1
Tuck
“Did you get married?”
As I stand near the boards watching all the kids from our Boston Bucks family skate swirl around me, I glance down to see Stella glide toward me. I stiffen, because sweet little Stella—Tanner and Maeve’s five-year-old daughter—is utterly ruthless, has zero filters, and calls anyone out on their shit. I find her staring at my hand. Specifically, the college ring I’m twirling around my finger.
I chuckle and hold it out for inspection. “Nope. Not a wedding ring.”
She scrunches up her nose, eyes narrowing as she flawlessly skates around kids twice her size. I immediately know I’m in trouble. The serious kind. She doesn’t even slow down. Just carves a tight circle around me, edges clean, posture perfect.
“Are you not married because you have a beard?”
Interesting theory.
I rub a hand over the scruff on my jaw. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Lots of the married guys grow beards during the season.”
She switches direction without breaking eye contact, because apparently intimidation is easier at full speed. “That’s true. Uncle Conner looks like a grizzly bear.”
Fair.
She stops on a dime in front of me, a sharp spray of ice dusting my shins. The other kids are wobbling into the boards behind her. Stella stands there like she owns the rink. Her gaze drops to my hand again, now resting on the boards. She leans forward, inspecting it like a jeweler evaluating a flawed diamond.
“Is it because of that ugly wart?”
I nearly swallow my tongue. “Excuse me?”
She points. Not aggressively. Just…clinically. “That. The wart. It’s kind of ugly. Is that why you’re not married?”
Wow. Good thing I don’t hinge my self-worth on the opinions of small, future PWHL hall of famers.
I rub my thumb over the thick callus. “It’s not a wart. It’s a callus.”
She slowly straightens, one hand sliding to her hip, blades rocking gently beneath her with effortless balance. “That’s what a wart would say.”
I snort. “Oh really? And how many warts have you interviewed?”
She gives me a look that suggests I’m the dumbest man alive. Then she pushes off, skates a tight, perfect loop around me, and stops again, this time even closer.
“I had one on my toe,” she explains.
Of course she did.
“You interviewed it?” She purses her lips at my question, like she’s exhausted by my existence. “Come to discover it was pretending to be a callus, did you?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Uncle Tuck. It’s tiring. Maybe that’s why you’re not married.”
I ask a lot of questions?
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Am I really being cross-examined by a five-year-old and losing spectacularly?
I search for a reasonable rebuttal and begin to shoot back a response. “That’s not…”
What are you doing, dude?
She tilts her head, helmet slightly askew, curls bouncing. “So it’s true then. It’s the wart.”
I sigh. “Maybe. I don’t know. The verdict is still out.”
