Chapter 32 Carter Beckett’s Double Cream Pie Cara
ONE THING ABOUT ME? I know exactly who I am, and I own it proudly.
Sometimes—especially at this time of year, during the Stanley Cup Finals—they call us WAGs. Wives and girlfriends. But we know that’s not the official title. That WAGs is too simple to fully encompass all that we are, all that we’ve fought for, all that we strive to be.
Every day of the year, I’m proud of the woman who went from knowing nothing about a sport played on frozen water with knives strapped to hideous, smelly boots of some sort, to the woman slapping her hands against the plexiglass, shouting obscenities at the other team, at the refs when they forget what sport they’re officiating, all while wearing my husband’s number on my back, and, if I’m lucky, his handprint on my ass.
My name is Cara Nicole Brodie, and I am proud to be a puck slut.
“Hey, ref! You wanna screw my boys, you better take them for dinner first!” I point aggressively at my eyes, then jab them toward the referee in question, the one who keeps conveniently missing every important infraction Tampa’s intent on making.
This one happens to be a missed offside, a play that should’ve been blown dead as soon as their left-winger crossed the blue line into our end an entire five feet ahead of the centerman with the puck.
“Yeah!” Abel screams, jumping up and down at my side. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in his custom embroidered denim jacket, Brodie on his back above Emmett’s number. “And my Emmett, he-he… he likes steak and mashed taters!”
“You tell him!” I ruffle his hair, watching the way Emmett grins, dropping his shaking head as he glides to the bench when the play is finally stopped after Adam catches the puck and decides to hold on to it, giving his team a well-deserved break.
They’re playing incredibly, all but standing on their heads for game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, but one of the officials has decided, apparently, that he wants to cry on TV today, video evidence that will never, ever be deleted from the internet.
I assume so, anyway, because he’s either got a clear preference for Tampa, or all his money riding on them, based on the number of calls against them he’s apparently “not seen,” and he’s willing to risk me handing him his ass over his inability to do his job properly.
We’re in the final two minutes of the second period, and we’re up by one, a single goal scored by Jaxon just moments after he jumped out of the penalty box, finished serving a two-minute penalty for a bullshit roughing call, even though he wasn’t the one doing the roughing.
The thing is, we can take this tonight. Bring home the Stanley Cup for the third time in the last four years.
It’s a best-of-seven series, and we’re leading it 3–2.
If we win tonight, the Cup is ours. But if we lose?
If we lose, we have one more chance to take it, two days from now in Tampa.
Tonight isn’t the be-all and end-all, but these boys of ours love to play like it is.
So summer vacation with my two favorite people can start two days earlier, is what Emmett said to the newscaster who asked him, before he stepped on the ice, why it was important for them to take charge tonight.
I swear to fuck, the man knows just what to say to ensure I’ll be dropping to my knees for him tonight.
Emmett hops back onto the ice with forty seconds left in the period. Garrett steals the puck off a defenseman before passing it up the ice to Carter, who soars toward Tampa’s end.
“Right here, baby!” Emmett shouts, and Carter sends the puck right through the legs of a defenseman. Before Emmett can grab it, Tampa’s right-winger lifts his stick, hooks it around Emmett’s waist, and tugs, yanking him backward, sending him sprawling across the ice on his belly.
Olivia leaps to her feet, slapping her hands against the glass. “Hooking! That’s fucking hooking!” She tosses a feral, wide-eyed look over her shoulder at the kids, and covers baby Brodie’s ears, even though he’s fast asleep on her chest. “Sorry! Earmuffs!”
Ireland crushes a handful of popcorn in each of her teensy, powerful fists, baring her teeth. “He huwt my unca Em!”
“Hey, ref! Wanna borrow my phone?” I scream as Emmett pulls himself to his feet, flying after Carter and Garrett, the three of them soaring down the ice to protect Adam as the defensemen are caught in the middle of a line change. “Maybe then you’ll finally make a f—”
“Phone call!” Abel finishes for me, slapping his teensy hands on the plexiglass, grinning up at me.
“So close, buddy. So close. Just a call.” Fucking call was what I was gonna say, but it is what it is.
“Oh. Hey, ref! Wanna borrow my Cara’s phone? You can finally make a call!”
I grin, holding my fist up to Abel, winking when he knocks it with his. “Nailed it.”
Hank jabs the end of his cane against the plexiglass. “I could call this game better than you are!”
Jennie cups her hands around her mouth. “The unemployment office can help you with your resume! You’re gonna be looking for a new job after tonight!”
“Your mother would be very disappointed in you right now!”
We all pause, turning slowly to look at Rosie, cheeks flushed, covering up Iris’s ears as she bounces her on her chest, like she doesn’t want her four-month-old baby to think those words were directed at her.
“I’ve never been very good at insults,” she explains softly.
“Oh, honey.” I reach out, squeezing her hand gently. “We know.”
“I wanted to be involved.”
I smile. “Of course.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes widen over my shoulder. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
I follow her gaze back to the ice. Jaxon is hopping off the bench and over the boards, his partner right behind him. The boys are just a step too far behind Tampa after their head start, and Adam is surrounded.
The arena isn’t silent. It’s filled with the angry screams of outraged fans who want justice, who want these Tampa players serving penalties for their actions, officials who are going to call the game fairly.
And when Tampa manages to slip the puck past Adam, just beneath his arm, three seconds before the period ends, it’s Jaxon’s gran of all people who starts the chant that has every fan climbing to their feet, uniting some fifteen thousand people in blue and green.
“Refs, you suck! Refs, you suck! Refs, you suck!”
I stare down the row, taking in these people I’m here with, surrounded by.
Olivia, Brodie strapped to her chest. Jennie, with Ireland on her shoulders.
Holly, bouncing Hunter. Rosie, who’s handed off Iris to Bev, and Connor, who rides on Deacon’s shoulders, Adam’s parents.
Hank, his hand tucked into Lily’s, Jaxon’s gran on his other side, the two of them in crocheted hockey vests for their favorite players.
Lennon, snapping pictures, enjoying every moment and getting paid to do so, her family in the row behind us, with more of Jaxon’s family, Olivia’s, Garrett’s.
Maybe that’s why, as the boys file off the ice for a break before the last period, they don’t look as dejected as one might expect.
Maybe that’s why they all pause at the door, the five of them looking up at us with a smile, like they’re taking it all in.
Because they’re surrounded. With endless love, support, no matter what.
And I imagine that kind of feeling makes a person feel pretty unstoppable.
We make our way upstairs to use the suite bathrooms, because bypassing the overflowing lines is a privilege I’ll always humbly accept.
The halls up here are filled with press, trying to find a celebrity or family member of a player to run a quick interview with between periods.
They zone in on Deacon, always happy when he makes it to a game, because he’s not just Adam’s dad, but a retired NFL quarterback.
“Cara.” Abel releases my hand, stepping in front of the bathroom door. He looks up at me, brows raised. “I can go potty by myself, okay? Because I’m a big boy, okay?”
“Oh, really?” I cross my arms over my chest, smiling. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, because I’m almost four.” He holds up four fingers, then shrugs.
“I guess I will not need you to take me potty anymore when I is four.” He steps forward, hand on my arm.
“But don’t be sad, ’kay? I still need you for other stuff.
I just need some privacy, ’cause I is a big boy now. That’s all.”
“Okay, big boy.” I push the door open, taking a quick peek around the bathroom to make sure it’s all clear before I gesture him inside. “I’ll wait right here. Holler if you need me.”
I pull out my phone while I wait, shooting off a text to Emmett first. It’s a video of me with the audio removed.
I’m naked, but largely blurred by the water from the shower raining down on the glass.
It’s hard to see, but if you’ve got a keen eye for details like my man does, you won’t miss me, one hand playing with my clit, the other with my boobs, while I’m bouncing on the suction cup dildo Emmett had made for me as part of our wedding gift. It’s a replica of his own cock.
Me: Bring that Cup home tonight and I’ll send you the version with sound so you can hear whose name I was moaning when I fucked myself.
Cackling to myself, I navigate to the team’s Instagram page.
Lennon does the most amazing job with it.
I’m not even just saying that because the most recent video, uploaded only five minutes ago, is a montage of me pounding on the glass while hurling insults at the other team and the refs, and perhaps a smidge of inappropriate gestures directed at my husband, like when I was eating my hot dog and took too big a bite, then licked the mayo off my lips in slow motion, while winking.
And the title scrawled across that video?
Stanley Cup Finals
Game 6 vs Vancouver’s Fiercest WAG
2nd Period