The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Coach Wilson is out for blood. And once again, it seems the only blood that’ll satisfy his vampiric urges is our own.

He’s been in a mood the last week, driving us in practices, demanding one-on-ones with everyone, and reviewing footage like he’s getting paid by the second.

“Questions?” he asks the team, who’s gathered in a conference room at the local ice rink, as he turns off the projector and gestures for someone at the back to turn the lights on.

Shepherd raises his hand like this is elementary school math class. Coach points at him. “You worried we’re not ready for the Rockets?” Shep looks concerned, but also primed and ready to alleviate any of Coach’s doubts.

Coach’s face turns a scary shade of red. “We’d better be because Jenkins will make sure they’re ready for us.”

Coach Jenkins is the newly promoted head coach of the Radio City Rockets. They’re not our team nemesis, but Coach Wilson and Jenkins have gone at it before. As in, last season they memorably spent minutes screaming at each other through the glass that separates our two benches before simultaneously climbing over the glass to start throwing punches like a couple of pro wrestlers in a cage match. Eventually, the referees broke them apart, but it seems Coach is not looking to repeat that action.

“Heard.” Shep’s answer triggers a chorus of echoes, each of us ready to go into battle to defend our coach’s honor and reputation. “Everyone, hit the showers, ice baths, saunas, or whatever the hell Fritzi has you doing for your own damn good. Practice at dawn tomorrow.”

A groan rises up around the room. “Dawn?” someone repeats.

Shep grins wolfishly. “Dawn or ten a.m., whichever comes later.”

Chuckles erupt. “That’s more like it!”

We begin to disperse, and I hear my name. “Days, a minute please?” I follow the sound to see Coach Wilson deadeye staring me down and waving me over.

Shit. What does he want? I’m killing myself out there and blocking everything the guys throw at me, which maybe doesn’t bode well for scoring, but at least makes it more certain that we won’t lose by the other team racking up points.

“Coach?” I answer, sitting down across the table from him.

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ve been hot and cold this season,” he starts. I want to refute his analysis, but the truth is, he’s right, so there’s no use in trying to play it off. I grit my teeth and don’t respond. “Whatever it takes, be hot this weekend. I need you on fire, like a funeral pyre for Jenkins out there. I want a big, fucking goose egg next to the Rockets’ name on the scoreboard. Nothing gets past you, no matter what. I don’t care if you have to break your neck, move the goal, or build a plywood wall. Got it?”

I give him a clipped nod. “Understood, Coach.”

Hopeful that the pep talk is all he wanted with me, I start to stand, but he holds up a staying hand. “Also, what’re you doing over winter break? You going home for Christmas?”

That’s two weeks from now. Mom and June will expect me home, but if there’s something Coach needs, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. As long as he doesn’t tell me to not come back in the new year. That order I’d willfully ignore, so I pray he’s not asking for that. “What do you need from me?”

He rolls his eyes, suddenly looking older and more tired than he has in ages. “You know the hockey training camp we do every winter?”

I nod. It’s a solid eight-hour day of goodwill, community outreach, and insanity that we offer every year to local schools. Kids sign up to “practice like the pros,” tour our training facility, and skate on official Moose ice with the team. “Of course. Been on my calendar since last year, right before family time.”

“Good. Hoped you were planning to go because they’ve had a lot of interest and want a goalie-specific pathway for the kids this time.”

I would’ve fucking loved something like that as a kid. I knew I was a goalie since the second year I played, but the training and camps Mom would put me in focused on all-around skills. And since hockey has five people on the ice who aren’t wearing sofa cushions taped to their legs, that’s where the majority of time was spent. While yeah, there’s a lot of crossover, each position requires specialty talents that should be fostered.

“Yeah, I’d love to help with that,” I tell Coach instantly, already thinking up ways to drill the kids, practice blocks, and help them be long-term, healthy goalies.

He grins, and I feel like I won the lottery. Pleasing your coach is ingrained in athletes from day one. He knows best, and you have to respect that. And him. No matter what.

“Glad to hear it. DeBoer will help you with it,” he adds, popping my bubble of happiness in a blink.

My smile falls and I sigh.

Coach leans forward, planting his elbows on the table. “Look, Days. You and I both know you’re leaving here soon. One way”—he holds his right hand out wide, then does the same with his left—“or another. You’re going up or going out. I sincerely hope it’s up, and if you keep playing hot, it will be. I’m damn sure of that because you’re one of the best goalies I’ve had the pleasure of coaching.” He pauses, letting the rare compliment sink into my thick skull. “But I need to plan for the future, and I want DeBoer on your ass, learning everything he can from you for as long as possible. Damn kid’s like a puppy, pissing on the rug and running around the yard eating dandelions. Train him for me. Let him be a part of the legacy you leave at Maple Creek Moose, no matter where you go. What do you say?”

I can feel myself being manipulated and want to say fuck no. I want to shove DeBoer in a locker and throw away the key. What comes out of my mouth is, “Heard, Coach.”

At the end of the day, he’s right. I might get that call I’ve always wanted, or my knee might blow out, or in a few years, I might decide I’ve had enough. And if DeBoer fucks up all the hard work I’ve put into this team by being a shitty goalie that lets pucks through like a bouncer at a dive bar, I’ll be pissed as hell. So yeah, I’ll make sure I leave the team in a good position when I’m gone.

Yearsss from now.

Coach dips his chin in recognition. “Also, you’ve got sixty kids signed up for goalie camp, so you might need a little help.”

Oh shit! “Did you say sixty? Like six-zero?”

Coach’s grin is maniacal. “Yep, kids signing up from the whole tristate area to learn from the great Dalton Days. It could be good PR for you too. I’ll have to ask Barlowe if his sister might do a spotlight on the camp.” He hums thoughtfully, making a note to himself on the pad of paper in front of him, and my heartrate ticks up to a pace that’d have Fritzi reaching for an EKG monitor.

When Coach looks up again, he seems surprised to see me still sitting here. “That’s it,” he says, dismissing me. When I stand, he adds, “Remember, we need you hot. Do whatever you need to do so that you’re ready.” He taps his temple and then bumps his fist against his chest. “Mentally, physically, be ready.”

He has no idea what he’s instructing me to do. None whatsoever. But honestly, he wouldn’t care if he did know. If Coach thought fucking my way through the lineup of Moosettes was what could make me a brick wall in front of the goal, he’d buy me a mega box of condoms himself and coordinate the time schedule.

Anything for the game.

It’s ingrained in us.

Luckily, it won’t take that. I only need to take it up a notch with one woman. Which sounds like it’d be easier, but is infinitely harder considering that woman is Joy Barlowe.

I throw open my locker and grab my wallet, huge water bottle, and truck keys. When I slam it closed, Shepherd is standing on the other side, leaning back against the row of lockers like he’s got nothing but time.

“Fuck!” I hiss, jumping a foot in the air.

He laughs hard, his grin stretching his mouth wide and flashing the white grin a local dentist sponsors. Seriously. Shepherd’s in their ads now, wearing full Moose regalia and proclaiming Dr. Payne keeps his teeth ice-bright. “You should’a seen your face, man! Gotcha!” He’s wheezing from laughing so hard.

I shove him out of my way. “Knew you were there, but your face is fucking terrifying. Definitely a mug only a mother could love.”

I’m totally bullshitting and we both know it. Shepherd Barlowe is the sole reason our social media ever gets any traction. They pop him up there for a thirty-second video and suddenly, comments come streaming in saying “Daddy,” “Can I play with your stick?” and “Where’s Maple Creek? I need to know where to forward my mail after the wedding.” I’m pretty sure Shep’s personal inbox gets some extra attention from those posts, too, though he’s never said as much.

“Things cool with Coach?” he says, keeping his voice low in consideration of the other players still wrapping up to leave.

I shrug, acting like the meeting was no big deal even though it felt like a roller coaster with no seat belt to hold you to the seat. “Yeah. He told me to block everything. Duh. And wants me to lead a goalie section at the kid camp.”

“Oh, that’s good,” he replies, looking relieved.

I’m obviously not the only one worried about my place on the team beyond this season.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to lead a goalie section with DeBoer as I take him under my wing to guide him to greatness,” I deadpan. We both cut our eyes toward DeBoer’s locker, where he’s standing stark naked, flipping through TikToks like it’s his job and sole purpose in life. In his defense, there’s an outside chance he’s watching videos of the Rockets. More likely, he’s watching thirst traps of women doing viral dances.

“Shiiiit. Sorry, man,” Shep offers. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep me from killing him? I wouldn’t do well in prison. I’d look like shit in orange.”

“Unless Philadelphia calls. You’d wear orange like it’s your favorite if they wanted you,” he argues, grinning because he knows he’s right. I’d wear orange every single fucking day to play for an NHL team.

“What if they don’t?” I ask him quietly, staring at the floor. “What if no one calls me up?”

I’ve considered it a million times. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, and it hurts more than I thought it would.

“Then it’s their fucking loss, man,” Shep reassures me, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “And you play your ass off as a Moose, making that goal your Last Stand and winning the fucking playoffs.”

I meet his eyes, so familiar and blue . . . like his sister’s. I clear my throat. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, man. Having some come to Jesus realizations here, but as always, you’re right.”

I’m trying to downplay the rare vulnerability, but Shepherd knows. He understands. He’s been at this game a long time, too, and he’s not much younger than me.

“Let’s grab dinner.” He’s not asking, but rather telling me that it’s happening. “Been missing you, man. Need a chance to fill you in on what’s been keeping me so busy lately.”

His latest and greatest, I imagine. Shepherd dates more seriously than I ever have. He’s a relationship type, unlike me, but his first love has always been and always will be . . . hockey. It’ll take a special woman to understand that, and though he hasn’t found her yet, I know he’s looking. His ovaries are ticking loudly, no matter what he told his parents at Thanksgiving. He wants the whole picket fence thing.

I almost say no. Sitting at a table and discussing his love life over chicken and veggies while hiding what I’m doing with Joy sounds like hell. And heightens the betrayal of our friendship. In a way, I’m deluding myself into thinking that if I don’t lie outright to Shepherd, it’s magically not as bad. But the truth is, it is.

And I have missed him. He’s my best friend, and I’ve been avoiding him. Until now.

“Sure. First round’s on me,” I answer, knowing that we’re allowed only one beer anyway.

As hard as it’s going to be, I’m going to have to keep my mouth shut about Joy and me. Especially when I need her to stay hot on the ice.

But that’s not all it is with us. It hasn’t been for a while, at least not for me. That’d be an even more dangerous thing to tell Shep, though. He’d be pissed if I was fucking his sister. He’d be lethal if he found out I’m falling in love with her.