Page 76 of Slap Shot
“Only for a few minutes. The rice will be ready soon.”
She nods again, and Hudson sets her down. She takes off down the hall, the dogs chasing after her.
“Thanks for appeasing her,” I say to Hudson when she disappears in her room.
“Appeasing her? I’m not appeasing her. I like having that on the fridge.” He glances around the kitchen, and his eyebrows wrinkle. “Makes this place look a little more welcoming.”
I open the utensil drawer and pull out three forks and three knives. “Are you around this afternoon?”
“Yeah. I’m stopping by the bakery up the road to grab a couple of pies for Thanksgiving. Emmy told me she invited y’all to her and Maverick’s place.” Hudson pauses and rubs his jaw. “You don’t want to come?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to come. I just feel like we’d be an imposition.”
“What? No way. There are sixty people that show up, and I don’t know who some of them are.”
“That’s okay. We’ll be fine with Chinese takeout and some homemade mashed potatoes.”
“Interesting combination.”
“It’s tradition. Mashed potatoes are my favorite food. I spend every other day out of the year cooking for everyone else, so no matter what I eat on Thanksgiving, I always have to have a bowl of mashed potatoes too.”
“There will be mashed potatoes at Mav and Emmy’s, so you can keep up with your traditions, Mads.”
“You’re not going to let me say no, are you?” I ask.
“Of course you can say no.”
Lucy and I have spent the last six Thanksgivings with my parents. It’s always been a small affair: a turkey I spend all morning cooking, some sides my mom throws together—including boxed stuffing—and mashed potatoes. We sit in front of the television so my dad can watch hours of football, and then we fall asleep early.
We FaceTimed them earlier today because we couldn’t fly out due to bad weather making it across the country. Lucy showed off all her other artwork. My mom told us what they’re doing for the holiday. It was good to catch up with them, and we promised we’d talk more soon.
Maybe I’m a little lonely, because the idea of being here without Hudson suddenly sounds unenjoyable.
“Okay,” I relent, and he pumps his fist in the air. “Under one condition.”
“Anything,” he’s quick to say.
“You can bring your pies, but I’m going to make an extra dessert or two. I refuse to show up somewhere empty-handed. Or with something store-bought. Come on, Hayes. We can do better than that.”
“The team is going to love you, Madeline Galloway.”
TWENTY-TWO
MADELINE
Every cornerof Maverick and Emmy’s apartment is full of people.
It’s loud.
It’s crowded.
It’s perfect.
Piper swooped in, handed me a glass of wine, and stole Lucy thirty minutes ago. When I last checked on them, she was showing my daughter Emmy’s wall of framed jerseys, and I’ve never seen Lucy’s eyes so big with wonder.
I already decided I’m going to get her skating lessons as a Christmas gift. There’s no way I can get through the holiday season without her asking for more time on the ice.
“Dinner in five minutes,” Maverick yells. He snaps his fingers at a redheaded guy standing near the coffee table in the living room and scowls. “Ethan, I swear to god, if you get a drop of ketchup on my rug, you’re never allowed to eat here again.”
