The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“Merry Christmas! Mom, Dad!” I shout as I walk into the house with an oversize reusable bag full of haphazardly wrapped presents.

“In here,” Hope answers from the kitchen.

I pause to drop my bag of goodies underneath the tree in the front window, noting that there are quite a few Martha Stewart–worthy wrap jobs, plus a few gift bags with a single sheet of tissue paper tossed on top. Those are definitely the work of my sister and my brother, respectively. At least mine are somewhere in between.

I’m still taking off my coat and boots when Dad calls out, “Hey! Grab these.” He’s coming down the hallway with a precarious stack of boxes and bags of various sizes. I rush to finish hanging my coat on the hook and meet him halfway.

“You know, you could make more than a single trip from the closet to the tree, right? It doesn’t have to be one Hulk-level load.” Even as I tease him, I take a few from the top of the pile that are the most at risk of falling.

“Ain’t no weak-ass bitch,” he grunts in a fair imitation of my brother that makes me laugh.

I glance behind him like Mom’s standing right there, listening to him use language she would not appreciate, and laugh even harder when he whips his head around to find the hallway empty behind him. “Rude. Might have to take a few of these back to the closet and return them to the store. Especially the ones marked Joy.” He glares at me for a split second, but then he drops the charade because we both know he’s not doing anything of the sort.

“Why does Mom still hide the presents in the closet anyway?” I ask Dad, who chuckles. “It’s not like we’re sneaking in to snoop through them like when we were kids.”

Ben and Shepherd walk in with perfect timing, automatically taking the rest of the stack from Dad with ease. “Speak for yourself,” my brother says snarkily. “I totally snooped and know what I’m getting, what Hope’s getting, and what you’re getting. Want a hint on yours? It’s coal because you’re definitely on the naughty list.” He laughs at his own joke while I roll my eyes.

“You have no idea how naughty she can be,” Hope calls, apparently listening to us.

I feel the blood drain from my face. “Hope! Don’t go telling all my secrets!” I laugh as I scold her, trying to make it seem like it’s one big sisterly joke, but I send a twin-lepathy shout of shut the fu-cupcakes! and hope she receives it from this far away.

Dad grins at our antics as usual. “It’s good to have everyone home for the holidays,” he says in a dreamy voice. “And Lorie likes traditions, one of which has always been hiding the presents and wrapping them at the last minute. I’m just glad we were only up till two this morning finishing. Not like the time she decided—at midnight, mind you—that we needed to assemble the trampoline from Santa. Did I mention there was two feet of snow in the backyard? And it was dark. And cold.” He shakes his head, sounding more amused than put out by Mom’s long-ago request. “Went through the better part of a bottle of Jack making whiskey apple ciders to stay warm, burned out my best headlamp, and got less than an hour of sleep, but seeing the smiles on you kids’ faces made it all worth it.”

Mom is a planner. That’s where Hope got her always-plan-everything tendencies from. And while Mom’s got a Santa app, complete with cost breakdown, numbered lists, and store orders to track the presents she buys, she does tend to leave the actual wrapping until the last minute. She always has. Even when it’s the huge trampoline we spent several springs and summers jumping, lying, and camping on.

Mom pops her head out of the kitchen. “Thanks, Jim. Appreciate the teamwork as always.” She smiles at him happily, and then her eyes light up even more when she sees the tree, with its overabundance of sentimental decorations, strands of multicolored lights, and stacks of gifts below. I wonder if Mom leaves some of the work of Christmas till the last minute on purpose to create a sense of surprise and wonder that wouldn’t be the same if all the presents were under the tree weeks ago.

Last-minute wrapping also gives her and Dad another holiday date, in addition to driving around to see the town’s Christmas light displays, visiting the Winter Festival, and going shopping together. Yeah, Dad is definitely not the type to ask What’d we get you? when it’s time to unwrap things. He knows exactly what he and Mom planned, shopped for, and wrapped, plus he always comes up with great gifts to surprise Mom. Like last year, he had an artist do a watercolor painting of the two of them based on a selfie they’d taken. It’s hanging in their bedroom so she sees it first thing every morning and last thing every night. I’m curious to see how he’s gonna top that this year.

“Let me take a picture of the tree,” I say as I finish unpacking my bag of Santa goodies and spread them out amid the other packages. I stand back, snapping a picture with my phone, and then click to send the picture to Dalton.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Looks like Santa came early!

He left two days ago to go home for the holiday, and we’ve been texting like crazy, sharing our Christmas traditions along with some things that’d definitely put me on Santa’s naughty list.

Looks great! Wish I were there or you were here.

A picture comes through, and I expect it to be his family Christmas tree. But a laugh pops out of my mouth when I see what he’s sent. The picture is of his lap, with one hand resting at the crease of his thigh, highlighting the bulge in his dark denim jeans. He wishes I were there.

“What?” Shep asks.

I jerk my eyes up as I quickly hit the button to turn the screen off. “Nothing. Just noticing that there’s only a couple of presents with your name on them.”

“No there’s not,” he balks, rushing for the tree to double-check.

He must not have done a very good job snooping if he doesn’t know exactly how many presents are for him, I think with a smirk.

Ready?

I send the text and then smile when the FaceTime call comes through.

“Hey!”

“Hey yourself,” he replies.

He’s in his truck, which surprises me, but he’s parked somewhere with good lighting because though it’s dim, I can see his face clearly in the yellowish glow.

“Where are you?”

He looks out the window at his side and then the passenger window. “My mom’s driveway. She and June are still up watching movies, so I didn’t want to take the call in the house in case—”

I laugh. “You didn’t want to potentially jack off in your childhood bedroom, but in the truck outside, where anyone might see, is fair game?”

He dips his chin, but it does nothing to hide his cocky grin. “It’s dark out here and nobody’s around. In the house, my mom might hear. Plus, my childhood bedroom isn’t exactly sexy.”

“Probably didn’t stop you when you were a teenage boy full of hormones and bad ideas,” I quip.

He laughs hard. “It definitely didn’t stop me a bit. You already home?”

He can see my couch behind me, so he knows exactly where I am. “Yeah, we did dinner and presents, talked and played Uno, and I came home about an hour ago.” I sent him at least a dozen messages today—showing him pictures of our family feast, telling him how I made Shepherd draw twelve cards (because I don’t care what the instructions say, Draw Four cards are totally stackable), and displaying the engraved gold bracelet Mom and Dad gave me. I might’ve also sent a cleavage picture that I took in the bathroom with an accompanying text of talk later? which is how we ended up here. “How’s your day been?”

His smile is soft, and his eyes dart up to what I’d bet is the house in front of him. “It was good to see Mom and June. It’s been a while since the last time, and I didn’t realize how much I missed them until I hugged Mom and she was hugging me back like she was trying to squeeze the life outta me.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Mom and June?” he asks, and I nod. He sighs happily as he shares. “Mom’s name is Tracy. She’s the best, no offense to yours, who’s a great team mother. But Mom’s been through the wringer, somehow always managing to come out the other side stronger. Fuck knows I put her through it myself half a dozen times with broken bones here, sprained ankles there, concussions everywhere. And that’s before you get to the girl drama she put up with in high school.”

He sends me a glance, likely gauging my jealousy meter, but I chuckle. “You were a player even then? Back in the old days of black-and-white pictures, and four TV channels that went off the air at eight p.m.?”

“Har har,” he deadpans. “And no, I wasn’t a player. I kinda didn’t know what to do with girls then,” he admits, seeming embarrassed by that, “but they would aggressively text me, show up on our doorstep, and make posters to hold up at the games. It was a lot, and Mom ran defense for me, making sure I concentrated on hockey and school.”

“Guess you figured it out,” I say.

He shrugs, not the least bit chagrined by his past. “I figured out that casual hookups filled a need while letting me keep my focus on what I should be doing for the draft. That’s worked out pretty well, until recently.”

It’s my turn to blush. “Are you saying you need to refocus on your hockey career?” I ask quietly, 99 percent sure that’s not at all what he’s saying.

“Nope. Saying serious is looking better every day, especially when you show up looking like that.” His eyes drop down the screen, and I glance at the tiny picture of myself to see what he sees.

I’m flushed, my lips parted on a sharp inhale, and my eyes look extra icy in the thin, pale-blue tank top I’m wearing. Since I don’t have on a bra, the diamond points of my nipples are completely visible.

“As sexy as you look, Joy, I don’t mean that. I’m talking about the smile on your face when you see me, the way you ask about my family, and how you support my love for hockey, even when it requires something a little outside the norm.”

“Well, the whole dick display wasn’t exactly a hardship,” I tease. When Dalton’s eyebrows twitch at the double entendre, I grin even wider. “Tell me about June. Did she like the tennis shoes?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out a loud sigh at the same time, but there’s a smile at the corners of his lips, so I think the gift must’ve gone over well. “You would’ve thought they were signed by Taylor Swift or something,” he tells me, laughing. “She loved them, so thanks for helping me find them. I would’ve never been able to.”

An earlier thought flashes in my mind. I was thinking how sweet it is that Mom and Dad always shop together, and unintentionally, I did the same thing with Dalton. We did everything online, but still . . . we lay on the couch, with dueling laptops and search engines, to help each other shop for our families. He’s the one who told me Shepherd has been talking about new blades for his skates, and had agreed that the gold-colored blades I found were perfect with the Moose’s green-and-gold color scheme. And Shep did love the blades, calling them foot bling and saying he’d blind the opposition when the arena lights flash off the pretty metal. He’s probably switching them out as we speak, which will give him a little bit of time to break them in before the season starts up again.

So when Dalton mentioned that his sister would love the hard-to-find New Balances I have, of course I helped him find a new-in-box pair on Poshmark in June’s size.

“I’m so glad!” I reply, truly happy about so much more than well-chosen gifts.

I understand why Mom and Dad make it a point to do holiday things together because it was fun to connect with Dalton that way and share our Christmas, even though we’re thousands of miles apart tonight.

“Hey, go look in your bedside drawer for me.”

I raise my eyebrows. There’s only one particular thing in that drawer Dalton would be interested in—Woody. “I don’t know if you getting arrested for indecent exposure in your mom’s driveway is a good idea.”

His lips barely lift, but I can see the hint of humor there as he considers it anyway. “It’d be worth it, but just go look.”

I take him with me, holding my phone awkwardly to open my nightstand drawer, expecting to see Woody. Or maybe he slipped a new toy into the drawer before he left?

Instead, I see . . . socks.

I gasp loudly and then shout, “Dalton!” Grabbing the pack of socks from the drawer, I hold them to my chest and meet his eyes.

These aren’t just any socks. They’re the specific brand and style I like for Pilates, with the extra grippy bottoms, and the entire pack is solid blue, my preferred color for sessions with Rayleigh. It’s not that he bought me socks, which some people might consider a really shitty Christmas gift. It’s that he paid attention and got me The Socks That I Love.

“We said we weren’t doing gifts!” I accuse, but at the same time I’m grinning ear to ear. “I didn’t get you anything.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine. Your smile is thanks enough,” he says, smiling happily himself.

“I love them! Thank you.” I might not be able to hide the smile on my face, but I try to blink away the tears threatening to fall. I’m not gonna cry over socks. I’m not.

Or at least not until I hang up the phone so he doesn’t see what an absolute weirdo I am because I might be falling in love with this man. Not because of his gift but because of what it means—he pays attention to me, he wants me to be happy, and most of all, he’s willing to do seemingly silly things to make me smile. Like get me socks and burned bacon, do Pilates and watch stupid Hallmark movies, and be patient with me while I peek over the walls I’ve built up and slowly decide to trust him little by little.