Tricky Pucking Play (Chicago Blades #7)

Chapter 1

Reese

Twenty-two kindergartners scatter in creative chaos—some sticky-fingered at the art station, others building precarious block towers destined for squealing destruction, while still others perusing the new group of board books that had been recently donated to our classroom library.

I weave between tables, admiring Sophie's drawing of what might be a horse or possibly a short-necked giraffe, when I notice Mateo fidgeting by the reading corner, his face pinched with concern.

"Miss Thompson," he says, tugging at my cardigan sleeve. "My peanuts hurts."

I blink, mentally scrolling through today's snack roster. We're a nut-free classroom—have to be, with Ava's severe allergy—so I'm instantly on alert.

"Your peanuts?" I crouch to his level, scanning the room for contraband nuts. "Did you bring peanuts for snack today? You know we can't have those in our classroom."

He shakes his head, dark curls bouncing, and squirms from one foot to the other.

"No. My peanuts." He points vaguely downward, his face scrunching further.

Great—a mystery. Just what I need at 2:17 PM on a Friday when we still have storytime and cleanup before dismissal.

"Did you maybe eat peanuts at home this morning? Is your tummy hurting?" I press a gentle hand to his forehead, which feels cool. No fever.

"Nooo." He's getting frustrated now, shifting his weight with increasing urgency. "My peanuts! It hurts bad!"

I glance at the classroom aide helping with the block area, but she's fully engaged preventing World War III over the last blue rectangle piece. I'm on my own.

"How about we get you some water?" I suggest, standing and reaching for his hand. "Sometimes that helps when our tummies feel funny."

He follows, but his steps are awkward, thighs pressed together in a way that suddenly sends warning bells clanging in my brain. Oh. Oh no.

"Mateo, do you need to use the bathroom?" I ask, the light bulb finally flickering on.

His eyes widen with relief at being understood. "Yes! My peanuts really hurts!"

And then it clicks. Not peanuts. Penis. He's saying "penis" but pronouncing it "peanuts." I've been a kindergarten teacher for three years, and somehow this particular linguistic mix-up has never crossed my path.

"Let's get you to the bathroom right away," I say, picking up our pace. But we're halfway across the room when Mateo freezes. A dark stain spreads across the front of his pants, puddling onto his light-up sneakers.

His face crumples, eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, Miss Thompson," he whispers, and my heart breaks.

"It's okay, buddy." I position myself to block the view from his classmates. "Accidents happen to everyone."

But they don't happen to everyone on my watch, and guilt hits me. If I'd understood him sooner, if I hadn't wasted time asking about snacks, if I'd recognized the universal kindergarten pee-pee dance...

No time for that now. Mateo's bottom lip trembles as a tear slips down his round cheek.

"Hey." I keep my voice steady and calm. "Remember when I spilled coffee all over my white shirt last week?"

He nods, still sniffling.

"And what did you tell me?"

A tiny smile quivers at the corner of his mouth. "That it looked like a hippo."

"That's right. And accidents aren't anything to be embarrassed about. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

I catch my aide's attention, mouthing "bathroom emergency" while pointing to the puddle. She nods, immediately understanding the universal language of kindergarten mishaps.

"Class, eyes on Ms. Jenny! She's going to read the next chapter of Charlotte's Web while I help Mateo with something," I announce, using my cheerful-but-don't-even-think-about-arguing voice.

I guide Mateo to our classroom bathroom, grabbing his spare clothes from his cubby on the way. Every student keeps a change of clothes here for exactly this reason. The frequency with which five-year-olds need fresh pants would surprise most people.

"You can change in here." I hand over the clean clothes. "I'll be right outside the door if you need help, okay?"

He nods solemnly, but his fingers struggle with the wet buttons. After a moment, he calls, "I need help, Miss Thompson."

I help him change, bagging the wet clothes in a plastic sack from our supply cabinet. He's quiet, dignity wounded but recovering.

"You know," I say as I tie his shoes, "when I was in kindergarten, I had an accident during nap time. Right in front of everyone."

His eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really. And guess what? Nobody even remembers except me." Not exactly true—my mom brings it up at least once every holiday—but he doesn't need to know that.

"Promise?" He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

"Promise." I offer my pinky, which he hooks with his own. "And Mateo? Next time your penis hurts because you need to go to the bathroom, you can just say 'I need to use the bathroom,' okay?"

"It's not called peanuts?" Confusion creases his forehead.

"Not exactly, but we can talk about the right words another time. For now, let's go finish our story."

When we return, no one pays us special attention. Ms. Jenny has them spellbound with Charlotte's latest web message. Crisis averted.

Later, as the last student leaves with a cheerful goodbye, I sink into my desk chair, shoulders finally dropping from their stalwart hunch. I scribble a note for Monday to introduce proper anatomical terms during our next health unit—a problem for future Reese.

I stare at the note, thinking about how wrong I'd been about Mateo's "emergency."

I totally thought we had a peanut crisis when what we really had was a five-year-old who needed to pee. Makes me wonder what else I'm getting wrong by seeing what I expect instead of what's actually there.

I gather my things, thinking about the student portfolios waiting to be updated and dinner with Elena tonight.

The Chicago Blades reading initiative looms in two weeks, and I still haven't finished my "research"—aka watching game highlights to familiarize myself with the players.

I’d like to have some idea who they are beyond their lives as hockey gods.

My phone buzzes with a notification from the NHL app. "Barnes scores game-winner in overtime thriller." The preview shows Elena’s boyfriend, Nate Barnes, celebrating with his teammates.

I quickly close the notification and shove my phone in my bag. Enough hockey research for one day. Time for wine and actual conversation with my best friend.

By the time I spot Elena's sleek ponytail at our usual corner table at Rosetti's, the day's chaos has settled into the kind of funny anecdote that makes teaching worthwhile. The restaurant buzzes with Friday night energy, and I feel energy shifting from the hyper vigilant teacher I’ve been all week .

"I'd like to propose a toast," I say, settling into my chair and lifting my glass of cabernet. "To surviving another week of shaping young minds while keeping my own somewhat intact."

Elena laughs and clinks her glass against mine. "Speaking of young minds, how were the little angel-monsters today?"

"Oh my god, I need to tell you about the peanuts incident."

"Peanuts? In your nut-free classroom?"

"Not actual peanuts." I lean in, lowering my voice. "One of my students—sweet little Mateo—told me his 'peanuts' hurt, and I started to panic because we can’t have peanuts in our classroom because of Eva’s allergy. It seems crazy but she can’t even smell them without getting hives. Ugh, I totally misunderstood him”

Elena's eyes widen. "He didn’t mean peanuts?"

"Nope, he meant penis. But by the time I figured it out, he totally hosed down his pants." I slap my forehead dramatically and giggle.

"Poor guy. But also, hilarious."

"I felt terrible. But it got me thinking, I wonder how often we all make communication mistakes like that—we hear one thing when they actually mean something completely different."

Elena spreads butter on warm bread, studying my face. "Speaking of something completely different, are you ready for the hockey invasion of Parkside Elementary?"

My stomach flips, and not just from the wine. "Principal Williams sprung that on me with zero warning. I’m really not sure what I’m going to do with four Blades players and PR handlers in my classroom in two weeks."

"The reading initiative was planned months ago. It just wasn't supposed to be your classroom until Mrs. Patel went into early labor."

"I know, and obviously I'm happy to do it. The kids will lose their minds meeting real hockey players." I take another sip of wine. "It's just a lot of prep on top of everything else."

"So." Elena steals a piece of my bread. "Once we know who's coming, I can prep you on the personalities. Some guys are naturals with kids, others... not so much."

I look down at my napkin. "I may have watched a few games. For research purposes."

"Research purposes." She arches an eyebrow. "Of course."

"I needed to refresh my knowledge of the current team! I kinda stopped following hockey when you left Chicago."

"Mm-hmm. And this intensive research has led you to...what conclusions exactly?"

I fiddle with my napkin. "That hockey is surprisingly engaging when you understand the rules?"

"Try again."

I glance around, then lean in. "Fine. Your dad's team is ridiculously attractive, and I may have spent more time appreciating that than analyzing power plays."

Elena's eyes light up. "I knew it! Anyone specific, or just the general hockey hotness?"

"I plead the fifth," I say, trying not to think about how I may have replayed one particular post-game interview more than strictly necessary for educational purposes. "But let's just say I'm very prepared for the visual component of this visit."

"Wait until you meet them in person. TV doesn't do any of them justice."

My stomach flips. "Great. So I'll be even more tongue-tied when they walk into my classroom."

"You'll be fine. Most of them are actually pretty down-to-earth, despite what you might expect from pro athletes."

Elena grabs my phone and quickly checks my Instagram history. It’s full of Blades players and fan pages.

"You've been doing a lot of 'research' lately," Elena says with air quotes.

"I told you, I need to get back up to speed." I can feel my cheeks reddening.

"Well, don't assume you know what to expect. These guys might surprise you. In a good way."

"Spoken like someone whose father is the head coach," I say. "Besides, I've accepted that the closest I’m going to get to men that hot is to admire them on TV. At least now I have a professional excuse for it."

Elena laughs, signing the check. "Your expectations are way too low. You’re a beautiful woman, a catch."

"My expectations are realistic. There's a difference."

Elena rolls her eyes at me.

"We’ll agree to disagree then. But you might be surprised by what happens when you stop assuming you know exactly how everything will go."

We stand and I follow her out of the restaurant, wondering what surprises await. After months of zero romantic prospects, I'm genuinely excited to have some serious eye candy visiting my classroom.

Outside, Elena pulls me into a hug. "Thanks for dinner. I needed this."

"Me too," I say, squeezing her tight. "Love you."

"Love you too. Now get some sleep and stop overthinking everything."

I laugh. "I make no promises."