The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

I hate Dalton Fucking Days.

I send the text to Hope, expecting her to send back some version of “What did he do?” That’s not how she replies, though.

What happened?

I don’t know. I truly don’t. One minute I was scrubbing the coffee table, completely justified in the fire of my righteous anger, and the next . . .

I think I might’ve . . . sort of . . . kinda messed up. Bad.

It’s the most I can say. I’m too ashamed to admit that a lot of what Dalton said hit shockingly close to home, on triggers I didn’t even realize were still buried in my soul.

I’m at a show right now, too loud to call. My advice? Fix it.

Yeah, sis. If only it was that easy. But this wound is too big, definitely more than an “I’m sorry” situation. I’m afraid it might be beyond repair.

I’m gonna get drunk(er) and think. Love you.

Love you too. Text or call later if you need me. I’m here for you.

She is, and I’m glad for that, but I have some hard thinking to do. And a shower scrubber, some vinegar, and too much soap scum calling my name.

“I’m so glad you were able to come see the boys play today,” Mom tells June, making it sound more like a peewee game than a minor league one.

Watching “the boys play” is the absolute last place I want to be. My head is pounding, my heart is broken, and I want to fight everyone and everything all at the same time. But Mom called this morning and said we were going to support Shepherd even though this should be a boring, easy-win game.

It wasn’t a question, nor a request I could refuse. And I’m sure Hope had something to do with it. I shouldn’t have texted her last night, though her simple instruction to fix it ended up being exactly what I needed.

But it’s also how I ended up here by force, with Rayleigh on one side, June on the other, and Mom and Dad behind us. All that’s missing is Hope, but she’s probably here in spirit.

I didn’t even know Mom had met Rayleigh and June, but I guess they became friendly last night at Chuck’s after I left and Dalton stormed out.

“Me too,” June answers. “I was supposed to fly out today, but moving my flight to tomorrow was no big deal. It even made it a little cheaper.”

I grit my teeth, swallowing down my commentary on why she chose to stay an extra day. I’m assuming it’s because her brother was mad as hell last night, probably ranting and raving about what a bitch I am given his grand exit that left me reeling in a messy puddle of existential crisis on my bathroom floor.

“Thank you again for the ticket,” Rayleigh says politely.

“Of course, honey,” Mom replies, smiling warmly. To me, she asks, “What’re our odds today?”

I watch the two teams warming up on the ice, forcing my gaze across the entire arena and not focusing on the one man I don’t want to see. Still, I already noticed that he’s wearing his lucky socks beneath his knee pads, that he tapped the left and right pipes of the goal and knocked his head against it. I hope that’s enough of a pregame ritual for him because we sure as hell didn’t do a penis parade last night. He’ll finally see that it wasn’t the superstition bringing him good luck, but rather, his own skills and talent. Even if he is an asshole, I can objectively admit that he’s a good goalie.

“It’ll be an easy win with how the Moose have been playing. Shep and Voughtman have been working on their pass drills, Pierre’s slap shots have been unstoppable. On defense, Miles and Hanovich have been pushing forward, trusting that Days has the goal protected. So given the win over the Royals last night, it should be a repeat.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Dad look at each other as I finish my completely flat, monotone analysis.

“Your mouth to the players’ hearts and referees’ heads,” Dad murmurs, but he and Mom seem to be having an entirely different conversation, just the two of them. I’m pretty sure Mom mouths the word Days to Dad, who shrugs.

The puck drops, and play starts fast and furious. Shepherd battles with the Royals’ center for control, pushing down the ice toward their goal. There’s a long stretch of back and forth, but ultimately, Pierre scores, putting the Moose up by one point within a minute of the game starting.

“Moooose!” the crowd cheers.

When play resumes, the Royals’ right winger takes control of the puck. He does some fancy footwork and unexpectedly gets past Miles, instantly aiming for an obvious shot on goal. Dalton should block it easily. Hell, a middle school goalie could block it. But the puck goes sailing past Dalton’s skate, and the red light behind him comes on.

Dalton pops up out of his butterfly, looking behind him like he’s as confused as the crowd is about what happened. But he taps his stick to the ice and resumes his position in front of the goal for the next play.

“Shake it off,” someone yells at him.

But Dalton doesn’t shake it off. Though Shepherd, Voughtman, and Pierre fight hard and succeed at making two more goals, by the time the second period is coming to a close, the Royals have scored four more times on Dalton.

I look over to the scoreboard as the players disappear into the locker room and the Zamboni comes out to resurface the ice. Royals: 5. Moose: 3.

Rayleigh leans over to quietly ask, “How’d things go last night? Dalton seemed pretty intent on finding you.”

I check behind me to make sure Mom and Dad aren’t listening, but they’re looking at something on Dad’s phone. June clues in on the conversation, though, and adds, “Dalton didn’t say a word when he got home last night. Slammed the front door, his bedroom door, and was gone before I got up this morning.”

Oh. Well, I guess he wasn’t telling her about our fight then.

“He found me. Told me Mollie was lying, as if I’d believe that.” I sigh heavily, watching the Zamboni’s hypnotizing laps around the ice. I want to believe him, but that’s probably my own stupid heart lying to me some more.

I expect June and Rayleigh to agree with me, but June snorts. “The barracuda looking for a meal ticket? I’ve never met the woman and I could tell she was lying straight to my face. She called him a doll for fuck’s sake. Has she even met him?” June shakes her head as if the entire thing is absurd. “I mean, I still checked, but come the fuck on!”

Surprised, I say, “But they have”—I cut my eyes to make sure Mom and Dad still aren’t paying attention—“fucked. And really, that wasn’t the issue. I was.”

“You?” Rayleigh says, her brows knit in confusion.

June and Rayleigh lock eyes in front of me, and then they both lean into my shoulders supportively. I sniffle a bit, telling myself it’s because the arena is cold and not because tears are threatening to fall again.

“He told me he loves me,” I whisper. Both women’s jaws drop in surprise, and Rayleigh starts to smile until I add, “And then he said he deserves better than me.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” June growls.

I shake my head, swiping at the tears that have begun slowly trailing down my cheeks. “He’s right.”

I did a lot of thinking last night. It was hard because my brain was fuzzy with wine, but also because self-analyzing is inherently difficult to do.

I thought about Buchanan, my first lesson in relationships, and about the guys I’ve dated since then, all of whom I kept at a distance by telling them my priority was my career, which was true but also not why I didn’t want anything serious with them. I thought about my mom and dad, and how they love each other. I thought about my sister, who took a huge risk on her husband, changing her whole life for him, and how they’re ridiculously, disgustingly happy together.

I told Dalton that I don’t date athletes, dismissing him as a real possibility from the beginning. All because a guy I dated years ago was too weak to tell me that he’d outgrown our romance and he wanted to live freely, including seeing other people.

I let that hurt, pain, and betrayal fester inside me and never took the time to scoop out the infection it left. It’s affected every relationship, or potential relationship, I’ve had since then.

It never mattered until Dalton. And now I’ve messed up something much more special than anything I’ve ever known.

Because Dalton’s right. I kept him at a distance, letting him in bit by bit, giving him tiny slivers of my soul. But not all of me. I thought I was protecting myself from the damage he would ultimately do, but I’m the one that hurt myself the most.

By hurting Dalton.

Rayleigh and June wrap their arms around me, both helping hold my broken parts together as the third period starts.

The Moose skate back out, and I stare at Dalton. His head is hanging low and his shoulders are drooping as he takes his place in front of the goal. As if he can feel the weight of my gaze, his eyes lift to mine. He looks angry, miserable, and . . . betrayed.

I did that. With my fear and mistrust and damage.

I hurt the one person I would never want to hurt.

The puck drops and almost immediately, the Royals make another score. The puck flies past Dalton like he’s not even paying attention.

“Fuck this,” I snarl, standing up. “Dalton!” I shout.

But I’m one of hundreds of voices in the arena, and he can’t hear me, not over the crowd. Desperate, I look around and spy a kid a few rows away with a neon-yellow posterboard. I can see only the back, but it doesn’t matter what it says. “Mom, do you have a Sharpie?”

“What?” she asks, but then my question registers and she grabs for her purse. “Yeah, honey. What for?”

There’s no time to answer. I snatch the marker from her hand and step over June, running down the few aisles to tap the kid on the shoulder. “This is an emergency to save the game. Can I have your poster? Please.”

The boy looks back at his dad, who’s listening closely to the weird lady talking to his child. But ultimately, they shrug and hand me the sign.

“Thanks! I’ll get you a signed Barlowe jersey. I promise.” The kid’s face lights up, and the dad hugs the boy’s shoulders in joy. On the blank back, I quickly write a message as big and visible as I can make it. Once I’m done, I scurry down the steps, getting as close to the wall by Dalton as I can.

I press the sign to the glass and bang hard to get Dalton’s attention. But he’s focused on the game. Desperate, I stomp my feet loudly on the metal bleachers. “Dalt-on!”

The family next to me looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Help me!” They don’t seem sure, but the next time I yell, “Dalt-on!” they stomp and shout with me. And then the group next to them joins in. And the fans behind them.

Until the whole section is stomping their feet and yelling at him with me.

Finally, he looks over, and I plaster the sign to the glass again.

I Love You, Dalton Days!

I watch him read it. And then read it again before a smile starts to lift his lips.

I love you. I’m sorry. I love you too, I mouth over and over, tears springing to my eyes at what I’ve done and what it’s taking to hopefully fix it.

I don’t realize I’m on the big television screen because my focus is locked on Dalton. But someone else has seen my sign too.

Neither Dalton nor I see it coming when Shepherd zooms straight for Dalton, sucker punching him right in the gut. Guys on the same team rarely fight each other, but Shepherd’s going hard at Dalton, not even aiming, just windmilling his arms to throw as many punches as he can, hoping some of them land. Thankfully, Shepherd’s not an enforcer, but he can still pack a wallop of a punch. And though Dalton holds on to Shep’s jersey for balance, he mostly blocks my brother’s attacks without fighting back.

This is what I was afraid of.

Well, one of the things I was afraid of.

I know how protective my brother is of me and Hope. He’s always watched out for us, making sure we’re safe and not up to anything too stupid. And I know he tells the guys he plays with that I’m off-limits because he wants to shelter me. I figured he’d be mad. I didn’t think he’d go after Dalton on the ice in the middle of the game.

The other Moose players try to pull them apart, all looking confused at what’s led the two best friends to fight. But there’s no stopping Shepherd until the referee blows his whistle right next to Shep’s ear. The momentary wince is enough for the refs to break things up, and they start conferring. Fighting’s a minimum five minutes in the penalty box, if not an ejection. But that’s for fighting someone on the other team. What the fuck do they do about this?

Coach Wilson helps by calling a time-out, and Voughtman manhandles Shep while Hanovich grabs Dalton, forcibly keeping them apart as they shove them to the Moose bench.

“What the hell are you two doing? Barlowe, Days . . . out. DeBoer, VanZandt in.” The two replacement players hop up and take the ice, skating into position.

But it’s not enough. Shepherd goes at Dalton again . . . on the bench.

My jaw drops. They have got to stop this.

I try to make my way to the area behind the team’s bench, but security won’t let me get close. “I’m a sports reporter with the local station. And that’s my brother, and that’s my boyfriend,” I argue.

Coach Wilson hears me and turns around. I wave, thinking he’ll tell the security guard to let me by, but he snarls at me. “Not now, Barlowe.”

That’s all the security guard needs to hear, and he bodily blocks me from getting any closer. “Ma’am, if you don’t return to your seat, I’ll have to escort you from the building.”

“Shepherd! Dalton!” I yell, but they can’t hear me.

With nothing else to do, I make my way back to my seat.

“Honey! What in the world is going on?” Mom asks, worry clouding her eyes.

She’s the only one worried, though. All around us, people are glaring at me in anger. They might not know what’s happening, but they know I had a sign for Dalton, which led to Shepherd attacking him, putting everyone’s favorite players out for the game. That’s enough to make me the villain in their minds.

“Dalton and I have been dating,” I tell her quietly.

She nods, not looking the least bit surprised. “Yeah, and?”

Confused at the nonreaction, I frown. “You know?”

“Of course we know. You’ve been dating for months. How oblivious do you think we are?” She glances at Dad and huffs out, “Jim, I swear our children are dumber than rocks and think we’re somehow even stupider than that.”

My parents know. They’ve known for a while. Yet they never said anything. I stare at them, shocked.

“We figured you’d tell us when you were ready,” Dad explains. “You might’ve picked a better time to tell your brother, though.” He looks past me to the bench, where Shepherd and Dalton are being kept apart by the remainder of the Moose players.

“Yeah, about that . . .”