Manning

Though I’m sufficiently recovered from yesterday morning’s mead hangover post-Catan game, and our subsequent demolition of Anaheim last night, I’m still in a bloody foul mood.

I keep picturing Gracie stretching, yawning, and showing the entire table her belly button stud two nights ago, pecking Ares on the cheek, and announcing she was going to bed.

In Ares’s room.

Where she’s sleeping every night since he fucking invited her to live with us for a week.

Like yesterday, he avoids me during drills and sits across the dressing room for team meeting. I concentrate on Coach’s analysis of Minnesota’s defense before tomorrow night’s game, because hockey is the only thing in my life that I can control, and I need to keep my head on straight on the ice.

It’s entirely possible I’ll be in need of a fallback career plan next year, seeing as I’m apparently desperate to ruin the crown my family has held for generations.

We’re released to lunch. We often eat together at a team favorite restaurant not far from Mink Arena on home days off, and they’ve grown accustomed to Viktor insisting on watching my food be prepared. Ares lingers in the back of the pack on the short walk while I push in front.

With Viktor nearby, of course.

After lunch, I’ll head back to my prison to prepare for this evening’s party. Gracie was baking after some early errand when we left for morning skate, and Elin had once again happily taken my credit card for another shopping spree. It doesn’t escape my notice that the very money that should be going toward repaying her father is going toward purchasing her heaven only knows how many more unnecessary pairs of shoes. That should come out of what the kingdom owes her father.

“Bro, check this out,” Lavoie says to Murphy. He flashes something that looks like a cookie with something dark smeared across the top. “When Skovel gets up to take a piss, I’m putting this on his plate.”

“What the fuck? Is that your dick?”

Lavoie giggles like a girl. “Fuck, yeah. Look at that monster.”

“Put that shit away. I see your dick enough. And if you show that to my sister, I’ll fucking kill you. She’s vulnerable right now. Understood?”

The only thing even remotely vulnerable about Murphy’s sister is her ability to lose gracefully.

“So you mean she’s easy?” Lavoie says.

Murphy tries to deck him, which Lavoie easily avoids. He lifts the cookie again. “There’s this company online. I got a stock photo of grandma pussy and ordered that too. It’s going in his gym bag so he can pull it out when he gets home. His wife is gonna think he’s fucking an eighty-year-old cougar.”

I suddenly miss my brothers so hard my chest aches, because this is exactly the type of infantile shit we’d pull on each other.

We arrive at the restaurant and are seated. While we wait for our food, I pull up a text thread with Colden. He’s probably heading to dinner soon.

Manning: Sheep good for you today?

Colden: Far rather have sheep than live with two impossible women.

Manning: At least do me the favor of meeting Ares before you insult his womanhood. You might find you like him.

Colden: You’re a twisted little fucker.

Manning: Miss you too, your royal grouchiness.

Before he replies, a new text message pops up.

Gracie: Is this party tonight a costume party? Elin invited me.

Prickles of unease dance across my chest and arms. Elin invited Gracie to the party? This is almost definitely a trap, probably intended to make Gracie feel inferior, unsophisticated, and poor.

I’m about to text her back when Skovel suddenly roars and leaps up from the table two seats down.

Unfortunately, he takes the entire table with him, sending salt shakers and water glasses and wrapped silverware flying. Ares gets a vase of flowers dumped in his lap. Klein, our second-string goalie, steps back onto a ketchup bottle and sends sticky red liquid shooting all over our defensive coach’s trousers. A red blown-glass candle holder crashes to the ground and shatters.

Managers and servers come running.

“There’s a dick on that cookie,” Skovel announces as he points at a pile of confectionary treats smushed by heaven only knows how many pounds of hockey player across the table.

A mother four tables over drops her phone from taking pictures of us and clamps her hands over her toddler’s ears.

A toddler.

With adorable brown hair and big brown eyes and chubby cheeks.

Another wave of emotion crashes through me.

I want to know my child. I want to see him discover the world. Kick a ball for the first time. Say mama. Teach him to hold a hockey stick. Let him ride a sheep through the palace hallways.

Fuck.

I jerk my head at Viktor, because we’re leaving.

“Yeah, this little company in Goat’s Tit, Alabama,” Lavoie is whispering to Murphy. “Goat’s Tit. Home of dick cookies. Isn’t that fucking hilarious?”

My feet stop of their own accord, and I look at him.

He grins.

“Goat’s Tit,” he says again. “I’m going there someday. Just to take a picture with the sign.”

“Does the sign say Goat’s Tit, Home of Dick Cookies?” Murphy asks.

“Nah, bro. Saw it on the postage meter. Return address is some post office box in Huntsville, but look. I took a picture.”

I linger long enough to look over his shoulder.

Sure enough, there it is.

Goat’s Tit, Alabama.

Right there on the meter mark.

Goat’s Tit only has one bakery.

Owned and run by the mother of my unborn child.

Who just happened to have an odd printer in her office.

Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?