The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“Moooose! Moooose! Mooose!” the crowd chants, the long o almost sounding like a boo. But it’s not. The crowd is hyped up and cheering for their home team because opening night is a Big Deal around here. Yes, with a capital B and an extra-big D.

It wouldn’t be in some places. I mean, we’re talking minor league hockey, not the pros. But in Maple Creek, we support our team with our whole hearts and spend the winter season obsessed with the games, the athletes, and our chances at winning the playoffs. For the next few months, we’ll eat, sleep, and breathe hockey.

Kids here are laced into skates, given a miniature hockey stick, and plopped onto the ice by the time they’re three years old. By five, they’re in peewee leagues, and by high school, they’re monsters on the ice. After that, the dream is playing in college, the AHL, or the NHL. I’ve seen it firsthand with my brother. My twin sister, Hope, and I basically grew up on the bleachers at his games, and the tradition continues with her by my side tonight too.

“What do you think our chances are?” Hope asks me, though her eyes are locked on the ice, watching the Moose and the Beavers skate warm-up drills.

Keeping my attention on the action, too, I answer, “Days says they’re gunning for the playoffs and the cup is ours.”

I sense rather than see her head jerk to me. “Say that again.”

Confused, I turn my gaze her way and find her peering at me through narrowed eyes.

Once upon a time, looking at Hope was like looking in a mirror. We’re fraternal twins, not identical, but the day our genetics were getting mixed up, that particular memo was missed. Mom did a great job of making sure we always felt like our own people, not dressing us identically or acting like we were interchangeable, but we’ve always had the same brown hair, same blue eyes, and same baldly readable expressions. As adults, we’re not such carbon copies of each other anymore, though we still share something special, and she can read me better than I can read myself sometimes.

“What? That Days says they’re gunning for the playoffs and the cup is ours?”

She hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Who said that?”

“Is your hearing going from one too many shows?” I accuse, answering her question with a question. My sister is married to the lead singer of a metal band and spends a fair amount of time in loud clubs, listening to her masked and body-painted husband screaming out lyrics to rabid fans, so questioning her hearing is more than reasonable, earplugs or no earplugs. When she blinks, unswayed by my attempt at distraction, I repeat, “Days. The goalie.” Helpfully, I point at the tall, wide monster in green who’s blocking practice shots on the Moose’s net.

“Oh, I know who he is. Seems you do too.” Her sweet smile goes dark around the edges as she presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

My sister was once innocent and sugar sweet, to the point her gentle kindness almost landed her in a marriage with a total asshole who kept her small for his own ego’s sake. Thankfully, she noped out of that, and Ben, her rock star–god husband, has been good for her. She’s gotten tougher over the last couple of years with him, and the steel in her backbone suits her.

“What? Of course I do. It’s my job, Hope.” I can hear the too-high pitch of my own voice. This lady certainly doth protest too much. Not that I’m much of a lady, but I might as well shine a high beam light on my words for my perceptive sister.

She doesn’t have to say a word. I can hear her in my head through years of twin-lepathy, see the order in her eager eyes, and if I missed those clues, she grips my thigh in her gloved hand. Spill it, girl!

I sigh and lean into her, not wanting anyone around us to hear what I’m about to say, especially our parents, who are sitting in the row behind us, the same way they did when we were kids so they could keep an eye on us and the game at the same time. “It’s no big deal. I went to the rink last night for a last-minute interview and walked in on Days. It was . . . I mean, he was . . . different than expected.”

Different? Yeah, that’s one way to describe his dick. And him.

Hope’s smile melts as her brows knit together in concern. “Be careful, Joy. He’s . . . well, Days.”

And doesn’t that say it all. In this town, his name alone is all the warning descriptor a woman needs to hear. Four little letters, one syllable, and more red flags than a bullfighting competition.

I shake my head. “Nah, it’s not like that. You know me,” I reassure my sister. “Rule number one: no athletes. Total ick.” I crinkle my nose like I can smell the stinky gym socks and sweaty balls right now.

There’s more to my rule than that, but the subject is off-limits and Hope knows it. She was there when I made the “no athletes” declaration.

She’s about to say something else, but a hand clamps down on each of our shoulders. “I’m so glad to have my girl here tonight. It’d be bad luck if we didn’t start the season like this.” We turn in unison, our smiles matching Dad’s bright one as he looks down at us. He didn’t misspeak. It’s been a running joke since we were kids that we’re his girl, singular not plural, because Hope and I have always been attached at the hip like a two-for-one package deal.

He’s right. Opening night as a family is a tradition none of us take lightly. Mom and Dad both worked today, rushed home to change, and met us at the rink. Hope had to fly in for a visit from wherever Ben and his band are holed up writing their next album. And I did my five o’clock report, yanked a green-and-gold jersey over my head, and ran for the stands, where Mom already had hot dogs, nachos, and cocoa ready for each of us. After the game, I’ll meet my one-man camera crew, Ellis, and do a live report from behind the scenes for the eleven o’clock news. But that’s what being a Barlowe means—we back each other up. Always. No matter what.

I’m lucky, and I know it.

“Maple Creek, we’re one game into the new season and it’s already shaping up to be a great one. The Moose trampled the Beavers in an unexpected victory, two to zero . . .”

I look directly into the camera, sharing my excitement over the Moose’s victory with the viewers at home. The minor league games aren’t televised the way the NHL ones are, so people who didn’t make it to the arena tonight or haven’t downloaded the paid app don’t know the details of the game until I share it with them, so I try to make it as real and thrilling as I can.

I relay everything succinctly—the opening goal by none other than team captain and center forward Shepherd Barlowe, the second period of back and forth battling, and the surprise second point scored by right winger Max Voughtman. Most of all, I highlight that this is a big win for the Moose considering the Beavers were in the conference finals last year.

Ellis peeks out from behind the camera and points behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see my slightly famous big brother stepping out of the locker room door, freshly showered and flying high on tonight’s victory.

“Shepherd! How’d you feel about tonight’s shutout?” I ask, holding the microphone his way. A lot of pro athletes don’t like talking to the media, but minor league guys want the spotlight any chance they can get it. It’s a visibility resource for them, and one of the off-ice ways they can catch an NHL team’s attention. My brother’s no different—if anything, he’s a camera whore—but he’d talk to me even if he’d had the worst game of his career because he supports me the same way I do him.

“Hey, Joy!” he answers, coming to my side so the light hits his face. He thinks it’s his good side, but joke’s on him because he doesn’t have a bad one. He only thinks he does because Hope and I—mostly me—gave him a hard time about his totally normal left ear when we were kids and now he’s self-conscious about it. “Helluva game, yeah? I know the Beavers were the favorite going in to tonight, but we’ve been working hard in preseason and I think it really showed on the ice.”

He keeps it humble, highlighting the whole team’s contributions as we talk for a quick two minutes, and then Ellis twirls his finger in the air, telling me to wrap it up. Once we’re clear, Shepherd morphs into my brother instead of the star athlete interviewee. “Where’s Mom and Dad and Hope? They still around?” He looks down the hall toward the lingering crowd.

“Yeah, they’re waiting on you. Mom’s got a Moose Dog ready for you too. I told her it wasn’t on your plan, but she said it’s tradition and if Fritzi has a problem with it, he could talk to her.” Shepherd and I give each other a look, knowing that Fritzi’s tough, but Mom would have him shoving nitrite-filled processed-meat Moose Dogs down his throat by the handful if they went toe to toe. “Everyone going to Chuck’s to celebrate?”

“You know it. I’ll see you there.” With that, he jogs off, heading to find our parents while I finish with Ellis.

“Am I too late for an interview?”

I turn around to see Max Voughtman grinning and Dalton scowling. I can take two guesses who asked, and the first one doesn’t count. “Sorry, Voughtman. We already wrapped. Next time?” I offer with a friendly smile. I get it. He wants the coverage too.

“You can make it up to me by buying me a celebratory beer at Chuck’s. Deal?” he counters.

I hold my hand out and we shake on it. “Done.”

“Don’t get excited. He’s not asking you out either,” Dalton deadpans, but then his lips turn up in a cocky, one-sided smirk.

Max visibly flinches, looking from me to Dalton in confusion as he lifts his hands in surrender. “What? No harm, no foul. I know the rules.” But he ducks his head down and whispers my way, “Unless you like rule breakers. I might be willing to die a painful death at your brother’s hand if you’re interested.” And though he gives me what he probably thinks is a salacious, lady-slaying smirk, he quickly laughs, not putting any real pressure on me.

“No, I—” Dalton starts to explain to Max that he’s making a dig at me, but he rolls his eyes with a huff and instead finishes, “Let’s go. I’m not parking on the street this time.”

Clearly Voughtman grabbed a ride to the arena, and he throws a two-finger wave my way before the two men walk off. I think I hear him ask Dalton, “What the hell was that about?” But I can’t hear Dalton’s response.

“What the fuck ever, man,” I murmur, not wanting to relive last night’s embarrassment again.