Tomboy

Fallon hadn’t told her best friend what happened when she’d been over here? Interesting. Instead of answering the question on Lucy’s face, he started gulping down the protein shake that tasted like chocolate chalk with a chaser of putrid spinach.

“You’re no fun.” Lucy shook her head. “It’s Saturday, that’s the day of the Hartigans’ weekly family lunch.”

He pictured his own family meals growing up. They’d been silent, uncomfortable, and painful. Why someone would do that voluntarily once a week was beyond him, but if Fallon voluntarily did that maybe that explained why she made him all jumpy—because she was obviously part alien.

Zach set down his now-empty protein shake bottle. “So I catch her there.”

“You might want

to rethink that.” Lucy paused, looking up at the trees and the pink-and-orange sky above her, obviously trying to find the right words. Finally, she let out a little what-the-fuck kind of sigh and dropped her gaze back at the camera. “The Hartigans are a lot to take in. They’re a little overwhelming in their sweet, overbearing, totally-in-your-business way.”

Whatever. “I face down men armed with big-ass sticks and blades who want to take my head off for a living,” Zach said. “I think I can handle one family long enough to convince Fallon to come to tomorrow’s game.”

Lucy started laughing so hard the sheer schadenfreude joy of it bounced off the cathedral ceiling in his kitchen. “Oh, Zach, you have no idea what you’re in for. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll calm down the front office, Zach baby,” Kyle said as he got off the treadmill. “You just get back to playing the game the way we all know you can.”

That was the only thing he wanted right now, and he’d do whatever it took to make that happen, even if it meant persuading one Fallon Hartigan to act as his Lady Luck in this harebrained scheme that just might work.

…

Two hours later, Zach was knocking on the door of a single-story ranch house in a working-class neighborhood that looked a lot like the one he’d lived in growing up. The sidewalks were tree-lined, the houses came in what looked like three or four models painted different shades of blues, whites, and yellows, and there were kids playing a pickup game around a basketball hoop set up at the end of the cul-de-sac. Add in a red pickup truck in the drive and a special shed for his hockey gear to air out in and the Hartigan house could have been the one he’d grown up in. He shivered and swallowed the bile burning the back of his tongue. The whole place gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Fuck this.

He was halfway through his turn away from the house when the door opened. A middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and reddish-brown hair pushed open the screen door.

“Can I help yo—” Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, you’re Zach Blackburn.”

And now he was stuck.

Sucking up the fuck-me-ness of the moment, he pivoted back toward the door and did his best to try to smile back at the woman. “Hi.”

“Oh, wait until Frank sees you.” She clapped, looked back over her shoulder, and hollered, “Honey, come here.” Then she turned back to him. “He has so many suggestions that will really help you during the next game.”

Any doubt that he’d accidentally knocked on the wrong door went straight out the window. “You must be Fallon’s mom.”

“I’m her younger sister.”

Zach’s brain froze. There was no way this woman was Fallon’s younger sister. He had no idea what to do, so he just stood there and blinked as if he’d gotten dinked in the head by a puck.

That’s when she threw back her head and let out a gusty laugh. “Oh God, that look was the best. Of course, I’m her mother.” She held out her hand. “Kate Hartigan.”

On automatic pilot, he shook her hand as he tried to regain his mental footing. “Is Fallon here? Lucy said she should be.”

Kate’s eyebrows went up practically to her hairline. “She should be but she’s late as usual.” She shook her head in obvious maternal frustration. “I tell you that girl is burning her candle at both ends, and it’s going to catch up with her.”

She looked at him as if he had any idea what she was talking about, as if he knew any more about Fallon. It was too much. Too familiar. Too friendly. For the love of Gretzky, he had to get the fuck out of here. Lucy had been right about the Hartigans, they were more than he could handle.

“Can I leave her a message?” he asked.

“There’s no need for that, just come on in.” Kate stepped to the side, making space for him to walk inside. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

His palms got sweaty at the idea of sitting on the Hartigans’ couch and listening to hockey advice from Frank (whoever that was) while Kate treated him like he actually had a non-selfish reason to be there. “I’m not sure—”

“Speak of my daughter,” Kate said, waving at someone behind him. “There she is.”

Thank Gordie Howe.