Page 125 of The Pucking Date
Mam’s upstairs. Said she needed to lie down and took the tissue box with her.
Aoife’s pacing barefoot, towel slung over one shoulder, hair wet, face worn. She’s slicing PB&Js into triangles with surgical precision, chucking crusts in the trash like they personally wronged her.
Nate’s perched on a stool at the counter, cradling a mug of tea between both palms like it’s whiskey he’s trying to will into being. Six-foot-four of coiled power in a hoodie and joggers, posture loose but alert, like he’s tracking the puck even now.
One of the boys—maybe Cian, maybe Brody—stumbles up with a dinosaur in both fists and smacks it against Nate’s leg.
“You be monster.”
Nate raises an eyebrow and leans down to the kid’s level, tone smooth. “Do I get to smash stuff?”
The kid nods solemnly. “But not Mam’s cup. That one’s special.”
“Copy that.” Nate grins, then lets out a ridiculous low growl that rumbles from his chest.
The kid squeals and bolts. Mission accomplished.
The other twin pokes his head out from under the table, cheeks streaked with grape jelly, curls sticking in every direction. His gaze zeros in on Nate.
“You go to timeout now.”
Nate blinks. “Wait—me?”
“You’re the monster. Timeout forever.”
“I was a dinosaur five minutes ago,” Nate says, deadpan. “I’m getting some seriously mixed signals here.”
“No talking back.” The kid climbs to his feet like a man on a mission, pointing toward the living room with all the gravitas of a three-year-old dictator.
“Couch jail. Now.”
The second twin scrambles up in support, already tugging on Nate’s hoodie sleeve. “We builded it special. With pillows. You will fit.”
Nate glances at me like he’s been issued a bench minor and wants to appeal.
I just shrug. “Welcome to the justice system.”
“You guys better have good legal representation,” he mutters, but he’s already letting them haul him off, his long limbs exaggerated as he lumbers after them on all fours like some great beast pretending not to be housebroken.
“Uncle Nate stomped the giraffe!” one of them announces with dramatic flair.
“I absolutely did not,” Nate calls out, playful and resigned, his words fading into the next room. “I was framed. Monsters always get a raw deal.”
“Monsters always say that,” comes the reply, muffled by couch cushions.
Aoife snorts into the cutting board. “They’ve got him good.”
“Better than what their father gave them,” she adds a moment later, quieter now, not looking up.
I glance over. Her grip is steady, her jaw tight. She’s slicing the last sandwich into perfect halves.
“Are they asking questions about him?” I ask, soft.
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
I nod.
From the living room: “Is this even OSHA compliant?” Nate asks dryly, his words muffled through a wall of couch pillows.
