Knot my Pucking Problem (Knotty Puckers #4)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Nixie
“Mom! Where the hell are you?” my eleven-year-old, Asher, shouts through the car’s speaker. Static on the line makes his voice crackle in and out, but the message is clear. I’m late, and he’s unhappy.
“Sorry, baby, I just got off work, and every light’s been red.
I’m on my way.” His frustration fills the line with tension, and then he hangs up without another word, plunging the car into a heavy silence.
And though I don’t want it to, his response hurts—I miss the days of baby snuggles and little boy kisses.
Tears sting my eyes as bone-deep exhaustion settles heavily on my shoulders under the weight of expectations.
I’ve worked so hard to be a good mom, to be everything he needs, but as he’s gotten older, it’s become increasingly difficult to keep up.
Everything costs a pretty penny: school field trips, monstrous meal portions.
And now, hockey. It might be the most expensive sport in existence.
The skates, the padding, and don’t even get me started on team fees and lessons.
Every time I blink, there’s something new to pay for.
And not just a few bucks, it’s hundreds of dollars.
But on the ice, he comes alive. He thrives in a way I’ve never seen, and I’ll be damned if money keeps my son from his happiness.
Gritting my teeth, I wade through the glacial traffic and do my best to ignore the anxiety souring my stomach.
There are only a few blocks to go, and the drive from school to hockey practice is quick—mathematically.
If everything goes right, we could still get there nearly on time.
A glaze of sweat creeps over my skin, chilling me, but I focus on what I need to do to keep the heartbreak out of my son’s eyes.
You’ve got this, Nixie.
The truck in front of me seems intent on riding the brakes, and Mama don’t got time for that.
After checking my mirrors to make sure they are all clear, I dart my little blue car into the right-hand lane and pick up speed.
The movement makes the tires screech shrilly, and I wince, but I don’t let up on the gas.
Please don’t let there be any cops. Please, not today.
A few more lane shifts bring me closer to the school.
Glancing down, I steal a peek at the clock: 3:03.
It’s working… almost there. My heart thunders, my mouth goes dry, but up ahead I see the big billboard “Greenleaf Academy.” Not wanting to get hard stares from the other parents, I check my speed and slip into the pickup line.
My panicked panting fills the small space, and I will myself to calm down by focusing on counting the cars ahead of me.
By the time I reach the front of the line, a schooled social smile sits on my face, and the windows are down to air out any lingering scent of omega stress that might have gotten around the scent blockers I wear for work.
“Good afternoon, Nixie.” Asher’s beta teacher gives me a smile and waves, before calling my son’s name through her walkie-talkie. The extra security measures are a balm to my already frazzled nerves.
I chose this school due to its diligence in ensuring its students’ safety.
Although I don’t think Asher’s father will come looking for him, I like to know I’m the only one who can pick him up.
My son’s bright red hair appears as he walks through the doorway, his usually sweet face a glowering mask of anger and frustration as he stomps toward our car.
His piercing gaze makes my instincts prickle with the need to soothe his mood, the mother in me rushing to the surface.
Asher practically runs to the car, opening the door with such force that it bounces back and smacks him before he has time to clamber into the passenger seat.
“Ouch. What the FUCK!” he bellows, slamming it again. This time it swings shut, and he mutters more obscenities under his breath. His hormones are just astonishing. But I can’t let that kind of behavior slide. He’s been raised better than that.
“Asher Lukas Alton! Language!” I admonish, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. My eyes flick from left to right, hoping no one’s witnessing his meltdown. The last thing we need today is a discussion with the principal. Fortunately, no one seems to pay us any mind.
Asher throws his things into the backseat before buckling his seatbelt. With a heavy sigh, we peel away from the curb. “Just because you’re frustrated doesn’t give you an excuse to take it out on the car or to speak like that.”
“Sorry, Mom,” he mumbles, situating himself. “I just can’t believe we’re going to be late again. Coach told me I need to take this seriously, and showing up tardy isn’t going to cut it.”
His shoulders slump, and for a moment, he’s my little boy again, sulking over some toy he couldn’t get—just another way I’ve let him down. The pain of disappointment stabs into me, and I swallow hard against the onslaught of emotions. I love him to death, but doing it all on my own is exhausting.
“Let’s see what magic I can work,” I promise with a grin, taking a quick glance away from the road to wink at him.
Asher snorts with derision, barely cracking a smile, but it’s a win.
The dark cloud lifts, and he reaches up for the ‘oh shit’ handle, clenching it tightly between his small fingers.
Maybe not so small anymore. I peer at my own, realizing they aren’t that much bigger.
“You’ve got this, Mom. Punch it!” His vote of confidence chases my bad mood away, and off we speed.
“Sheesh, it’s chilly in here.” A willowy woman with short blonde hair comes to perch on the bench beside me with no further introduction.
At first glance, she seems a bit older than the rest of the parents, and I wonder if she might be one of the other pre-teens grandmothers.
Her gentle fabric softener scent tickles my nose, but it’s rather pleasant and helps me relax.
I don’t know what to say, so I just smile at her and turn my eyes toward the team practicing on the ice rink.
“I’m Marilyn,” she starts again, twisting her body until our knees nearly touch.
“Nixie,” I reply shyly, unused to people talking to me here. The other parents generally avoid me, and I can understand why. Omegas are not as common as other designations, and single omegas? We’re practically unicorns. Though decidedly less magical, so perhaps we’re… gargoyles?
Either way, the beta women think I’m going to steal their husbands with my magical omega pussy, and the other omega moms stay away, hoping not to catch whatever has made me such a deplorable, pack-less freak.
No, I am the team pariah: talked about, but never to, in whispers and hushed tones, as though I don’t know I’m the topic of gossip.
If they only knew the truth…
Next to me, the woman shivers, and the threadbare blanket on my lap suddenly seems heavier.
Do I offer her some? Would that be weird?
There’s enough for us to share, but it was a thrift store find.
Nothing like these well-off families are used to.
From the corner of my eye, I take in her outfit.
It’s high-end, crisp, professional, and I’m pretty sure her shoes alone would cover most of my monthly rent.
Marilyn rubs her hands together and gives me a baleful smile.
“I can’t believe I forgot how cold it can get in some of these rinks.” She blows her hot breath on them to warm her gloveless fingers and—ah fuck it.
“Do you want to share my blanket?” I offer quietly, glancing at the parents a few rows over. “Fair warning, accepting may have you joining me on the social outcast list.”
Marilyn’s eyes widen, but she eagerly accepts, scooting over toward me while darting a look at the other parents. Her jaw hardens almost imperceptibly, and a frown mars her perfectly painted lips for just a second before it smooths away and she returns her attention to me.
“Sounds like the kind of list I prefer to be on. They seem like no fun, anyway. So, which of those kiddos belongs to you?” She curls her hands in the blanket and uses her chin to gesture toward the ice.
The smooth, shining, bluish-white surface glints back at us, freshly cleaned.
The team has just started their warm-up drills, sprinting back and forth, the swish of their skates slicing against the ice.
Squinting, I search for Asher, and I can’t help the smile that bursts across my face when I finally spot him.
Well ahead of the group of kids, his eyes are ablaze from the competitive streak within his heart. He soars as though he has wings on his skates, fully in his element.
“That one there, Asher—number 88. He picked it because he likes Vonn Keene.” I shrug, not wanting to explain the fact that Asher actually wanted the number 69 for his favorite player, Julius Keene, but I wouldn’t let him.
It ended up being an enormous fight, but the number just felt inappropriate for an eleven-year-old’s jersey.
Not to mention, Julius Keene may be a fantastic player, but what I’ve heard about him off the ice is far from complimentary.
He shouldn’t be any child’s role model, much less my impressionable son.
“Wow, he’s so fast,” Marilyn murmurs, her eyes locking on my son in a way that seems almost assessing. “A lot of raw talent and potential right there. He’s what, thirteen?”
Her not knowing their age triggers something in my hindbrain, and I inspect the woman beside me.
She gets a far-off look, like she’s putting together the pieces of a puzzle in her mind, and I shift uncomfortably.
Marilyn seems nice enough, benign enough, but any mama bear, especially one with a past like mine, is cautious about what we tell others. Time to switch the focus.
“Not quite,” I skirt the question. “Who are you here to cheer on? I’m pretty familiar with most of the boys on the team.” Knowing she has a legitimate reason to be here is the only thing that will calm the anxiety prickling under my skin.
“Oh. I’m not with any of the kids. Though they remind me of when mine were so young,” she says wistfully before continuing, “I actually work for the AHL- the Alpha Hockey League—specifically the Scented Scorpions.”
My brow furrows, not understanding. Yes, my son’s team is loosely affiliated with the professional team, but only in name and jersey. This is junior hockey, so why in the world is she here?
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand…” I break off, watching Asher line up on the blue line with the rest of his teammates. Their coach spills several pucks onto the ice, shouting instructions that are no more than a garbled mess by the time they reach my ears.
“Well, I have a few players interested in mentoring the next generation, maybe giving them some pointers for the upcoming exhibition.” She smiles at me cheerfully, her rows of perfect white teeth sparkling.
“It’s a great program, and the top three shining stars at the exhibition tournament will receive sizable scholarships to pay for all their hockey expenses for the next two years. ”
Two years? Paid hockey?
A scholarship like that could save me an astronomical amount of money. My mind spins with thoughts of better meals, better clothing for Asher, and all the things I could give him.
“Is your son planning on being a part of it?” Marilyn asks sweetly, her body twisting toward mine. “He seems to be ahead of the group already. I can only imagine how well he would do after some professional mentoring.”
And just like that, my thoughts fizzle. Asher isn’t signed up for the exhibition—much to his extreme disappointment. We’ve been fighting over it for weeks because he wanted to be a part of it, but the three-hundred-dollar participation fee was more than I could swing. Even with my new side hustle…
“Uhh… not yet.” Biting my lip, my eyes flick toward my son, taking in his well-worn, very used skates and the pads that don’t quite fit. Every piece of equipment we own is secondhand or donated, and still, he shines. There’s no doubt in my mind he could grab one of the top three slots.
“Well, there’s still another week to join,” Marilyn points out, as she hands me back the corner of my blanket. “I promise, if I see his name, I’ll make sure he gets the best mentors.”
Her smile is friendly as she winks. “Thanks for the blanket, Nixie. It was great to meet you. I’m off to chat with the coach, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
She squeezes my knee, then spins on her too-high heels, sauntering away, exuding money and class.
And as she shrinks from my view, I can’t help but wonder if meeting Marilyn was a sign.
A sign that Asher’s future in hockey is brighter than just a kid wanting to shoot a puck. Maybe he’s meant to be a star.
And I refuse to let my money issues dim his light.