Page 54 of Lucky Mother Pucker

“Nothing, it just…sounds a little intense.”

“It is. But I’m used to it.”

“What do you eat?”

“Normal athlete food. Chicken breast, lean ground beef, grilled fish, eggs, oatmeal, broccoli, sweet potatoes, Greek yogurt, protein shakes.”

I make a face.

He smiles. “Gross, right?”

I nod. “Sorry, I guess I’m not a very healthy eater.”

“That’s fine. You should eat whatever you want.”

“So should you.”

“Not if I want to play hockey. I can tell the difference when I slack off and eat mostly fried and processed foods. I’m sluggish and tired. I’m slower on the ice. It sucks, but nutrition makes a difference.” He looks at my sandwich. “I’d eat that every day if I could, but I want to be a top-level player more than I want to eat food that tastes good.”

I’m shocked at how he puts it. That’s so hardcore. But I guess it makes sense. He’s a college athlete on the verge of becoming a professional athlete. Those are high stakes, and he needs to be at his best.

Still though. He’s young, fit, and healthy. I bet he could let himself eat what he wants more frequently.

“So you can’t eat your favorite food?”

He shakes his head. “Not very often.”

I think about that time he came to the diner alone, and I waited on him. I’m pretty sure he ordered a cheeseburger and fries. And a milkshake too, I think.

“I let myself indulge sometimes. Like when I go to the diner with my teammates, I’ll get a milkshake. Or when I want to piss my dad off.”

I take in the hard edge to his voice when he mentions his dad.

“Do you get along with your dad?”

“Not really. He’s not a very warm guy.”

“But you’re his son.”

Leo glances off to the side, through the smudgy window, into the darkened parking lot. “To him, I’m a hockey player first and a son second.”

That’s so…unloving. And so unlike what a dad should be.

“The most important thing to him is making sure that I’m the best, just like he was. His legacy means a lot to him. And he wants me to carry that on.”

Chapter 20

Lucy

When he finishes his sandwich, he crumples up the paper wrapper and wipes his mouth with a napkin. The way he talks about his dad’s expectations of him is so…detached. It feels more like he’s talking about a stranger than the man who raised him.

“Is that what you want?” I ask him.

He blinks at me, like he’s surprised I’d ask him that.

“Do you want to be that committed to hockey?” I ask.

“Of course I do. I love hockey. When I’m on the ice, I feel like I’m home. Like I belong.”