Page 32 of Shootout
He stood with the spryness of someone much younger and walked the few steps to shake my hand. His grip was so firm I feared he’d cut off the flow of blood. When he finally released my hand, I resisted the urge to shake my fingers to get the circulation back.
“A pleasure to meet you, uh, Mr., uh…” I hesitated, unsure what his last name was, though I’d guess he was related to the Wilder side of the family.
“Just call me Uncle Ray.”
“Okay, Uncle Ray it is.” I smiled, but he merely stared. He might be the hardest one to win over next to Wild.
Jessie wrapped her hand around my arm and leaned into me. Her look was apologetic, but I didn’t need an apology. I could handle this family better than she gave me credit for.
“Have a seat.” Mr. Wilder pointed to the couch. Obediently, I sat down, and Jessie plopped beside me. Wild popped the top off a craft beer and handed it to me while Jessie picked up her wine and took a long gulp.
“Gentlemen, why don’t you help me out in the kitchen and let the women take a break?” Uncle Ray said.
“But Uncle Ray, we love to talk hockey too,” Brenda protested. “You’re being sexist.”
“They’re being sexist? They’re cooking dinner.” Carol snorted. “Sit back and enjoy. We’ll have our shot at him later.” She winked at her youngest.
Jessie gave my arm an encouraging squeeze. “Good luck.”
Arching a brow, I grinned. “I’m going to need it.”
I joined the men as they moved across the room to the large kitchen, far enough away the women probably couldn’t hear our conversation. I took a long pull on my beer in anticipation of the interrogation. I searched my memory and couldn’t recall ever having dinner with my date’s family. I’d never dated anyone long enough to cross that bridge, and I still hadn’t, but this was a fake relationship that served both our purposes. I’d do my best to make a good impression.
We gathered in the large kitchen to take our orders from Uncle Ray, who appeared to be the chef of the family. I was assigned the drudgery of chopping veggies. My family was one of the few I’d been around that doled out chores without regard to gender. I appreciated that the Wilders did the same, though it was strange to see Wild standing at the kitchen counter, following a recipe, and mixing ingredients in a bowl. The man knew his way around a kitchen. This fact had to be useful at some future point in time.
“Think you can handle it, kid?” Uncle Ray asked, referring to the stack of veggies. I hadn’t been referred to as a kid since my rookie year, but I guess anyone under thirty was a kid to him.
I nodded and tossed a cocky grin over my shoulder.
Mr. Wilder stood at the sink and peeled potatoes. He volleyed the first question, asking about my career-ending hit on Pedersen in the playoffs, followed by that bench-clearing brawl with Wild.
“That hit was unfortunate and unintentional. I never meant to take him out, but he turned at the last minute.” I’d expected to defend my actions in that game, and I’d been prepared.
“And the fight afterward?”
I glanced at Wild, whose jaw tensed, and he avoided my gaze. “Just two guys passionate about the game and protecting our teammates. Wild should’ve never been given a three-game suspension, but I don’t make those decisions.”
Mr. Wilder nodded, and I had the distinct impression I’d given an acceptable answer.
“You can’t hold that against the kid. That’s hockey.” Uncle Ray directed his next words to me. “I didn’t think it was an intentionally dirty hit, but the rest of this family did.”
“Thanks, Uncle Ray,” I said gratefully, and we fist-bumped.
“Now my niece is a different story. Hurt her, and they’ll never find your body.” Uncle Ray’s grin was anything but friendly. So much for thinking I had someone in my court.
I shifted the conversation from me to Uncle Ray. “Did you play hockey?”
“Sure did. Never made the pros, but I gave it my best shot. Still played in an adult league until about ten years ago.”
“Everyone in this family played hockey at one time or another, including Carol.” Mr. Wilder puffed up a bit with pride. “Jessie is the best shot of the bunch. If she’d been a guy, she’d have been drafted in the first round.”
“I’m certain of that,” I agreed. I picked up a tomato and placed it on the cutting board. I sucked at cutting tomatoes, but I gave it my best shot and tried not to pulverize them into mush.
We cooked and talked hockey for the next half hour, managing to keep it congenial. Mostly the conversation centered around the Sockeyes’ chances for the upcoming season, new team members, and talented rookies on the squad.
I’d begun to feel comfortable and even accepted when the next set of salvos was blasted over the bow.
Mr. Wilder leaned forward and lowered his voice, forcing the rest of us to do the same. “Jessie is very special to us. She might come across as tough, but her heart is fragile.”
