Cliché

The hazy, overcast morning seemed to match Allison’s mood completely. It also matched Kris’s.

“Babe, where’s the peanut butter?”

“On the shelf,” she answered automatically, packing the salad she’d made into her own sack lunch.

“No it’s not.”

Allison frowned. “Yes it is, Kris,” she tried to say calmly. She could tell the lack of sleep was catching up with her. “Did you even look?”

“Well, I- Merde, my head…”

Allison frowned and looked at the six foot defenseman. He was rubbing his temples slowly, his bloodshot brown eyes squeezed shut. She frowned, realizing he must not have noticed the two Advil and glass of water she’d placed on his bedside table for him.

She leaned against the counter, watching him. More than anything, she wanted to hug him. She wanted to take the day off and spend it watching old movies with him, taking turns making bowls of popcorn, staying in their pajamas. Or lack there of. But she had a job to go to, and so did he. Things weren’t as breezy and carefree as they used to be; they had real lives now. And she was already running late.

Grabbing her lunch and thermos of coffee from the counter, she headed for the front door. “I’ve got to go,” she said, head down. “If the market’s still open when I head home, I’ll pick you up some more-”

“Found it.”

Allison stopped with her hand on the doorknob, her head already turned to see a drowsy Kris examining a half-full jar of peanut butter. “Where was it?” she asked, her tone almost humorous.

His eyes flicked to hers, a chesire smile on his lips. “The shelf.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, she smiled.

---

It was raining by the time 3 o’clock came around to put an end to Allison’s work day. It was down pouring by the time she made the twenty minute drive from school to Vero’s. It was her turn to host the boys’ away game, but Allison had decided it safer to arrive as soon as she could to help out with the Halloween supplies for the next day.

“Sorry I’m late,” she announced as she shut the side door behind her, slipping out of her Sketchers and kicking them next to the rest of the shoes. Vero’s heels, Heather’s Uggs, Erin’s fleece clogs, Melissa’s flats and Kristen’s sleek black boots. Her tennis shoes looked entirely out of place; the ugly ducklings.

Wringing out her wheat blonde hair, Allison stepped into the kitchen. The girls were huddled around the crowded island, shuffling through each of the Target bags, Ooh-ing and Aah-ing at each of their contents.

“You’re not late,” Vero assured her, greeting Allison with warm smile. “Heather got ‘ere maybe three minutes before you.” Allison glanced at Heather, who’s once straightened hair had curled again from the humidity. “Besides,” Vero continued, “only Erin and I went to pick up the supplies. And the game doesn’t start until eighty-thirty. We ‘ave plenty of time to spare.”

Allison smiled and stepped forward to examine the bursting Target bags. Sequins, glues, stickers, markers. They’d had even gone as far as picking up parts to a Potato Head doll. She inwardly sighed at how good Vero and Erin were at their duties as WAGs. Kris was always pushing her to get more involved with the charity events the Penguins’ Wives Association organized. Be more involved. The other girlfriends do it. All she ever heard was, You’re making me look bad. Step it up.

So she’d jumped at the chance to decorate pumpkins with a few of the WAGs at The Children’s Home of Pittsburgh. She loved kids. Hell, she’d made a career of it as a third grade teacher. And she enjoyed spending time with the other girlfriends. It wouldn’t be that bad.

And so she was finally doing it. To make Kris happy.

---

“Come on boys!”

By the time the third period of the boys’ game against the Jets came around, Vero was on the edge of her seat, fists clenched and eyes intent on the television. Kristen was right there next to her, lifting slightly off of her seat each time Steve had the puck. Melissa had left shortly before the game had started so she could watch it with Brooks, leaving Allison on the other end of the sectional with Heather, who was a much more modest hockey spectator. Like Allison.

Once the boys were down 1-2, Allison felt that anxious tingle in her stomach begin to set in. As the third period progressed, she subconsciously inched further towards the edge of her seat. Heather’s foot began rapidly tapping beside her. Obviously, the team’s one goal deficit was having the same effect.

Kris had the puck, shot it; Allison felt her heart leap high in her chest. The puck ricocheted and headed for the boards. She watched as Kris raced for the rebound, tailing Burmistrov. Allison pictured the hit before it happened, and she knew it wouldn’t be pretty. She cringed as Kris slammed the other player headfirst into the boards, hesitating slightly to watch him fall before continuing down the ice.

The whistles were blown and Kris was sentenced a minor penalty for boarding. Allison let out a breath she only just realized she’d been breathing - it could have been worse.

“Just wait until Shanahan gets his hands on him,” Heather noted darkly from her spot beside Allison on the couch.

The other girls laughed at what they thought was a joke, but Allison didn’t. She was afraid of how true Heather’s statement just might be.