The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

I pull into the driveway at Mom and Dad’s, my palms sweaty and my nerves jangling. When I reached out to Shepherd, I proposed home as a neutral territory. My plan was to get here first, explain things to them to get them on my side, and then deal with Shepherd. That plan flies out the window when I see Shep’s big, jacked-up truck sitting on the curb out front.

“Shiiit,” I hiss. “He beat me here.”

That means he’ll have the slight advantage of talking to Mom and Dad first.

I go up to the door, but it opens in front of me. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Joy,” Shepherd barks. Great, he’s still in a mood.

I don’t pause, just push past him and into our parents’ living room to find them rocking in their recliners like this is a normal family lunch get-together. If anything, Dad looks forcibly chill, like he’s not moving unless blood starts to spill.

Vaguely, I wonder if they have a secret bag of popcorn hidden to munch on while they watch the show.

“Hey, honey!” Mom’s greeting is accompanied by a smile, but she cuts her eyes toward Shep in warning, letting me know to watch out for him.

“Hey, Mom. Dad. Shep, let’s get this over with,” I say, resigned to more emotional gutting.

“Figured you’d bring Days with you as a guard dog,” Shep sneers.

I roll my eyes as I sit down on the couch. “He went home to talk to June before her flight leaves. And I don’t need a guard dog, especially against you.” I lift a brow in challenge, daring him to take his best shot.

“You’d best not mess with your sister,” Dad warns Shep, sounding like he’s giving Shep advice as they stand out in the driveway tinkering with his truck’s engine, not warning him about his impending demise at my hand. “She’ll have you balled up on the floor in the fetal position, ugly crying, in ten words or less. And once you think you’re fine, her words’ll pop up in your head in the middle of the night, like your own private evil narrator, and you’ll fall apart all over again.” Dad gives Shepherd a pointed look that says, You know I’m right.

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” I huff.

“It’s a compliment and you know it, my girl,” Dad insists.

He’s right, and I absolutely took it as such. Over the years, I’ve honed my repartee to be sharply precise, painfully accurate, and delivered without anything to soften the verbal blows. It’s served me well when dealing with the guys in my work life.

When Shepherd stays quiet, I gently ask, “You ready for this?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, his feet wide and his jaw stone, like he knows this is gonna suck, but he dips his chin once in answer.

“You want it all or the highlights? Fair warning, you won’t like the early parts.”

He swallows hard, but still putting up a valiant fight, he says, “Tell me the important parts. I don’t need to hear about you getting railed by my best friend.”

“Shepherd James Barlowe!” Mom exclaims harshly.

“Son.” Dad’s quiet warning has more impact, and Shep sighs. It’s the sound of resignation to hearing what I have to say.

“Fine,” I say. “We were being friendly, for good reason, with expectations that we both understood. Somewhere along the way, we became . . . more. A lot more. And Dalton wanted to tell you. We must’ve talked about it a half dozen times, but every time, I told him not to. Then I begged him not to. Hell, in the end, I basically ordered him not to.” I look at my hands, not able to stop fidgeting with my fingers. I’m ashamed of what I went through to hide Dalton and me. “Be mad at me, not him,” I plead with Shepherd. “Please, don’t blame him.”

“Why?” Shepherd asks, pinning me with a hard look. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”

He’s softened ever so slightly as I explain, his arms falling to his sides and his face fixed in concern, not anger. But the look in his eyes now . . .

It’s then I realize how much my actions hurt my brother.

We’ve always shared a love for hockey, and in turn, that’s made us close over the years. We’re more than siblings. We’re friends. And as much as Shep feels betrayed by Dalton, he also feels betrayed by me.

“I know this is hard for you to understand, dear brother, but there are some things that aren’t about you,” I tease, but it falls flat. More seriously, I confess, “I have some issues with trust. I’m working on them with Dalton’s help, but they held me back from fully committing long after he was all in. Not telling you was basically me betting against myself.”

“Honey,” Mom whispers. When I glance over, her eyes are glittery with unshed tears and her hands cover her mouth.

I take a steadying breath. “The bad shit was a long time ago, but I let it change me. And it almost cost me Dalton. Luckily, he’s the forgiving sort.”

“Always hated that Buchanan fellow,” Dad tells Mom, and she nods in agreement, her nose wrinkled in distaste and lips pressed into a flat line.

My brows drop down in shock. I never told them what happened with me and Buchanan, so how . . . why . . . Is there anything my parents don’t know about? “What?”

Dad cocks his head, looking at me like I’m stupid. “We know a lot, about a lot of things.”

Oh yeah. They knew about Dalton and me too.

“How did you find out about us?” I ask.

They smile at each other, and Dad shrugs, telling Mom to be the one to share. “You started calling him Dalton months ago. You’d be giving us the pregame report Voughtman this and Hanovich that. The only players you call by their first names are Shepherd and Dalton. We knew something went down at Chuck’s but weren’t sure what until Hope called last night. She said you were drunk texting but okay.” Mom frowns, not liking that one bit. “So we—and by we, I mean me, so don’t be mad at your father—decided to get tickets for the game, thinking it might help. But then you called him Days again, which was when we knew it was really bad.”

Dad nods, agreeing with Mom’s entire report.

“Your meddling ended up getting Shep and Dalton thrown out of the game for unsportsmanlike conduct,” I remind them.

“Oh, nothing more than a little tussling between teammates,” Dad says, brushing the fight off. “They’ll be fine.”

I hope that’s true. I truly want Shep and Dalton to remain friends. I want Shep and me to remain friends too.

I turn my attention back to my brother, my eyes pleading with him to accept this. “I’m sorry, Shepherd. I can’t say that I wish we’d told you a long time ago, because I wasn’t ready then. Hell, I wasn’t ready now, but I got that way really quick when the alternative was losing Dalton.”

Shep’s been listening closely, but now he lets out a heavy sigh, turning his face to the ceiling like he’s searching for answers in the drywall there. “You love him? Even though he’s an asshole athlete who’s never had a successful relationship in his life?”

I frown at his description but nod enthusiastically.

“And he loves you? Even though you’re a ballbusting bitch who thinks she knows better than everyone else sometimes, and is apparently somehow even worse at relationships than Dalton is?”

I arch a single brow sharply. “Watch it, but yes.”

“Say ‘I, Joy Barlowe, love Dalton Days,’” Shep orders, but there’s a smile pulling on his lips. He’s fucking with me the way only a sibling can.

“I, Joy Barlowe, love Dalton Days.” Even though he’s being ornery, saying the words brings a big smile to my face, and I know he can see the truth shining there.

“Gross!” Shep recoils in faux indignation. “Do you know how often hockey players get athlete’s foot? Or how infrequently they wash their uniforms? And goalies are, like, the laziest guys on the ice. They just stand there and wait for the action to come to them.” He mimes standing slack-jawed and bored, his eyes going vacant.

He’s kidding, somehow bouncing back to his usual goofball self that quickly. My brother really is one of the good ones, standing up for me when he thought I needed it, but letting me stand on my own choices when I make it clear that Dalton’s what I want.

“I’ll tell him you think that. See how well it goes over,” I quip, knowing I won’t do anything of the sort. I need them to get back to being friends, not throw a can of kerosene on the fire.

“Uh, maybe don’t do that,” Shep replies, rubbing his jaw. “I’m still recovering from his last bout of laziness.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Guys are so weird.”

“True story. And fine, I’m still mad he didn’t tell me, but I guess I forgive you or whatever.”

“You are truly a wordsmith, brother,” I declare, smiling as I insult him the way we always do. “Or whatever.”

And just like that, everything’s okay. I’m sure there will still be awkwardness between Shep and Dalton, but this is a big step in the right direction.

“Lunch?” Mom asks, rising from her recliner. Dad takes the cue and stands, too, shuffling into the kitchen after her.

Once they’re out of earshot, Shep leans over toward me and whispers, “So from the female perspective, is the piercing worth it? Been thinking about getting one myself, but the healing time scares the shit outta me.”

My eyes pop open wide. “Shepherd Barlowe, I am not discussing my boyfriend’s dick with you!”

“Ssshhhh,” he hisses, glancing toward the kitchen like Mom’s gonna come back with a wooden spoon to swat him.

When he turns back to me, I smirk and lift one brow. “You really want to know?” I whisper conspiratorially.

His face goes stock still. “Nope, changed my mind. Forget I asked. Don’t want to know a single thing. La la la la.” He puts his fingers in his ears at the end, sprinting for the kitchen to get away from anything else I might say.

I think we’ll be okay. It’ll take time, and probably be weird the first time Dalton comes to family dinner, but eventually, I think it’ll be fine.