Page 39 of Oh, Puck!
“Alright, Jojo. Show me what you got.”
I’d taken off, wobbling but determined with a stick in my hand, the scratch of my blades the only sound in the world as I took my shot. I’d missed the makeshift goal, and the puck sailed into a snowbank.
I’d hung my head, the sting of failure immediate for a little girl who got told she shouldn't be out there in the first place.
But before the first tear could even form, my dad was there, scooping me up just like Declan is doing with that little girl right now.
He spun me around until I was dizzy with laughter, then he helped me try again.
I scored the goal on the next shot.
“Atta girl!”he’d roared, his scruffy cheek against mine.“You didn’t quit! That’s my girl.”
I didn't shut up about it for a week, and still, my mother never once said 'well done.'
My father was the only person who never made me feel out of place. Who saw my obsession with hockey stats and my scraped knees not as something to becorrected, but as something to be celebrated.
He was my first coach, my biggest fan, my safety in a family that made me feel like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
He’s been gone for eight years.
And right now, watching that little girl’s face light up with the same uncomplicated joy I felt on that pond… it’s like seeing a ghost.
A beautiful, heartbreaking ghost.
Darcy appears at my elbow, pulling me back from the darkness. "So. You got the big bad wolf to smile."
I tear my gaze away from the ice, my cheeks flushing. "Seems that way."
She smiles and gives me a bump with her elbow. "Is there anything you can't do?"
I don't have an answer for that.
Because watching Declan Morrison laugh, watching himplaywith those kids, watching him behuman...
It changes something.
It makes himreal.
And that's the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter 6
Declan
Afew hours after the team pitches in and helps clean up at the boardwalk, I can finally relax back at the mansion.
Diego's organized a dinner on the back deck, mostly because it's a calm evening, with barely a hint of the ocean breeze passing through the palms.
But also because… well, he's a fucking legend.
"Gentlemen!" Diego sweeps onto the deck carrying a pitcher of margaritas like he's serving royalty, one hand dramatically pressed to his hip. He sets the pitcher down on the table. "Fresh lime, top-shelf tequila, and a splash of magic because honestly, after watching you three stumble through basic human interaction all week, we all need something stronger than beer."
Beck somehow perks up from the fetal position he's held since he rolled through the door an hour ago. "Diego, you beautiful bastard, I could kiss you right now."
"Please don't," Diego replies, arranging the glasses around the table. "I just got this shirt pressed, and your breath still smells like whatever that food truck tries to pass off asfood."
Mason chuckles from his spot across the table. "Says the guy who's emotionally attached to that greasy takeout bag you've been hoarding."
