Page 23 of Lucky Mother Pucker

I put another couple of small boxes in my car, then Mr. Poulos helps me carry the rest of the boxes and the coffee table into their garage.

I run my hand over the coffee table once more.

“We promise to take good care of your mother’s things,” Mr. Poulos says.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice shaky.

We exchange phone numbers, and they make me promise to call them if I need anything.

“Thank you so much again. I really can’t thank you enough for helping me,” I say.

They hug me again. “Oh, honey. It’s our pleasure. We just miss living across the street from you.”

I swallow hard. “I do too.”

“If Richard tries to put your mother’s things in the street again, we’ll go grab them and save them for you. And I’ll give him an earful.”

Mr. Poulos nods along with his wife. “If he tries to pull any more of this sneaky crap, I’ll be sure to confront him,” he says.

“Oh, please, don’t do that. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Or get hurt.”

He just laughs and waves a hand. “Oh, honey, I’m not as frail as I look. I was in the military for two decades. I can hold my own. Don’t you worry.”

I let a small smile break free. I thank them again, then climb back into my car and drive off.

I take a deep breath, relishing that rose-vanilla scent of my mom’s belongings. It’s the smallest comfort in the mess that’s currently my life.

I head to the club and park my car. I don’t have time for a nap before my shift anymore, but that’s okay. I turn around, reach into the backseat, and pull open one of the cardboard boxes. When I see her favorite sleeping shirt, tears of joy fill my eyes.

I hold it up to my face, close my eyes, and breathe in.

“I love you, Mom. I’m gonna get the rest of your stuff. I swear I will.”

I have no idea how, but I’ll figure out a way.

I tuck the shirt back into the box, grab my bag with all my makeup and my outfit to change into, then head into the club to get ready for my shift.

Chapter 10

Leo

My gaze fixes on the puck as it flies across the ice.

Utah’s top forward is in possession of it. He speeds ahead toward our net.

I sprint across the ice after him. It’s halfway through the third period in our game against Utah University, and we’re tied two to two. They’re eager to break it, but so are we.

As a defenseman, my priority isn’t scoring. I’ll take a shot if the opportunity arises. I’m decent at it, but my strength is stopping the opposing team from scoring, then sending the puck off to one of our forwards, like Nick or Blake, who kick ass at scoring goals.

My lungs burn as I catch up to the Utah forward. He’s making a beeline for Travis in the net, so I get in his way. I force him out of the shooting lane to the outside, screwing up his chance at a clean shot. Then I check him.

He loses the puck, and I go after it. I bring it across the ice toward the Utah net. I glance around for someone to pass it to and see Nick. I send it over to him. He snatches it up, and a half-second later, he shoots it. It sinks into the back of the net.

The goal buzzer sounds, and the home crowd is on their feet, cheering and screaming.

We surround Nick, smacking his pads and his helmet in celebration.

“Fuck yeah, nice goal,” I say.