Page 48 of Heartbreak Hockey

He’s funny all right and I nearly bite my lip in half to keep from laughing. He’s as mad as a shrew and it’s fucking amusing. I maintain my stern demeanor. It’s not hard, I’m genuinely annoyed that he missed practice.

I set him up with a bucket filled with soapy water. “I want the floor and all the cubbies done. Should take you about three hours. Miss practice without permission again and you can do all the equipment too.”

He mutters his discontent low enough I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it doesn’t take long scrubbing out dirty hockey cubbies for him to get louder. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.” And then, “Are you really gonna just sit there the whole time? It’s not like you won’t know if I don’t do it. Oh, I get it, you must be one of those sadistic mother fuckers…”

He does his best to rile me all afternoon, but I’ve raised too many children to let a little chirping get to me. I have teenagers for Christ’s sake. I’m immune. In response, I pull out the magazine I also purchased from the dollar store to keep me occupied.

Eventually, his complaints die down and he focuses on his task. His body relaxes as if he’s taken a deep internal sigh. He’s nothing short of adorable, sticking out his tongue as he scrubs the extra-tough areas. Complaints start again, but it’s about how gross hockey players are.

“Didn’t their parents teach them how to clean up after themselves? My dad would have a fit if he ever came into contact with this level of grime.”

That pulls a laugh from me.

When he’s done, he tosses the ruined toothbrush at my feet. “It’s done, your Majesty.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Wait right there while I inspect your work.”

“Oh, c’mon. Now you’re being a hard ass.”

“I am a hard ass, Leslie. You should know that by now.” But I’m not gonna run my white glove over anything in here. There’s no way all the grime from decades of use can be cleaned away from a mere toothbrush. A perfunctory check will let him stew with concern that he might be asked to do it again, which is good for him. I make a whole show out of checking things over, taking my time doing it.

When I return, he’s swaying from foot to foot. “I did my best. I can’t help it if us hockey players are pigs.”

“I’ll tell them you said that, Leslie. What are you never going to do again?”

“Miss practice without your permission, sir.”

“Good. Mission accomplished. We can go.”

“Permission to throw this toothbrush in the garbage, Coach?”

“Permission granted, soldier.”

His lips tug up into a smile I’m seeing from him a little more these days. It’s the one I was calling rare, but it’s less rare. I might have to rename it. He hucks the toothbrush in the trash with pomp and circumstance and then follows me out.

“What you smiling about?” I ask.

“Thinking about the captain reaming you out for using soldier. In the navy they’re called sailors.”

“The captain?” I say, pulling the keys to my Audi from my pocket. I remember about his navy dad teaching him Krav Ma Ga or something. “You really call your dad the captain?”

“I do.”

I motion for him to get in the car. “Please tell me all your accidental sirs are not because you see me as a father figure.”

“Hey now, there’s no shame in that—this is a kink-shame-free zone—but it’s not me. No. It’s just habit to call dictatorial authority figures sir.”

I pick up on his playful tone and let that one go. “No kink-shaming here, just don’t want to be seen as a dad figure in your life.”

“I’ve got two already. Don’t need a third.” He winks.

Then he’s too damn quiet and contemplative all the way home. Wish I could read his mind. I fall into the same pattern with questions I still have no answers to. Do I bring up Rhett? If it weren’t for the scout thing, I would without question. It still feels like none of my business.

As I’m parking, Jack animates to life again. “Y’know, Mercy,” he says. The use of my name has my attention, and his tone is sly. What mischief is about to come out of his bratty fucking mouth? “Wanna hear what I was thinking about while I fulfilled your preposterous punishment?”

No. Do not say yes. It’s a trap. Tell him to get the hell out of the car.I turn off the engine. “What?” I say, wishing it hadn’t come out so breathless.

He spins to face me; his jade eyes darken, and he knows he’s got me. “I wished you’d decided to spank me for my infraction instead. I would have consented, and you know I can take a nice long spanking.”