Page 29 of Over the Line

Craws groaned and rolled his eyes.

I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “What happened in the shootout?”

Everyone tried talking over each other, but Craws said, “Nothing that hasn’t happened to every hockey player at some point.”

“Well, yeah,” Chris deadpanned. “In juniors.”

“It happened to me in U14.” Temo looked at Driscoll, who was sitting in a recliner and chuckling. “Has it happened to you at this level?”

“Nope.” Driscoll shook his head slowly. “I think the last time was in U12.”

Craws huffed out a sharp breath. “You’re all dicks. You know that?”

Everyone shrugged without an ounce of repentance.

Still laughing, my son turned to me. “Craws was our third shooter in a shootout, and instead of, you know, getting the puck, he overskated it.”

Craws brought his beer up for a sip and grumbled, “Fucking bullshit.”

Chris snickered again. “At practice the next morning, we gave him a goalie stick with a big piece of cardboard taped to the plastic. Said that should help him actually get the puck next time.”

“Yeah,” Craws muttered, “and Coach made me play with it during practice. I hate all of you.”

That had the players in the room howling, and I laughed along. Never a dull moment among people in this sport, that was for sure.

The game on TV continued, but about halfway through the second quarter, Chris’s phone pinged. He looked at the screen, frowned, and then left the room, striding out like he was in a hurry. I watched him go, uneasiness coiling beneath my ribs. That was… odd. Should I go after him? See what was up?

No. No, he would’ve said if he wanted me to get involved. Best bet—stay put and follow his lead, no matter how twitchy I was while he was gone.

When he returned a few minutes later, the worry on his face instantly had my head swimming with kneejerk worst-case scenarios. I got up and crossed the room.

“Everything okay?”

“Kind of, but…” He gestured over his shoulder. “Jasmine’s really not feeling well. I think I better take her home.”

“Is she okay? Do we need to take her to the⁠—”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He shook his head, worry still etched all over his features. “She’s just really nauseous, and all the food smells aren’t helping.”

That definitely tracked—his mother had spent two of her four pregnancies absolutely green around the gills.

“Okay.” I nodded as my panic ticked down. “Let me grab our jackets, and we can⁠—”

“You don’t have to leave,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to drag you out before anyone’s even had dinner.”

I was about to insist I didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving away from him—this was a family holiday, after all—but I hesitated. Something about his tone and body language suggested he didn’t want me to leave with them. Not necessarily because he didn’t want me there, but if I had to guess, because he didn’t want to overstimulate Jasmine. If she was feeling as awful as my ex-wife sometimes had, she probably wanted to be around as few people as humanly possible.

“I, uh… I rode in with you, but… I suppose I can get an Uber?”

Chris’s brow pinched. “You don’t mind? It’s not that I don’t want you to come with us, but Jasmine’s really feeling shitty and⁠—”

“I understand.” I squeezed his arm. “She’s probably wishing she could teleport home without anyone there, including you.”

At that, he managed a nervous laugh. “Probably, yeah. But… you’re really okay with it? With staying here?” He glanced around. “You don’t really know anybody.”

I shrugged. “I’ll manage. I’ve gotten to know a few people at games.”

“Oh. Okay.”