Partially because we’re so damn close in age – the result of your father barely waiting for that safe to have sex again mark to get back to business so to speak – and partially because not being close wasn’t really a choice.
He grew up playing hockey.
Playing hockey meant a shit ton of time at the rink.
Driving to games.
Tournaments.
Conferences.
Ceremonies.
Tryouts.
Both of my parents wanting to be there to support him, meant I was there too with all the other rink siblings shackled to their ice stars.
The difference?
M came to check on me.
Play with me.
Help me study.
He always came to bully awayanyplayers – on his team or others – that mistook me for a puck bunny in training or WAG aspire to be.
For that reason, I’ve always kept my distance from hockey players.
That and of course them not being my type any more than I’m theirs.
I prefer men with most of their teeth who have read a non-sports book since they left college, and they typically prefer women who would slice and dice and starve themselves rather than ever reach my size.
How did I not know tendy was atendy?
My sweater wearer radar must be on the fritz.
Probably should get that checked.
“What areyoudoing here?” I smoothly shift subjects. “We didn’t have anything on my calendar, and you’re too early for your pre-season cleaning.”
“Weird that you know that.”
“Would be weirder if I didn’t.”
“I was doing some last-minute paperwork at the barn.” His shoulders slightly bounce. “Figured I’d pop over and see if you were busy or had a few to grab a cup.”
Total pro/con of having my practice in The Locker District of Dalvegan, Texas.
He’s never that far away.
Another reasonwhy hooking up with his tendy can’t happen.
Won’t happen.
Shouldn’thappen.
“Stacked,” I lovingly announce prior to casually pointing, “and Rhonnie got me one earlier.”
