the spectrum across the low country.

My throat tightened.

That wasn’t just a PR line. That was Benny. That was our life.

As our team spokesman, Bishop stepped up to the mic. “On behalf of the Charleston Copperheads,” he said, voice clear and solid, “I want to remind everyone that we’re pledging to match every single donation made tonight and throughout this weekend. Dollar for dollar.”

The crowd wentwild.

I skated past the bench, thumped Bishop’s glove with mine, and looked toward the platform again. Bree’s face was lit up, proud and overwhelmed all at once. Claudia dabbed under her eye with a tissue and patted my mom’s hand.

We won that night, 4–3 in overtime. Place nearly blew the roof off. Jones pulled off a hat trick and did a clumsy, little dance at center ice, which I was sure would haunt him on social media for weeks. His kids were going to give him shit for that.

But the best moment?

It came after.

We were in the tunnels, helmets off, pads half-peeled, when Bree found me. She moved through the hallway like a woman on a mission, Benny already bundled in his puffy coat, his cheeks red from excitement and late-night sugar.They’d watched the game from a private box along with Jaycee and LJ. It just made life easier for the boys. Even LJ didn’t want to be wrangled to a seat all night.

“You won,” she said breathlessly, stepping into my space.

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