Page 78 of Playing for Keeps

Lucy poured the sugar meticulously. Lucas insisted on pouring the milk, but he only got about half of it into the bowl.

“Emma, there’s milk on the floor,” he announced.

“I know, sweetheart. We’ll mop it up.”

But Barney was already licking the floor clean.

We stirred, sifted, and fought over who should lick the spoon.

I ended up covered in flour. Max leaned in, wiped a streak off my cheek with his thumb, and held it up like proof. “You’re so cute,” he said in a softer voice.

My stomach flipped – and I pretended it didn’t. This was supposed to be easy. Safe. Just babysitting. Not this dangerous wanting that made me forget where I ended and he began.

“Focus,” I warned him. “You’re on spoon duty.”

He squinted. “Spoon batter… into the cups?”

“Yes, into the cups.”

He messed up three times before Lucy gently pushed him away. “It’s okay,” she said kindly. “You’re a hockey player – you have other talents.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

We finally got the tray into the oven.

“All right,” I said, closing the door. “Cupcakes are in. Time for a new project.”

The kitchen was warm and safe from all the baking – which made the next words inevitable.

“Hockey!” Lucas shouted, full of excitement.

Max raised an eyebrow at me. “You ready, Dawson?”

“Am I going to humiliate myself? Probably. Will I still do it? Yes.”

“That’s my girl,” he said without thinking, and froze. Our eyes met. I blushed because it sounded so intimate. Thankfully, Lucy ran into the living room yelling about nets. Lucas jumped on Barney, who sighed like the saint he is.

Max rolled up the rug, pulled chairs into the goalposts, and made two plastic hockey sticks appear out of nowhere. The foam puck sat proudly on the table, clearly the star of the show.

“Okay,” Max said, clapping his hands once like he was running practice. “Ground rules. No whacking above the knees, no aiming at your mom’s vases, and no crying when Emma scores on you, bud.”

“I will cry,” Lucas said, taking a moment to think about it. “But just a little.”

Lucy took her place in front of the chair they had chosen as a goal. “I am the wall,” she declared. “No puck shall pass.”

“You’re the wall,” Max repeated, with a straight face but a twitch in his mouth. He gave me one of the little plastic sticks. “You and me up front.”

I told him, “I’m going to be awful.” I can command a classroom and wrangle sentences, but sports equipment is a whole different story.

He said, “You’ll be fine,” and then he lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Just run after the little black thing and yell a lot.”

“That’s your big plan?” I whispered back.

“Works for Will,” he said, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Then we were off. Chaos. Lucas tripped over a cushion he had proudly put in the middle of the “rink” and stayed there like a stranded starfish until Max hauled him up by the armpits. “On your feet, champ.” Lucy kicked the puck by accident and said sorry to it as if it were alive. Max crab-walked across the rug to block a shot. I swung at the puck and missed it by a mile. Then I spun around and acted like I meant to do it.

“Style points,” Max said with a smile that made me feel like I had just won gold.