Page 104 of Pucked Up Plans
Must have had a busy day of play
She’ll only message back if she needs the last word, which is the case with her when she’s mad at something I’ve done or just pissed off. Hopefully not tonight. I can’t deal with her bullshit.
One moody woman is enough.
Speaking of, Tate saunters back into the room a few minutes later wearing flannel pants and an oversized hoodie. Another thing jotted on the mental to-do list: Get Tate an Aspenridge hoodie with my name and number on it. She wiped her face free of the minimal makeup she wore to the event and pulled her hair into a messy bun. Her beauty astounds me. And the compliment tumbles out of my mouth.
“Stunning, babe.” I attempt to pull her onto the couch with me, but she’s slightly out of reach.
“Don’t feed me lies. That’s the exact opposite of what you’re trying to prove.”
Momentarily stunned by what she thinks of me, I recover quickly.
“Sorry. Let me try again.” I drag my eyes up and down her, my perusal slow and lingering. “Tate, how dare you walk into the living room wearing such a heinous outfit? And no makeup? Whatever are you thinking?” I wait to capture her attention with mine before adding, “Better?”
“Totally believable. I’ll never doubt you again.” Too bad her words are laced with a sarcastic tone. “Coffee?”
“Sure. And some cookies?”
She turns for the kitchen, and I quickly follow behind. “Let me see if I have any left.Someonemight have eaten all the leftovers.”
It shouldn’t affect me the way it does, but I can’t help the emotion of frenzy washing over me at her emphasized use of someone. Because obviously,someoneis me.
In the kitchen, she busies herself making a pot of coffee. Next to my mom, she makes the best-tasting coffee, and I’m yearning for another taste of the way she prepares it with coconut milk. If she’ll let me steal a sip.
Tate opens up the container for the cookies with a smile. “Three left. All yours.”
Yesterday I would have taken them all. Hell, six hours ago, I would have acted the same way. Yet right now, I choose two, leaving the last for her. The gratitude for my act displays on her face, a beaming smile gracing her lips.
Point one to Walsh. Don’t screw this up.
“What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”
“Lennon comes back around three, then I’m volunteering at a hockey clinic.”
Astonishment parades across her facial features. She hadn’t foreseen my comment.
“Um, wow. That’s cool. I wouldn’t fathom you have time for something like that given school, hockey, Lennon…” She trails off, but the implication of more lingers in the air.
“It’s not a huge time commitment. And Lennon will sit in the stands and watch, or she’ll jump on the ice and stay out of our way. She’ll be in her glory.”
A small smile graces her lips. “Fun for her and generous of you.”
“I owe a lot to hockey, to the people who work the rinks. I like to give back when I can.”
It’s more than “a lot.” Since I was three years old and learned to skate, all I wanted to do was play hockey. Mom and Dad had no qualms about supporting my love of the sport, except equipment and travel leagues aren’t cheap. And when Dad lost his job when I was in middle school, it put a damper on the prospect of continuing to play.
It was Millie who approached me after practice at Nordic, and without her uttering a word, I understood by the way her shoulders slumped and the defeat in her eyes. Hockey wasn’t on the essentials list.
Except I was determined to play. I mowed lawns, shoveled driveways, walked dogs, returned cans and bottles. Any chore someone would pay me for, I did. And when I was about one hundred dollars short by the time the next season rolled around, Wayne, the owner of the Nordic Rink, paid the rest with a mention of “working it off.” In the years since, I more than have, while also gaining an appreciation for giving back and helping whenever I could. Especially when it involves hockey.
Tate’s voice brings me out of my memories. “An admirable quality.” She casts her head down, her fingers gripping the handle of her mug a little tighter. A beat of silence commences, but the tension in the air isn’t stifling. When she looks back up at me, a sadness hangs over her. “I owe you an apology, Walsh.”
“For what?”
“For letting that girl get in my head. For not trusting you at your word. You’ve done nothing, and I meannothing, to make me think less of you. And honestly, if the Keeley cockcycle was a thing, if you could have any girl at any time, you wouldn’t be here right now with me. You wouldn’t have worked so hard to wait until I was ready. The chase wouldn’t have been worth it.”
“It’s not a thing,” I stress, unable to repeat the actual words.
