Page 30 of Pucked Up Plans
“No. Momma doesn’t bake. Only Mimi. But I’m too busy to help.”
If there’s one thing my daughter is, it’s honest. And in so many ways, it’s going to get her far in life. However, sometimes I wish she was a little less blunt.
Tate lets the conversation drop, ushering them into the living room for the show. I stay behind, finishing the muffin Lennon barely ate three bites of. This one’s on the sweeter side, although the dark chocolate chips give it a bitter flavor. Precisely why my kid didn’t eat it.
“Show’s all set. Lennon looks like she’s about to fall asleep.” There’s more she wants to say—it’s written on her face—but she holds back.
“Oh, she will, no doubt. She’s exhausted, but she’ll put up a good fight. I’d offer to leave now, but that would only make it worse.” It’s my turn to have more to say, but I’m not sure I want her judgment. Because the real reason I’m not leaving has little to do with the outburst Lennon will have. It’s more because I want the alone time with Tate.
She heaves her body into the seat across from me. “Aubrey will probably fall asleep too. Then we’ll just have to do this all over again so they can watch the show.” A nervous laugh follows her comment, but the delighted expression she wears contradicts it.
“Thanks for having us. I’m sorry she keeps inviting herself over. When she sets her mind on something, it’s sometimes hard to change it. At least not without a battle of wills.” I keep my tone as apologetic as possible. I’m only sorry Lennon keeps inviting us because it’s rude. I’m not sorry about this time with Tate.
“It’s no trouble. I’m glad Aubrey has found a good friend. With her being so shy and scared of her own shadow sometimes, I worry about her.” Her gaze casts downward to where her fingers pick a few crumbs off the table.
“I can imagine that’s hard, not that I have any experience. Lennon’s not shy, and if she could, she’d live her life with her two feet off the ground. Mostly on the ice, but anything she can climb is a close second.”
Tate lifts her head. “How long has she been skating?”
“Since she could walk?” I offer. “I don’t mean it quite the way it sounds, but the girl was born with ice in her veins. She’s so tired because she was at the rink for three hours last night.”
Tate’s eyes widen. “Three hours? I can’t imagine doing something physical for that long, let alone with blades of steel strapped to my feet.”
“She wasn’t on the ice that long. Forty-five minutes maybe, with breaks in between. She has a way of negotiating what she wants, which last night included staying to watch a local team practice. As much as I put my foot down, when it comes to skating and hockey, I have a hard time saying no.” I could elaborate more, but I don’t want to bore her. Especially since I get the sense she’s not into anything having to do with “blades of steel.”
“How long have you skated?”
“I think I was three when my parents put me on skates. But I took to it almost as quickly as Lennon, and by the next year, I was already in love with hockey.”
Tate smiles. “So she gets it from you?”
“And her mother.” When she doesn’t outwardly react, I add, “But that was kinda my doing too.”
It was definitely my doing. Meg’s not into any sports, but when she decided she wanted to date me, hockey was a deal-breaker. She learned to love hockey and skating.
“Oh.” And there’s the reaction I expected.
Needing a subject change from my ex, I ask, “Have you ever skated?”
“Once. When I was maybe eight. I hated it. The cold, the layers, the pain of falling. It wasn’t my cup of tea.” She shakes her head at the awful memory, and I let it go, yearning for more. “I’m going to use the bathroom and check on the girls. Be right back.” She pushes out of her seat, careful not to let the chair scrape the floor too much.
While she’s gone, I clear the table of the garbage and sneak another blueberry muffin out of the container. They aren’t dry like some muffins can be, and the blueberry flavor explodes on my tongue. It has some kind of sweetener, but I doubt it’s sugar.
I peek my head in the living room. Aubrey’s wide awake, completely absorbed in the show. Lennon’s fighting sleep. Her tired eyes meet mine, and she mumbles, “Shirt, Daddy.”
I strip out of my flannel, folding it under so the buttons won’t be in her way. She tucks it under her cheek, and her eyes promptly shut.
Back in the kitchen, I slip back into my seat. I’m tempted to steal another muffin but refrain, needing to keep sugar to a minimum during the season.
Tate reappears a few minutes later. “So my kid is totally invested in the show and yours is completely knocked out.” She eyes my bare arms, and only because I’m staring directly at her chest do I notice the hitch in her breath. I should be more remorseful about how much I affect her.
“I’m going to let her sleep for a little while. If that’s okay.”
“Of course. I’m hoping Aubrey conks out for a bit. I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
The mention of “work” perks my ears. Guess I never gave it much thought if she has a job. But that makes sense. How elsewould she support herself? Unless she gets a boatload of child support. In which case, good for her.
“What do you do?”
