Page 13 of Offensive Plays

I grab the growing swear jar off the kitchen counter and slide it toward them both.

"Nope. I covered my fee for the week when Zane gave me that wedgie at the BBQ. I threw in that fifty,” Hicks points to the Benjamin sitting at the top of the jar change.

"Wait, that's my Benji!" Landry protests. "I tossed it in when we were playing Never have I ever, and Ryker and the rookie both drank to 'I've never made out with a teammate's sister.'"

I try to hold back a laugh remembering the interaction, considering both of them had technically made out with Landry's sister at one point or another.

But they stare each other down. Tensions have been high since beating Nashville on their home ice earlier this week, securing our spot in the conference finals. We try to relax and have fun as much as we can. But between practices, workouts and public relations events—we're all running on fumes.

We just need some relief.

"You know what...fuck the jar," I say.

They both turn to me. "What?"

I grab the swear jar that's been a staple since we all moved in together last summer and empty it onto the counter. The bills all float down as the coins clank against the marble counters and clammer onto the tile floor.

"Fuck the jar," I say again. "Let's just go."

Landry tilts his head and assesses me. "Are you ok?"

"Maybe he's getting a fever?" Hicks says, placing the back of his hand on my forehead.

I swat him away.

"Look, it’s served its purpose. I’ve had my fun. But let's be real, I really don't give a shit what my dad thinks anymore."

My dad—he’s the reason we have this swear jar in the house in the first place. I was seven when I told him I wanted to play hockey. He'd never been a big sports guy, preferring to spend his evenings diving into the words of an ancient book to which he'd devoted his life, and I respected him for it.

But I didn't want to be a pastor like him, nor did my older brother at one point in our lives. We wanted to make our own way in this life.

Dad accepted that I wouldn't be like him but insisted that if I were to play hockey, I'd need to keep my testimony intact, at the very least.

That's church talk for: don't act a fool. No swearing, drinking heavily, or sleeping around.

He would insist that you can be in this world and not be of it. At seven, I didn't care what I agreed to as long as I could play the game I desperately loved.

But now, I just want my life back.

It's not like he ever comes to any of my games. And if it weren't for our weekly Sunday dinner, I'd rarely see the man. He's made it clear that he thinks I'm losing myself. The only thing keeping him from making me his full-time project is my brother.

The prodigal son returned from his worldly ways to be groomed to take over the church a few years ago. So, really, I'm not needed anymore. I'm free from the responsibility of being my dad's replacement. The true heir is where he needs to be.

"So we can say fuck now? In the house?" Hicks asks as he slips on his suit jacket. "'Cause you know I love saying fuck."

"And shit. And damn. And all the four-letter words you can imagine," I clarify.

Landry scrunches his face.

"What?" I ask him.

He shrugs, "Nothing. It's just...I kind of liked the swear jar."

"Are you kidding me right now?" I open the front door, and they both brush past me. "You liked me swindling you for your use of cuss words?" I ask, genuinely confused.

He pushes the remote start button on his keys, and the bright yellow Bronco purrs to life.

"I mean, no, it's not that. It was just nice to have something to keep us all...connected."