Page 112 of Pucked Up Plans
The drive takes us down Main Street. As I predicted, it’s stunning, the allure magical.
“Want to take the kids for a drive one night to see the Christmas lights? Lennon could use the boost in her spirit, and we haven’t done it yet. Mom will make hot cocoa. Lennon lastsabout an hour, but if that’s too long or late for Aubrey, we can shorten it.”
It’s like he read my mind. I shake my head. “It’s perfect. I was thinking as I drove through town this morning, it’s something we should do. Although she won’t drink the hot chocolate.”
“I’ll get her some carrot sticks.” His comeback is immediate, as if no thought went into it, even though it’s extremely thoughtful. When I don’t respond—because I’m too busy trying not to cry—his face flushes red. “That’s like so dumb. Never mind. Tell me what she would want, and I’ll get it for her.”
“It’s the sweetest ever, Walsh,” I express, my voice watery with unshed tears. “I love how you know her so well and what would make her happy. And if you do actual sticks rather than the rounded ones, she’ll love you forever.”
Oops.Not quite the words I should have spoken. I mean, she will love him forever, but I shouldn’t be putting parameters on our relationship. Especially for the kids.
The conversation is cut short as he pulls into a spot in the lot. “Great. Carrot sticks it is. We’ll plan a night soon.” His body angles toward me. “For the rest of the evening, no more kid talk. Two college-aged kids out for a night on the town.”
Being with Walsh has allowed me to feel like Tate Winchester again. I don’t forget I’m Aubrey’s mom, but I enjoy being Tate, a woman who goes on dates and has sex with this hockey-playing hunk of a man. I’ve stopped questioning why he’s chosen me and permitted the relationship to unfold to suit our needs.
“Best plan ever.”
Over a communal dinner of chicken parmesan and fettuccine Alfredo, there’s no chatter of anything children-related. Walshentertains me with tales of college hockey antics, the ins and outs of the sport, growing up in Havenwood, and more hockey. He can’t help himself. It’s sewn into the fibers of his being. His passion is contagious, and a part of me gets tingly with the prospect of watching him in action. I can’t apprise him of my desires and get his hopes up even slightly. He won’t let it go until I’ve attended a game. When I’m ready, I’ll divulge the yearning secret.
We order one piece of apple pie—pecan wasn’t an option—to split. I’m giddy whenever our forks clank together. It’s childish and immature, but Walsh brings out my inner child, the reckless one I was before I became a mom. I have six years’ to make up for, and the more I get acquainted with Walsh, the more layers I shed.
Once I’ve paid the check, we walk to the lot, his hand on the small of my back. Cue a girly swoon. “Who’s going to be at the house?”
The question has been sitting on the tip of my tongue all night, but he was so in his element, I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m nervous about spending time with his teammates. I’m not the most outgoing person and prefer to hang out with adults in small groups or one-on-one. And I have nothing in common with these guys except our age, which makes it harder to relate. I’m doing this for Walsh. If roles were reversed, he’d do it for me.
He rattles off about half a dozen names, the only one I remember is Cody. I met them all at the fundraiser, but their names went in one ear and out the other.
Too soon, he maneuvers the truck down a side street near Aspenridge. “When the weather’s a little nicer, I’ll show you around campus.”
“I’d like that.” I want to see the campus and can handle a short visit to the ice rink. Especially to see where he spends most of his hours away from home.
I’m out of the truck before he can come around to open my door. He fits our hands together. An instant wave of comfort sweeps over me at the gentle touch. “I can do this,” I whisper. “College hockey players don’t scare me.”
Beside me, Walsh chuckles, overhearing my words. “Probably no different from the guys you’re used to.”
“More muscular. More brawny. More flirty,” I deadpan.
“Fair points,” he agrees.
The house is an old Victorian, complete with a front porch held up by columns. Strands of white-colored lights hang from the top, illuminating the oversized porch. It seems out of place for a bunch of hockey guys. I don’t ask about it before we’re inside.
The faint bleach smell teases my nostrils. It’s not overwhelming, though I wonder about the need for bleach at all. Is this their way of cleaning?
“Keeley!” a deep male voice shouts, my vision drawn to the top of the staircase. “You made it.” A college male hangs over the railing, smiling in greeting. With one hand, he shifts the locks of his thick, wavy brown hair out of his eyes.
Walsh points up the stairs. “Tristan Ford. Center.”
Another guy with shorter hair joins him. Standing next to him, he’s taller than Tristan. “Gabe Kolligan. Goalie.”
“Best in the league.”
Walsh rolls his eyes and leans in so only I can hear. “Inflated ego, but sometimes warranted. He has the most saves in our league all three years he’s played.”
Walsh leads me into the kitchen, grabs each of us a bottle of water and a can of seltzer for himself, then ushers me into the back of the house where more people congregate. Three more players and a girl about my age. She wears black glasses and has her nose stuck in a textbook. Walsh reminds me who the otherguys are, Cody being one of them, and introduces the girl as Arielle.
“Nice to see you again, Tate. Glad you could join us for the fun tonight.”
“Game night,” one guy jabbers. Maybe Clayton?
