The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“How do I look?” Hope asks, spinning away from the mirror in my bedroom.

I scan my sister from head to toe, taking in her boots, flannel-lined jeans, heavy sweater, matching scarf and hat, and coat thrown over her arm. She’s dressed basically the same as Rayleigh and me.

“You look great. I think blue’s your vibe,” Rayleigh answers from her perch on the bed.

I can’t help but smile at the exchange between my sister and best friend. But I still put my two cents in. “Ben’s gonna think it’s too much color, but who cares what he thinks?” I tease, knowing Hope absolutely cares what her husband thinks. The good thing is, he loves to see her in anything . . . or nothing at all. Or so I’ve heard.

“What’s your husband’s deal?” Rayleigh wonders aloud, tilting her head.

Hope and I lock eyes in an instant, our twin-lepathy shouting between us.

No, she doesn’t know who Ben really is.

Are you sure? Did you tell her? Joy!

I swear I didn’t.

Joyyy . . .

“I mean, does he realize there’s literally an entire spectrum of colors to choose from? How could he limit himself to black when there are so many options?” Rayleigh continues.

I swear Hope’s shoulders drop a solid inch lower in relief that her husband’s secret alter-ego is safe and Rayleigh’s only concern is the lack of variety in his wardrobe.

I hold up a finger to tell Hope that I’ve got this, and I ask Rayleigh, “You know how you choose your outfit on the vibe?” She nods, looking down at her white sweater and jeans that I’d bet felt “snowy” to her when she got dressed. “Ben’s vibe is all black. Like the fabric of his soul resonates with it.” I press my palm over my heart to emphasize the depth of what I’m saying.

Rayleigh hums thoughtfully, as if I’ve imparted some deep, spiritual, ancient wisdom with my words.

“We should get going.” Hope’s urgency is underscored by a glance at her wrist even though she’s not wearing a watch. She’s not worried we’ll be late, but rather, is trying to cut off any further conversation about Ben’s wardrobe choices.

Rayleigh pops up. “Ready! I’m so excited. I’ve never been ice skating before.”

This weekend is the Maple Creek Winter Festival. It’s one of the biggest events on the town calendar, and a major tourism generator. There will be activities all over town, including caroling downtown on Friday and Saturday, a tree-lighting ceremony tonight, and there was a parade this morning. And my brother of all people organized a friendly outing of ice skating today, so we’re going to the specially set up outdoor rink that’s part of the festival. It’ll be the core crew of his Moose player friends—Dalton included—plus me, Rayleigh, and Hope and Ben, who’re here for the holidays.

“What?” I look at Raleigh with wide eyes. “You didn’t mention that tidbit when I asked if you wanted to come.”

She shrugs. “I did want to come. I want to try it. New experiences, ya know?” She walks out of my bedroom, and Hope and I meet eyes behind her.

“This’ll be fun,” Hope whispers.

As it turns out, we didn’t need to worry.

For one, Rayleigh catches on to ice skating quickly. For two, it’s not because Hope or I teach her, but rather because Max is steadying her, holding her gloved hands in his own to create a frame to help her balance as he guides her around the rink.

“Figured you would’ve volunteered as tribute,” Dalton goads Shep, who’s been watching Max’s progress—or lack thereof—with Rayleigh. Because while he’s gotten her steady on the thin blades beneath her feet, she’s kept things pretty casual and friendly, not glomming on to Max the way some women do. I think she’s truly looking for friends in town and am happy she fits in with everyone so readily.

“Figured I’d better keep you in line,” Shep jokes back. “Wouldn’t want you making out with the ice skate rental girl behind the counter.” He laughs, and Dalton’s eyes jump to me before he chuckles along hollowly.

He’s keeping us a secret, the way I asked him to.

We’ve talked about this over the last couple of weeks as I’ve admitted to myself, and finally to him, that this is more than a casual fling, and definitely more than a superstition. In fact, my routine has basically become rushing out after my eleven o’clock report, heading to Dalton’s or meeting him at my place, where we talk, eat, flirt, and fuck every night. We wake up together, have breakfast before he runs out to practice, and then do the whole thing over again.

It’s exciting, and I know Dalton would shout from the rooftops if I’d let him.

But I’m not ready.

Not when the holidays are literally right around the corner and the Moose are having an amazing season. Telling Shepherd about Dalton and me puts both of those things in jeopardy, so Dalton’s agreed to wait a little longer, teasing that he’s never been anyone’s dirty little secret before. I joked back that while he might be dirty and a secret, there’s absolutely nothing little about him.

Still, my choice to keep quiet is going to make this entire outing a bit awkward, especially when my brother’s suggesting my boyfriend—boyfriend!—would make out with other women if left unsupervised.

Plus, Hope’s grinning at me like she’s already figured me out even though I haven’t told her yet either. I trust her, but she’s staying at Mom and Dad’s until Christmas, and I didn’t want her to worry about keeping my secret. I figured I’d tell her later . . . like after she and Ben head home and she can’t brag too much about having been right all those weeks ago.

Her twin-lepathy comes through loud and clear though as she stares at me . . . Knew I was right!

I glare at her . . . Shut up!

This conversation’s not over.

Fine.

“You’re doing the silent-talking thing again,” Shep says, pointing at Hope and then me. “As a fellow Barlowe sibling, I feel left out.” He thrusts his bottom lip out, pouting dramatically. I don’t think he actually feels left out. It’s the same ploy he used with Mom and Dad when he’d get mad that we were talking without him. They’d tell us to use our words, he’d arrogantly smirk at having gotten his way, and then we’d all go on doing exactly what we were doing before he tuned into our A-B conversation and wanted to C his way into it.

“Fine. Joy, skate with me.” Hope stands as she extends the invi-told-tion my way.

Guess I’ll be telling her sooner rather than later.

We leave the remaining guys to talk about hockey, which Ben will totally hate, and hit the ice. We’re barely ten feet away when Hope grabs my hand and orders, “Spill it.”

“What?” I feign stupidity and she squeezes my hand. Hard. “Ouch, fine. When did you get so bossy? That’s my role. You’re the sweet one. I’m the bitch.”

“No, you’re not. And quit deflecting and tell me what that look was between you and Dalton.”

“Ssshhh!” I hiss. “Someone will hear you.”

She spins, skating backward so she can look me in the eye. “Did you finally figure out you like him?”

I look over my shoulder, finding Dalton’s eyes easily because he’s watching me and Hope with one brow sharply lifted. He smirks like he knows I’m going to cave and tell her. I stick my tongue out at him.

“Ooh, figured out you like each other, I see,” Hope amends.

“We’re seeing how things go,” I admit.

“Okayyy,” she drawls, nodding slowly. “Are we feeling casual fuckboy vibes or serious dun-dun-da-dun vibes? Vibes, get it? I’m being actively influenced by Rayleigh, who’s awesome by the way.”

All the blood rushes from my face, and a pit opens up in my stomach. “Why are those the only two options? I need something in the middle, like solidly in the middle. Yellow double lines, do not cross, kind of in the middle.”

Hope grins as she pirouettes, then comes back to skate at my side. “That was more revealing than I’d hoped it’d be. I figured you’d punch me for even suggesting the m word.”

“We’re dating.”

It’s the first time I’ve said it. First time I’ve told anyone. I thought it’d feel different than it does. More stupid-girl and less happy-drunk. But happy is what I feel as my belly goes fizzy and heat flushes my cheeks. I don’t bother trying to hide the smile stretching my lips wide.

“I’m happy for you,” Hope says earnestly. “What about the no-athlete thing?” She screws her face up that she even has to ask, but I can read her concern for me, and she’s asking in love.

“I still don’t like it,” I admit. “It makes me nervous, mostly because I’ve worked too hard to be reduced to nothing more than a WAG. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I quickly amend, given my sister’s complete dedication as a Wife-And-Girlfriend to her husband’s career.

She waves me off, not offended in the slightest. “Nobody’s gonna think less of you because you fell in love with someone who shares your passion for hockey. As long as you don’t parade him into the studio for weekly game chats, nobody’ll give a shit who you go home to after you do the sports report.”

I wish that were true. Some people won’t care. Others will see it as the reason I played at liking sports to begin with—nothing more than a tactic to snag a hot husband and get that MRS degree. People like Steve Milligan, who think I don’t belong in sports at all and would expect me to eagerly fall into a WAG role.

“Well, there goes my big plan. I thought we could do a game analysis from my bedroom after every game. Maybe wearing team-themed lingerie. No?” I deadpan, and Hope laughs the way I knew she would.

“God, he must have nerves of steel to deal with you,” she says lovingly as she shakes her head.

“Deal with me?” I balk. “Maybe I’m the one struggling to deal with his grumpy ass, ya ever think of that?”

Hope laughs again. “He could be the grumpiest of assholes—which to be clear, I don’t think he is—and you’d still be the harder one to handle.”

“I don’t want someone to handle me or control me or whatever the hell that means. I want someone who will watch me do my thing, no matter how stupid, ill-advised, or illegal it may be, and still go ‘that’s my girl!’ with a smile on his face.”

“And that’s Dalton?” Hope clarifies.

I blink, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. I stare at her, all my gobs smacked and flabbers gasted. “It’s Dalton,” I whisper.

“Then I’m happy for you,” she repeats. “What about Shepherd?”

“We’re not telling him.”

She presses her lips into a flat line, her eyes drifting across the ice to our brother. “Can I give you some advice?” she asks. I nod, knowing she’s going to regardless of my answer. “Don’t wait too long. He’s gonna be hurt that both of you hid something this major from him. But that hurt? It’s gonna look a whole lot like anger.”

“You think we should tell him now?”

Her shrug is heavy. “I don’t know. Only you know if you’re ready for that, but don’t wait too long. Though before taking my advice, you should know that I almost choked to death last week because I was drinking the crumbs out of a Pringles can and inhaled some barbecue dust into my lungs. Probably have orange lung disease now.” She fakes a cough. “So your mileage may vary with advice from me.”

“Choked on chip dust? Is that some fancy LA slang for drugs? Are you doing drugs, Hope?” I ask in obvious confusion, forgetting the advice angle for a moment as I consider almost losing my twin sister in a freak chip accident.

She laughs. “I wish. I literally mean Pringles crumbs. But think about telling Shep,” she reminds me.

We skate a bit longer, making easy loops around the rink and avoiding the dwindling mass of people. I try not to look at Dalton every time we pass the area where he, Shep, Randall, and Ben are sitting, but I only succeed about half the time.

On one pass, Rayleigh and Max wave at us, then point to the table of hot cocoas they ordered after finishing their laps around the ice. Not needing to be told twice, Hope and I head that way in unison.

“Thanks,” Hope says, picking up a steaming Styrofoam cup. She perches in Ben’s lap, leaving one chair for me. The one right next to Dalton.

I give her a pointed look as I pick up a cup of my own. Be discreet! I remind her.

She tries to hide her smile behind her cup, but my sister is awful at hiding anything.

“What’re you two up to?” Shep demands, eyeing me and Hope with open suspicion.

“Us?” I challenge quickly, taking the attention from Hope, who will melt like a snowman in June under the slightest pressure. “What’re you up to? Shouldn’t you be watching film for tomorrow’s game? I hear the Mountaineers are gunning for you, ready for a rematch from last season.”

It works like a charm. Shepherd balks, openly scorning the Mountaineers’ defensive line. “We can take them with our eyes closed and hands tied behind our backs.”

“How would you hold your stick?” Ben wonders, smiling because he knows Shep will insist he’d find a way. Winning at all costs is one of his many mottos.

“He’d put it up his ass,” I answer for my brother, “and twerk it to the goal.”

“Fuck, that’s an image no one needs in their brain,” Dalton grunts, clearly revolted by the idea. “Shep doesn’t have enough rhythm to twerk.” He snaps his fingers, acting like he’s struggling to find the beat in some imaginary music.

“Probably why he’s shit in the sack,” Randall teases.

Everyone’s laughing at my brother’s expense, even him. But the most important thing is that Shepherd’s concern that Hope and I are up to something is forgotten.

I meet Dalton’s eyes over my cup, raising my brows. That was a close one!