Page 42 of Puck, Marry, Kill

Kipson looks like Anderson just slapped him with his words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish ripped out of the water. I’d put odds at fifty-fifty on whether Kipson’s going to punch Anderson or collapse from the weight of the regret he’s been carrying.

“Your life is shit. Empty, hollow, meaningless shit,” he says quietly, intensely, instead. Kipson means every word of it, no holds barred. I happen to agree with him, but for the moment, I stay quiet, watching this play out, along with the rest of the team.

Anderson laughs. “But it sure is fun,” he brags, looking around for support. There are a few awkward chuckles, but nobody rushes to fully agree. Anderson doesn’t care, though. “Whatever. You know the drill. Hockey first, yourself second, women ... well, they’re like item ten on the priority list. Right, Coach?”

I follow Anderson’s line of sight to see Coach Boothe standing in the doorway of his office. How much did he hear of Kipson and Anderson’sdiscussion? Judging by the stern set of his jaw? Enough.

Coach probably doesn’t think so, but I’m doing exactly what he brought me here to do—fix Kipson. I just might break a few otherthings in the process. What’s that saying? You’ve got to break a few eggs to make a cake? Well, I’m breaking egos to make a team.

Hopefully.

Briar’s neighborhood is filled with small homes. Some are more rundown than others, but all in all, it seems safe. As I count down the numbers to the address she sent, I already know which house is hers. It’s got to be the one with potted flowers on either side of the front door. There’s a level of care and warmth that makes the little yellow-and-white house stand out.

Yep, unless she has neighbors who also happen to love animals a lot, the one with a wreath on the door made out of every animal print ribbon in existence and proclaimingWelcome! It’s basically a zoo heremust be Briar’s.

I knock, my nerves already settling as if they know we’re close to her.

“Hey!” she says, swinging open the door.

She looks gorgeous. Still in my jersey—which does things to me I should probably deny—with her hair down around her shoulders, fresh gloss on her smiling lips, and a sparkle in her blue eyes.

“Hey. Like the wreath.” I flick one of the zebra-print ribbons.

“Thanks. I won it in a raffle at work.” She looks at the wreath fondly. “Only cost me fifty bucks in tickets. And we do not discuss that I could’ve bought the ribbon and made it myself for half that.” She gives me a warning glare, probably thinking it looks threatening, but it’s too cute to actually intimidate anyone. Especially me.

“What I’m hearing is that you donated money to a great cause.”

“Ooh, yeah. I like that,” she says, appreciating my point of view. “Come on in.”

I step immediately into her living room, which is small but cozy, with a couch and a TV on a wood cabinet right next to the door. Beyond that, I can see her kitchen, and there’s a hallway off to the left. Everything is in shades of green with tan and white accents and obviously cared for, withlittle touches like throw pillows on the furniture and pictures on the walls. It feels ... alive. Like she and Harley don’t just exist in these walls, they’ve created a home here.

I’m struck with a sense of homesickness.

I grew up like this. With a mother who cared enough to put my crappy art on the fridge, start Crock-Pot dinners in the morning so we’d have a warm meal after practices that always ran late, and made sure I felt loved every day without fail.

Briar is that type of mother too. Harley is a lucky kid.

I really need to call my mom tomorrow.

“Thanks for letting me come over. Tonight was a surreal experience.”

I don’t get a chance to explain because a voice down the hall says, “Dom?” A split second later, a torpedo hits me full force in the chest and a vise wraps around my waist. Damn, even the Devils didn’t hit this hard.

“Hey, kid,” I say, patting Harley on the head. The hug feels like a huge leap forward in our friendship. And also, his hair is sopping wet. “Did you have fun at the game?”

“So much fun!” he informs me at approximately one hundred decibels. “It was awesome! And we won!”

I laugh, nodding. “We did.”

“We?” Briar echoes quietly, giving me atold you solook.

She’s right. There’s no sense in denying that the Blizzard is my team now. I might not like it, or like all of my teammates, but it’s where I’m at, so I might as well roll with it.

“Blizzard Blast!” Harley shouts, mimicking the animation that plays on the jumbotron of the team’s polar bear mascot throwing snowballs. Basically, he’s wildly waving his arms through the air like a windmill.

“Whoa. Alright, say thank you and good night to Dominic, and then it’s bedtime for anyone under ten years old. Whoops! Looks like that’s”—Briar looks around the room dramatically, then points at Harley—“you.”

“Mom!”