Page 43 of Puck, Marry, Kill

She tilts her head, her eyes unyielding.

“Fine. Thank you for the game. Good night.” I hold up a fist for him to bump on his way back toward the hallway, but he pauses and looks back at me. “Can you tuck me in?”

Other than the flip-flop my belly does, I freeze. I have never tucked someone in before. I’m not sure I even know how to do it right.

Briar looks at me questioningly and then starts to say, “Oh, he doesn’t—”

But I interrupt her, not able to disappoint Harley, who’s looking at me hopefully. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do that.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, not sure at all. Is there rocking involved? Or books to read? I try to think back to my parents tucking me into bed, but those memories are lost to time and youth.

“Yeah!” Harley grabs my hand, virtually dragging me down the hall.

Harley’s room is navy and gray, with a plaid comforter on his tiny twin-size bed. Then again, he’s not all that large himself. There’s a nightstand and a wall-mounted desk, and those small pieces fill the space completely.

He climbs into bed and I lay the comforter over him, figuring that’s tucked in. “Thanks for coming to the game. I appreciate the friendly faces in the crowd tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” he answers, but as I go to the door, he adds, “Wait! Where are you going? We have to cricket.”

“We have to what?” I ask, certain I must’ve misheard him.

Cricket is a game. One I don’t play.

Cricket is an animal. One I don’t hear.

Cricket is definitely a noun, though Harley seems to be using it as a verb.

“Cricket,” he repeats as if I’m stupid. Maybe I am? Is this part of tucking in that I’ve forgotten? “Lie down.”

“Uhm . . .”

“Take your shoes off. Mom says no shoes on the bed.”

I nod. “She’s right.” I don’t lie down, though. Instead, I sit at the foot of Harley’s bed and toe my tennis shoes off. “Now what?”

“We cricket. Close your eyes, rub your feet together like a cricket, and slow count to ten while you think about your day. Then you tell me the best part of your day and I’ll tell you the best part of mine.”

Of course. Cricket. Doesn’t everyone do this?

Assuming I’ve understood what is obvious to him and foreign to me, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Slowly, I let my eyes fall closed, though I peek once—okay, twice—to make sure he’s not fucking with me. But his eyes are closed and his lips are moving as he silently counts to ten, so I breathe and count too.

“You go first,” Harley tells me.

“The best part of my day was skating around the ice before the game, hearing you call my name, and seeing you and your mom sitting in the crowd. I was nervous tonight, something I haven’t been in a long time. But you two being there made me feel like everything was going to be okay, win or lose.”

He smiles softly. “The best part of my day was—”

I already know what he’s going to say—the game. Front row seats at a league game is a pretty special experience, so it’s completely warranted.

“How many times Mom smiled at the game. She did it a lot, likea lot, a lot.” The emphasis he places on that tells me how many times Briar must’ve grinned while watching the game. Or was she watching me?

“Hockey makes me smile too,” I tease. Am I pumping the kid for information? Absolutely, and I feel no guilt over it because the woman waiting in the living room makes me smile a ridiculously crazy number of times too. No small feat on a typical day, and when I’ve been traded away from home, almost impossible. But she makes the impossible, possible.

“She should do that more,” he says seriously. He’s fidgeting with the comforter and won’t meet my eyes.

“I think everyone could do with a few more smiles, but I know one thing that always makes your mom happy.” He glances up questioningly. “You.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, kid,” I assure him. “Now, get some shut-eye.”