“You’d think he was the navy captain around here,” the captain mutters for our ears only, forcing me to stifle a laugh.
We each have a job. Damien’s always been better at clothes. He loves sewing their simple dresses. Dad has a variety of patterns he uses so Damien can get creative. Nicholas is on shoes and faces. My job—sewing up—isn’t my favorite, but I’m good at it. I have to sew up the opening Dad leaves so that the doll can be stuffed with cotton. Thank God Dad works on sewing hair bows during his spare time, so we don’t have to make those too.
I’m surprised at how well Mercy takes to the task though I guess I shouldn’t be. He’s had lots of cause for adapting and learning new skills. He watches Dad sew like a maniac and asks questions like, “How do you do that without sewing through your fingers?” and “How do you get that edge so straight?”
Dad’s delighted by the questions and babbles on about all things sewing without having to stop what he’s doing. I’m more like the captain. I need to focus on one thing at a time. When Mercy tries to do the same with me, I kick him with my foot.
He scowls.
Dad laughs. “That’s asking for trouble.”
I’m not sure if he means me or Mercy. Probably both. He doesn’t get me to talk, but we do gravitate toward each other until I’m sewing the dolls he’s just stuffed between his long legs on the floor. He’s in the pale green armchair above me and I find it in my heart to break my concentration now and then to stare up at him.
Dad orders pizza, which happens to be a kind that’s nutritionist approved. It’s from a place that uses organic ingredients, a thin crust, and lots of vegetables. I prefer meat pizza myself, but I’m not a picky eater. Pizza is pizza.
We work straight through until Mercy has to go so he can say goodbye to his family before we’re on the road again.
I slip two of Dad’s newest kind of dolls into the satchel on his bike. They’re a hand-sewn bunny design, in a dress with a bow over her ear and closed hand-sewn eyes with lashes.
“Are you thieving those?” he accuses me.
“Yup. Dad won’t mind though. He’ll be thrilled. He’ll want to show them how to make his signature linen dolls if he ever gets to meet them.”
I’ve reclaimed my hat, which annoys him because he can’t run his hands through my hair, and I see it on his face. To make up for that—‘cuz I’m not taking it off—I sling my arms around his neck and plaster him to me with a leg clamped around his ass. I’ll stop being clingy right after this. Probably.
The leather of his jacket creaks as he leans in to kiss me. “See you in a few hours, eh? Don’t be late.”
“The captain’s dropping me off. He hasn’t been late for anything a day in his life.”
“Mmhm.” He kisses me again and when he’s on his bike, riding away, I chase after him and wave like a fool in the wind.
* * *
January
On the Ice
We have another game against Boston on home ice in Kelowna. No one is chill about it. Casey has a look about him that says he’s got a plan and it’s not one Coach is gonna like. I should probably be the ambassador of peace since I’m dating the man, but I’m a man of the people, and Casey’s ill-conceived whatever he’s gonna do is merited in my opinion.
It’s not long into the game before I note Stacey’s involvement. They’ve got their weird twin thing going on, toying with Sutter, passing the puck between them, and keeping him locked between their little game of pass or risk a monumental tripping that would be his own fault.
They score. Merc sees what they’re doing, but so long as they keep from turning the game into a boxing arena, he’s fine with it. It’s not a penalty-free game, there’s no such thing, but we manage a solid win while minorly beating the crap out of them.
The locker room is filled with smug smiles and it’s a good night for our twice-monthly social. The beers are gonna taste extra good. Coach even walks straight up to me while I’m ripping the tape off my socks and kisses my sweaty face on the lips.
“Good game, Leslie.”
There’s no shortage of catcalling and guys asking, “I played good too, what about me, Coach?” but I don’t even give a fuck. Well, about the catcalling. Any of them actually kiss Merc and they’ll be missing more teeth than they already are.
Mercy walks off and I stare after him, admiring his ass in those gray slacks.
“You might have a boyfriend, Leslie,” Casey says.
“B-Boyfriend? We have an agreement.” I resume undressing. Now that my socks are off, I can shed the rest of this soggy gear.
“The facts. You two are exclusive, a first in Leslie history since Rich Meathead. You two spend all your spare time together. Oh, and he kisses you whenever he damn well wants to.”
When I told him he could, I didn’t think he’d do it where there were people. Then one day he called after me at the end of practice and I turned around to hot lips that left me with a perma-grin. It felt like magic. And I knew what he was doing. Marking me in a new way so that the whole fucking team knew some piece of me belonged to him.
