Page 33 of My Puckin' Luck
It’s a big day, between a light morning practice, the Friendsgiving meal Nana, Misty, and Anastasia are cooking for everyone here, and the Puckers’ game tonight. I put on flannel lounging pants and slippers and tread down the hall, rubbing my eyes.
“Morning, angel,” I say, my voice groggy. When I open my eyes, I expect to see Anastasia in her usual lounge wear of Puckers t-shirt and cutoffs or leggings—or nothing on under, my preference. Instead, I find Nana.
“Well, hello, sleepyhead,” she greets me as she turns around from putting something in the oven, but gasps and freezes, grabbing her chest with a pot-holder covered hand like she’s having a heart attack upon seeing me. Maybe she is, considering her eyes roll down my abs and lower until I clear my throat. Her eyes snap away and she rushes to the other side of the kitchen. “Oh, my. Anastasia is one lucky woman.”
“Oh, Saint, go put on a shirt.” Anastasia laughs, coming up behind me from the hallway, and squeezes my ass.
“Anyone need help cooking?” Storm enters the kitchen then, and behold. He’s dressed like me.
“The women are ganging up on us, dude. Apparently no man-chests are to be visible today,” I explain, patting him on the back.
“I have nothing against half-naked men in the kitchen. My late husband long-held that habit, too. I simply wasn’t prepared to expect you men here like that this morning.” Nana says, still forcing her eyes low. “Where’s Misty?”
“Oh, uh, she wanted to sleep a little longer in the guest room.” Storm winks at me like he got morning sex. Lucky bastard. “But you all know I’m the better cook. So put me to work.”
“Aren’t you going to Puckers practice with Saint?” Anastasia asks.
“Leo’s picking me up. Storm will drop in toward the end and bring me home. As the big professional hockey player, he’s going to help me mentor some rookies today.” I reach around Nana for the coffeepot. Her breath hitches; I snicker to myself. She’s a funny old girl, and everyone loves her.
“Can’t wait,” Storm says, and chuckles. “And by mentor, you mean torment, right?”
“Nah, man. Duke wants me to take this shit seriously.” I pour myself a cup and although it’s not coffee made the usual way Anastasia and I take it, I down about half the dark roast. “But yeah. We’ll find time for a prank or something.” I set my cup in the sink, and grab Anastasia for a bear hug before I go.
“Did you all know that by the end of this season, Saint could end up as the semi-pro player with the most ice time played in the league?” Anastasia shocks me, throwing this random fact out there. All movement in the kitchen stops and eyes are on me.
“How in the world do you know that?” I’m careful not to scowl too hard at her.
“I told you. I’m a hockey fan. And when it comes to you, I like to look over your stats in between writing.” She eyes me cautiously, and she should. This isn’t a big deal and I wish she hadn’t brought it up.
“No way? Cool, dude.” Storm holds his fist out. I bump it, but shake my head.
“Um, yeah. I figured I was getting close. It’s not exactly a number to be proud of.” I kiss her on the head and let her go.
“Why not? I thought ice time is what players covet most?” She looks to Storm for confirmation. He nods and shrugs, but knows better than to get between us and say anything more.
I head down the hall to change and get ready to go. She follows and shuts the door behind us, trapping us in our bedroom together.
“Saint, what’s wrong?”
“Look, my number representsyearsin thesemi-pros.It would hit better if it were in the pros.” I grab my gear bag and tear off my flannels, trading them out for gray sweats.
“During all that time, you’ve been able to play healthy, help the team to six championship games, and now you get to mentor these new guys. I’ve seen the way Leo looks up to you. You should be proud.”
“Can we just drop it, please?” I roll my eyes.
She sighs and heads to the door. “For what it’s worth,I’mproud of you.”
Fuck. I cross the room on her in a flash. My lips smother hers like she holds my last breath. “I’m an idiot.”
“Sometimes,” she sniffles, nuzzling into my neck. I pick her up and sit on the edge of the bed with her in my lap. Her arms drape around my neck.
“When I graduated college and spent my first year in the national league, it was everything I dreamed about and worked for since the moment I put on my first pair of skates. But—certain things happened, and to cope, I partied too hard that year.” I could see something in her eyes flicker, looking like she wants to ask more about that time of my life, but I hurry past it. “And that landed me playing for the semi-pros. I’m good here, at this level. I don’t need to move on.”
“Okay, I get that. But what’s next? Doesn’t every player have to plan for after hockey life? You never know when an injury could sideline you.” She reminds me how astute she is about hockey.
“My talent has always been this sport. I don’t really know. Without it, what would I do?”
“I believe in you, Saint. You could do anything you put your mind to.”
