Page 17 of Lucky Mother Pucker

“Good work, gentlemen,” Coach says. “Especially St. George and Peretti. You really showed up today.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I say.

Coach Tremblay, the new assistant coach, leads us through a cool-down. When we finish, we circle around Coach Sawyer, who gives us a few closing remarks at the end of practice.

He turns to Coach Tremblay. “Anything else you want to add?”

“One quick thing,” Coach Tremblay says. “Rick is going on paternity leave at the end of the month, which means we’ll be down a physio for the team. We should be good with the two others who are on staff, but if things get a little hectic, be patient, okay?”

We all nod in understanding.

The coaches dismiss us, and we head to the locker room to get cleaned up. I’m walking out of the shower and back to my stall when I see my phone buzz with a text. When I see it’s from my dad, I instantly tense. I don’t bother to check it. I take my time getting dressed and gathering my stuff. It’s not till I’m walking out of the building that I read his message.

Don’t slack on your diet. You’ve got that game against Utah coming up, and I don’t want to see you looking sluggish on the ice.

I roll my eyes.

Me: My diet is fine.

Dad: Really? Because the last time I checked, you drink beer. Even though you know you shouldn’t. You know that’s trash for your body.

Me: I have a beer every once in a while. It won’t kill me.

Dad: Oh, really? How many top athletes do you know who drink beer regularly?

I grit my teeth as I make my way through campus.

Dad: You should only be fueling your body with clean food. Organic food. Not toxic trash.

Me: K

I shouldn’t have texted him that. He fucking hates it when I respond with such a passive-aggressive text, but I’m tired of him lecturing me. I’m not a baby. I know what I’m doing when it comes to my diet.

Quit being such a goddamn brat, Leo. Lay off the junk food. Stay the hell away from beer.

I’m fuming when I finish reading his message. I’m tired of him trying to control every aspect of my life.

I walk in the direction of my house, restless. My plan was to go home, make a protein shake, then eat the lunch I prepped earlier in the week: grilled fish with sweet potatoes and broccoli.

But I can’t help the streak of stubbornness firing through me. I’m a grown man. I eat perfectly ninety-five percent of the time. Yeah, I let loose with a beer a couple times a week and an indulgent meal at the diner with my teammates. But that’s after a game when I’ve burned thousands of calories. I’m supposed to refuel so my body can recover properly.

Frustration and anger twist through me. I’m tired of this. My dad doesn’t get to tell me what to eat or drink.

“Fuck this,” I mutter before changing direction and walking toward the Mile High Diner.

* * *

I walk into the diner, my stomach growling. The hostess greets me and sits me down at a small table against the wall.

I thank her when she hands me a menu. I skim through it, even though I already know what I want.

“Hi, I’m Lucy. I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with something to…Oh, shit…”

I look up and see the pretty redhead who I saw here at the diner the other day. The pretty redhead I got fired from her barista job.

For a second, I just stare at her, shocked to see her again.

“Um, hi,” I finally say.