“I might.”
Olivia snickers before smiling softly. “Carter said Garrett helped you look for your stuffie. That was nice of him.”
“Yeah, I think he really regrets that.”
“Why would he regret that?”
“Because he got slapped across the face by Indiana Bones,” I mumble around two pieces of licorice.
“Who’s Indiana B—” Cara’s question dies, words hanging in the air, before she explodes with a howl so loud the boys look up from the ice. “For the love of fucking God, tell me you slapped Garrett in the face with a dildo named Indiana Bones, please, Jennie.”
“I didn’t slap him in the face with it. We fought over the box it was in, the box died, and Indiana Bones soared through the air and kinda…you know.” I flop my hand around before smacking the back of it against my cheek. “It’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have been looking.”
Through the laughter, Olivia asks, “What the hell prompted him to look through that box?”
I shrug. “It might’ve been labeled toys.”
“Ah.” She smirks. “And he was looking for a stuffed animal, so he made a logical decision.”
“Oh look! Time for the anthem.” I spring from my seat. “Conversation’s over.”
Talk of dildos, dongs, and good, hard dickings that apparently Olivia and I are both in desperate need of are put on the back burner as the game starts. We’re playing our biggest rival. Games like this require undivided attention so I can shout obscenities at the ref every time he misses something.
“Oh come on, ref!” I leap to my feet as Washington’s centreman slips his stick between Garrett’s legs, sending him flying forward.
“Does your wife know you’re fucking us?” Cara screams as the referee continues to ignore the obvious penalty.
I slap the glass as Garrett climbs to his feet, giving his head a shake. “Hey, ref! Might wanna check your voice mail! Looks like you missed a few calls!”
The play only stops when the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the second period, and Carter gets up close and personal with the trip-happy dipshit who hasn’t demonstrated any real skill so far. Whatever he says has the centreman shoving against him, and Carter glides away with a shit-eating grin.
Problem is, Cara and I have big mouths, and we’re still pissed off. Countless calls and should-be penalties have been missed. We’re down by one, but we shouldn’t be.
“Hey, ref!” Cara hollers. “Want a pregnancy test? ’Cause you’ve missed two fucking periods!”
“Get off your knees!” I yell as he skates by. “You’re blowing the fucking game!”
Olivia buries her face in her hands, partly to hide her laughter, partly because she’s embarrassed. Every time her face winds up on TV, her high school students have a heydey with it. Her TV appearances are never her fault. The fault lies in a humiliating goal dedication from her husband, or trouble Cara and I start.
By the time we’ve reached the last five minutes of the game, things haven’t improved. Washington is playing dirty, the ref is missing calls left, right, and center, and Cara flashed him two aggressive middle fingers and told him to shove them up his ass. On a positive note, Emmett has managed to tie the game up.
A defenseman digs the puck out of the corner and spots Garrett up the boards, open and waiting. He fires the puck up the ice and Garrett takes off like lightning as Emmett and Carter race up his sides, clearing the way for him.
Everyone’s shrieking, cheering him on, and that twat centerman from earlier hops off his bench, trading spots with someone on the ice. Carter beelines for him, hollering a warning to Garrett, who winds up. His stick comes backward before sending the puck whizzing right by the goalie’s head and into the net.
The sound of the buzzer is lost to the collective gasp that steals the breath of every fan in Rogers Arena as the centerman’s body connects with Garrett’s from behind, crushing him into the boards headfirst.
Garrett goes limp, two-hundred-plus pounds of dead weight dropping to the ice.
Silence roars, players circling our right-winger, medics on their knees tending to him.
“He’s not getting up,” Cara whispers. “Why isn’t he getting up? Somebody help him!”
“C’mon, Garrett,” I mutter, the tip of my thumbnail between my teeth. “Get up.”
He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t move a muscle, sprawled out on the ice, and fear spreads through me in the form of adrenaline.
“Toss that asshole out!” I scream into the silence, shaking the glass as Garrett’s limp body is lifted onto a stretcher. The centerman in question meets my gaze, entirely too relaxed about sending someone to the hospital. “We play real hockey in Canada, you fucking wiener!”
He smiles, wiggling his gloved fingers at me, and it’s in that moment Carter throws his stick down, whips his gloves off, tosses his helmet to the ice, and pounces.
The arena erupts as the benches empty, players rushing the ice, equipment and fists everywhere. Everyone is shrieking, and there’s a tiny pregnant woman trying to physically restrain me and Cara to prevent us from joining in.
At least she doesn’t have to worry about her face on TV.
It’s nearly midnight when the front door opens. Olivia quickly finishes slathering her Oreo with peanut butter before popping it in her mouth and leaping off the couch.
Carter, Emmett, and Adam filter into the living room one by one, all of them—shockingly—grinning ear to ear.
Carter has a nasty split down the center of his swollen lip, and Emmett has the beginning of a shiner. Even Adam has a puffy, red cheekbone. He looks happiest of all.
“I never get in fights! My dad’s so proud of me for plowing the other goalie into the boards!” He runs a palm down his puffed chest. “Says he recorded it to show all his friends.”
Olivia hands him a bag of ice. “Don’t make it a habit, Mr. Lockwood. Your face is too pretty.”
Garrett appears at the edge of the dark hallway with a sheepish smile, the faintest of shadows painting the skin around his eyes, exhausted but still bright.
Cara embraces him. “How are you feeling, Gare-Bear?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders popping up and down. “Okay. Just tired and a bit of a headache. A mild concussion. Off for the next week, at least.”
Cara grips his face, turning it left and right. “Why do you have black eyes?” She slaps her hands to her mouth. “Did someone punch you after you were taken off on the stretcher? Who would do that?” She slings her purse over her shoulder and starts stalking away. “Em, let’s go. I’m gonna rip their puny balls off and hang them from my rearview mirror like a prize.”
“Rein it in, Mrs. Brodie.” Emmett takes her elbow, stopping her stomp-off. “It can happen when you hit the back of your head. Gare hit his pretty hard.”
“Oh. Right. Okay then.” She sinks to the couch, draping one leg over the other, arms crossed. “I still wanna castrate them.”
He ruffles her hair. “I know you do, tiger.”
Carter looks to me. “I told Garrett you’d drive him home.”
“What? I don’t have a—”
“In his car. He drove here earlier.”
I open my mouth to object—I cannot be alone with this man; he saw my extensive toy collection last time, so it can only go downhill from here—but Carter silences me with a fierce look.
“He can’t drive, and you live in the same building.”
Right. Yeah. Garrett’s slight frown at my less-than-stellar reaction tugs at my heart. “When did you wanna leave?”
He palms the back of his neck. “Uh, now? If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
Nodding, I stand and catch Cara’s eye as she mouths, Get that dick to me. I flip her the sly bird while hugging Olivia, then hobble toward Garrett.
“Do you need help?” we ask each other at the same time.
My nose scrunches. “Why would I need help?”
He gestures at my foot. “You’ve been limping all night.”