The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“Ready?” I ask DeBoer, who has the distinct look of fear in his eyes. But he nods stoically.

I understand his horror because there’s absolutely no way this is sixty kids. It’s got to be six hundred at least. And they’re all shouting bruh and trying to do some weird robot-looking dance while on skates with weapons in their hands.

In short, goalie camp is gonna be fucking awesome.

I tap the blade of my stick on the ice sharply, getting everyone’s attention. “Gather ’round. Let’s get started!”

I’m surrounded by kids in full gear, ranging in age from seven to fourteen. Naturally, the shorter ones shoot to the inner circle, and the taller kids line up outside them so everyone can see. I nod in approval as I look over the crowd.

“Morning, guys. I’m Dalton Days, goalie for the Maple Creek Moose. This is Eric DeBoer, also a goalie for the Moose.” DeBoer waves and flashes a smile when I point his way. “Today we’re gonna walk you through drills, skills, and training that’s designed to make you better on the ice, in front of the goal, and with the puck. Now, some of you might feel like you’re better than some of the easy drills.” I cast a dark look across the kids, some of whom are smirking like I’m talking about them. “Let me assure you—you’re not. They’re ones professionals do regularly. The foundational basics are always worth practicing because they’re how you improve the more complex movements you’ll need to make as the game gets tougher. Heard?”

“Heard!” a chorus chants out.

“Form up in lines, starting on that goal line, ten across, six deep. Stand with people you don’t know if possible.” The kids scatter to follow my instructions, and as they find a place along one end of the ice, I keep going. “Elevated shuffle to the far red. Hips square, full blade, keep it tight with no excess energy expenditure. This is not the time to show off. We’re warming up. Go on my call.” The kids know what to do because most of them have done this since they could walk. “Go.”

The first group of ten starts down the ice, their back skate driving them forward over and over again.

I watch the line for issues, then call out “go” again for the next group.

Once everyone’s to the far end, we repeat the drill coming back using their other leg.

“Good. Now shuffle push to blue on your pads. Keep your chest up. Go.”

The kids drop to one knee and do the same single leg push but in a kneeling position on the ice, and then repeat it back.

I look over to DeBoer, who thankfully is watching the kids critically. I was a little afraid he’d be too busy on his phone to actually help, but so far, he’s been helpful in planning the drills with me ahead of time and as a second set of eyes this morning.

We split the group in half, each of us taking a smaller section for the next drill, which is all about keeping their eyes on the puck. Once I’ve got a circle of kids stretching from board to board, I skate into the middle, the same way DeBoer does with his group. But this is no dance show-off moment for me and him to battle it out. We drop a puck to the ice and without warning, shoot it off toward a kid at random.

DeBoer’s intended kid blocks his shot, and DeBoer waves for him to return it with a stiff nod of approval. My kid lets the puck go sailing past him. “Get it,” I tell him, and he skates off to retrieve the puck. “Always be ready,” I tell him when he returns, and the kid pops into position.

We keep at it, hitting the puck to kids for nearly five minutes while they rapidly respond by blocking with their sticks, dropping to butterflies, and focusing on all the ways the puck might come at them. DeBoer is especially good at sending the puck flying sideways, which keeps the kids on their toes because he doesn’t even look at them before it’s sailing between their legs. He’s a damn good goalie, but apparently he’s got some offensive skills I haven’t seen him use before.

After the kids think they’ve figured us out, DeBoer and I switch places, pausing to high-five one another at the center.

“Look out for the one in pink and black,” he tells me. “He sends it back like a rocket.”

I chuckle, eyeing the kid. “Thanks. Little man can handle more than you’d think. Don’t go easy on him.” I watch DeBoer’s eyes find the smallest kid in my group. He’s got to be at least seven years old to have signed up, but he’s tiny even in his full pads and gear so I sent him a couple of easy shots at first, thinking I’d be nice. But the kid’s form is perfect, and he’s got good instincts that held true when I sent harder shots his way too.

We go for another five minutes in our new groups, challenging the kids in new ways and encouraging them as they make good saves and tough misses.

After that, DeBoer and I take the kids through more drills, working on butterfly to recovery quickness, T pushes, and sliding until they’re all panting, sweating, and chugging water in exhaustion. But there are smiles all around. They know they’re getting better.

These kids love hockey the way I did when I was their age. The way I still do now.

Actually, DeBoer is smiling too.

I never really think about the fact that he’s a younger version of myself. When I joined the Moose, I was taking over for a retiring player so there was no rivalry, but the first team I played on, I was the backup goalie, the same way DeBoer is. I wonder if the main goalie, Jakobsen, felt as threatened by me back in those days as I do by DeBoer now. Did he hate me simply because I was a threat to his position? I try to remember if he was rude or dismissive to me, but I can’t think of a single time he was. In fact, Jakobsen taught me a lot, and I looked up to him as an idol in those early days.

A sense of shame washes over me.

We don’t have to be besties, but Coach Wilson is right and I should, at a minimum, be a better mentor for DeBoer. If not for his sake, for the love of the game and for my team.

“All right, who’s ready for some game time action?” I ask. A bunch of padded arms shoot into the air. “Split in half down the boards. Up to the goal, one at a time, and DeBoer and I will shoot at you. Block our shots . . . if you can.”

The kids laugh, several calling out things to the effect of “Challenge accepted!” and “Bring it on!”

The first kid takes position in front of the goal, and I hold up a hand. “What’s he doing wrong?” I ask the group, and the kids start to call out ways he can change his stance in front of the goal. He takes the helpful feedback, making the corrections. “Good. Now remember that when it’s your turn up. Every player who comes up, watch them critically. What’s good? What could be improved? How can you use that to better yourself?”

They nod, tuning in differently now. Not merely watching to see if their campmates block, but paying attention to how they do it as I shoot the puck at kid after kid.

After a bit, DeBoer and I switch places, and he continues the fun with the kids.

“Days!” a voice calls, and I turn.

Joy and her cameraman, Ellis, are standing on the edge of the ice behind me. She waves, but what I notice most is the way her smile lights up her face. “Keep going,” I tell DeBoer, and then I skate down the ice as fast as I can.

“Hey!” I say as I bump into the board to stop. My eyes roam over her, taking in her wavy hair, the way her dark liner makes her eyes look feline and sexy, and the glossy pink of her lips. She’s wearing a Moose-green sweater over a white-collared shirt, a delicate gold necklace, and black dress pants. It’s a different look than when I left her in bed this morning. Then, she was naked, her hair piled onto her head, and her mouth open as she snored softly in her sleep. I can’t decide which way I like her better. Honestly, I could drink her in no matter what she was or wasn’t wearing. I just like staring at her.

“Hi,” she says softly, her blue eyes taking me in too. I’m wearing workout clothes, not full pads, but I’m a sweaty mess after hours of practice with the kids. “Looks like you’re having fun out there,” she finally says. “Mind if we take some footage for the story on the camp?”

Coach Wilson did reach out to her about doing a special feature on the Moose camp, but it was after I’d already mentioned it to her and she’d excitedly called it a great idea. After she ran it by her boss, Greg, who agreed it’d be perfect for the holiday feel-good season, she’d come up with a plan, starting with video footage of the camp sessions, interviews with the parents and kids, and maybe a bit of behind-the-scenes with the players, a.k.a. me and DeBoer this morning, Shepherd and Hanovich this afternoon, and Voughtman and Pierre tomorrow.

“Not at all. All the parents signed waivers, and I think most of them are hoping to get their kid on the news as the next hockey phenom,” I tell her, glancing over my shoulder at the parents. “Let me rally them for you.”

Joy nods and turns to Ellis. “You ready for B-roll?”

The quiet man throws his camera to his shoulder, which seems to be answer enough.

I skate back to DeBoer and tell him what’s going on. “Every kid get a chance at goal?” Once he confirms they have, I say louder, “Circle up!”

As the kids surround us, I look them over. They look drained, but this should put a little spark of life back into them.

“Great job today, guys. One last thing . . . if you’re up for it . . .” I trail off and the kids nod eagerly. With a grin, I point toward Joy and Ellis. “See that lady down there? She’s from the local news station, does all the reporting on the Moose, and she’s doing a story on our hockey camp.” Whispers of excitement work their way through the group. “See the guy beside her? He’s recording for the story. Anybody want to maybe be on television a little bit?”

“I do!”

“Yes!”

A variety of other answers to the affirmative ring out, and I grin even wider.

“All right, remember the shuffle push drill from earlier? We’re doing that again, but this time, you’d better look like you learned something today,” I joke. “Line up on the far red.”

Kids scatter to the line as fast as they can. I look to Ellis, who gives a thumbs-up. “Go!” I shout, and the first batch of kids takes off. They definitely look better than they did this morning, and that’s after hours of grueling work. It’s amazing what the promise of a little face time on TV can pull out of them.

We have the kids do a few highlight moves of what we’ve learned today, all while Ellis videos them and Joy watches on with a smile. To be fair, I don’t think she’s watching the kids, but rather, is watching me with them. Or at least, I’d like to think she is.

When Ellis nods that he’s got enough, I wave at them and call the kids over to me and DeBoer once again while Ellis and Joy interview a few parents.

“Great work today, everyone! One thing I’d like you to pay extra attention to is . . . you were dog-tired after taking all those shots on your goal from me and DeBoer, yeah?” They nod, looking at each other in support. “But what happened when you heard there was an opportunity to be on the news?” I don’t wait for them to answer, but rather roll right into my pep talk. “You dug deeper, did more than you thought you could, and demonstrated what you’re truly capable of. Remember that? You don’t need a camera in your face to be your best. That’s your choice to make each and every time you skate onto the ice, go into a classroom at school, or tackle a new day in your life. You hold the power to do your best, so don’t let anyone stop you. Especially yourself.”

The kids clap politely and I dismiss them, truly hoping they heard me and use the lessons from today both on and off the ice. Several kids skate straight for their parents, grabbing gear for me and DeBoer to sign or their phones to take selfies with us. Some parents carefully walk onto the edge of the ice to take pictures with us too.

It takes a while, but eventually, the kids and parents clear out. DeBoer holds up a fist and I bump it with my own. “Thanks for today, man,” I tell him. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “I know you didn’t want me here.”

“Hey!” He glares at me, daring me to lie to his face, and I sigh. “You’re right. I didn’t want you here . . . at first. But you really came through today—in the planning and the execution. I think I’ve misjudged you, Eric, and I’m sorry.”

He flinches at my earnest apology, but then he smirks. “Why’re you calling me by my government name? You’re not my mom, Days.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “I thought you’d be a pain in my ass and spend the day trying to fuck the moms, but you didn’t, soooo . . . good job, I guess. Asshole.”

“That’s better,” he chuckles. “Good job to you, too, or whatever.” I think that’s it, but then he dryly adds, “I was afraid you’d be telling kids to fuck off and making them cry, and all the while, the moms would be fighting each other to be the first to throw their bras at you.”

I laugh hard at that.

In a twisted way, we’re calling a truce. We don’t have to trade braided friendship bracelets, but I’m not quite so pissed that DeBoer will fill my role one day. As long as it’s not soon, we can be chill. Hell, maybe I’ll even invite him to the next hotel hot tub meeting.

Nah, let’s not go that far.

“I’m out. Merry Christmas, Days.”

“You too,” I tell him. When I turn around, I see that Joy is sitting in the bleachers by herself. Ellis must’ve wrapped up when the parents and kids left.

I skate over to the board in front of her. “Wanna take a loop with me?” I ask.

She holds up her foot, showing me her New Balance tennis shoes. “No skates.”

“I’ve got you,” I say, holding a hand out.

She peers at me curiously, but she comes to me without hesitation. I pick her up over the wall easily and set her on the ice carefully. Facing her, I place my hands on her hips and lift her until her feet are on top of mine. “It’s like dancing,” I whisper in her ear.

“This is dangerous,” she says, looking around.

She doesn’t mean the tandem skating. She means doing this, here, where anyone could see us.

“Everyone’s gone. It’s just us.”

I move my feet carefully, and she follows my lead, feeling the flow as we move around the rink. I’m not a figure skater, have never pretended to be. I’m all speed and brute force on the ice, but with Joy, I feel different. I feel like I’m gliding gracefully with her in my arms.

I slow to a crawl, spinning us so that I’m skating backward. Looking down at her, I can’t help but smile. I think that’s all I do with her now . . . smile, grin, laugh. She’s somehow managed to turn me into Chuckles the Clown.

“What’re you looking at?” she asks.

This girl cannot be fishing for compliments. She knows she’s fucking gorgeous and is well aware that I’m completely gone for her.

“Pretty poison,” I answer, and her brows furrow in confusion. I pin her with my gaze, forcing her eyes to stay locked on mine. “You come with every warning label known to man on you . . . danger, caustic, may kill you if given half a chance. There’s only one problem with that.”

“One problem with me being poisonous?” she bites out sarcastically. Her brows have climbed her forehead, and fire is sparking in her eyes.

I run a thumb over her bottom lip, willing her sassy mouth to let me finish what I have to say. “Yeah, it’s a lie. You’re not poison at all. You’re like one of those Sour Patch Kid candies—caustic and sour as fuck on the outside, but once you get through that, you’re sweet on the inside. And I want to do it again and again, because I know I’m the only one who’s taken the time to go through the near-death experience that is Joy Barlowe to get to the good stuff.”

She frowns as she thinks about what I’ve said. “What if the sour part is the only good stuff?”

I shake my head. “It’s not. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good too—fun and challenging—but it’s not the best part. The best part is the secret side you hide from everyone else, but let me see because you trust me enough to let me in.”

I scoop her up to bring her mouth to mine, holding her body against me. The kiss is one of surrender—to the moment, to our feelings, and even to each other. I have completely and utterly fallen for this woman, who I fear still isn’t entirely sure about me. Oh, she’s let me in. Of that, I’m certain. But she’s holding back, the past still whispering in her ear. It doesn’t help that we’re hiding our relationship. I think if everyone knew I’m hers, she’d feel more secure, but she’s not ready, and though it frustrates me, I’ll respect her wishes.

Especially since it’s her brother. And her career.

“I should probably go,” she whispers, sounding like that’s the last thing she wants to do. “I told Ellis I’d go to the station to watch footage with him before we come back for this afternoon’s session.”

She’s not running away, but she’s slowing us down. I nod, skating us to the wall where I help her carefully step to the ice. To my surprise, she lifts to her toes and presses a quick kiss to my lips. “You looked so sexy out there. Not skating—I’ve seen you do that a million times. But with the kids and even DeBoer. You seemed different—mature, happy, confident.”

“Mature? Are you calling me old again?” I tease, though inside, I’m beaming at her compliment. I’ve done the hockey camp before, and usually I’m fairly indifferent to it. It’s a requirement, so I show up and do what’s expected. But this time I could really feel it, like my love for the game was driving me, so I’m glad she could tell.

“Yeah, forty-five looks good on you, Days,” she drawls as she pats my chest. “I’ll see you at your place later?”

I nod, not able to resist smacking her ass as she walks away.

She gasps in feigned shock. “Mr. Days!”

I chuckle in surprise at the name-calling. “Keep it up and I’ll make you call me that when you’re coming on my face later,” I vow darkly.

“Make me? I’d like to see you try.” Her brow arches sharply as she issues the challenge, and then she whirls, giving me her back as she sashays up the bleachers and out of the arena. I watch the whole way, planning ways to grip those hips, pull the hair at the base of her neck, and fuck her hard.

Sounds like our last night before I leave for Christmas with Mom and June is going to be extra special.

I glance up at the clock on the wall and hiss. I need to get out of here before I get roped into helping Shepherd and Hanovich with the afternoon session. This morning was fun, but I’m exhausted and still have to wrap a few presents before I fly out tomorrow.

I grab my bag from my locker and then stride down the back hallway to leave the arena. I go through a set of double doors and almost run right into someone.

“Oh! You scared me!” Mollie exclaims, her hand over her chest.

“Shit! You scared me!” I answer. “What’re you doing here? I thought everyone was gone.”

She huffs out an annoyed sigh. “You have hockey camp, the Moosettes have dance camp. An entire room full of annoying brats whose moms think they’re the best thing since Maddie Ziegler. Ugh!”

Her irritation with the kids is surprising, especially given my unexpected warm spot for the kids in my camp this morning. But my bigger concern is . . . she was in the building while Joy and I were skating, kissing, and generally, looking pretty damn comfortable with each other.

Thankfully, Mollie must not have seen us, because if she had, it’d be the first question she’d have. It’s a good thing, too, because I definitely wouldn’t trust her to keep quiet.

“Wow, sorry it was rough,” I answer, putting a solid three feet between us. “I’d better get going.”

But as soon as I step back, Mollie steps forward, getting even closer to me than she was before. “Leaving for Christmas already? Want a last-minute present before you go?”

She looks up at me through long, dark lashes and delicately licks her lips.

Alarm bells sound loudly in my head. I want to tell her to back the fuck up. In fact, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. But something stops me.

Yes, I need to draw a clear boundary here, especially given my conversations with Joy after the girl at the festival was flirting with me. But also, Mollie isn’t an enemy either Joy or I need if we’re trying to keep a secret. She set off my “Danger, Will Robinson” radar before, which is why I stopped fucking her, so telling her that I’m with someone else might be enough for her to go boiled-bunny-psycho. It’d definitely be enough to trigger a follow-up question of, Who is she?

“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head to emphasize my answer.

I don’t offer a reason or an excuse. I don’t promise maybe later or give her any hope. It’s cold, direct, and honest, all things I’m known for being. But still, her bottom lip pouts out.

“You used to be fun, One-Night,” she purrs. “We could have fun again.”

“Merry Christmas, Mollie.” I push my way past her, being careful not to touch her in the slightest, and not replying to her use of my much-hated nickname or desire for fun.

Outside, I hop in my truck, feeling like I need a shower. Not because of the half day of sweaty, hard work, but to get the heebie-jeebies off after that unexpected encounter.

I should tell Joy about Mollie, and potentially other Moosettes, being in the building while we were getting cozy.

If you do, it’s going to ruin the last night before you go home.

That’s probably true. Besides, nothing happened. If Mollie or anyone else had seen us, they absolutely would’ve said something. None of the Moosettes can resist potential gossip, especially about us players.

As for Mollie’s flirting? She offered, I declined. It’s gonna happen. I’ve got fans, I’ve got a history. But it’s up to me to clearly draw those lines and not cross them, which I did.

So yeah, no big deal. Joy and I can do our early Christmas celebration, and maybe I’ll see what happens if I try to make Joy do anything, like call me Mr. Days.