Page 5

Marty

Blake and Rowan’s wedding is a lot more laid-back than Coach Vanek’s or Ivan’s. They were originally going to elope, but Gabe and Harper invited them to have it at their house and things snowballed from there. It’s still pretty relaxed, though. The wedding party consists of Bodi Michener, a hockey player friend of Blake’s, and Bristol Carpenter, the team’s head of media relations, who’s close friends with Rowan. Rowan’s dad is giving her away, and there are only about fifty guests.

Blake has been playing on our team’s minor league affiliate, the Phoenix Rebels, for the last few years, and only got called up to the Phantoms during the playoffs, so he’s not particularly close with many of us. And half the team is out of town anyway since many of us live elsewhere in the off-season.

The best part is that I don’t have to wear a suit.

They were very specific that sport coats were dressy enough, and now that we’re hanging out after the ceremony, it feels more like a team cookout than a wedding.

Except I’m not here with my wife—I’m here with Stevie.

And she looks beautiful today in a pale green dress that hugs her curves until her hips, and then it flares out in rows of delicate ruffles. Her hair is up in one of those high ponytails that shows off her perfect features, and her makeup is soft and subdued. Kind of like her.

The sheer pink lipstick she’s wearing glitters on her lips, making me long to taste them, and I’m starting to wish this was a real date. Instead of a friendly date. Whatever that means.

I’ve definitely been out of the dating game for too long.

“When did you and Stevie start hooking up?” Connor asks me as we stand at the makeshift bar getting drinks.

“We’re not hooking up,” I reply firmly. “We’re just friends.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? She’s one of the most beautiful women in the world and you’re just…friends?”

“Believe it or not, it’s possible to be friends with someone you’re not sleeping with.”

He laughs. “But why?”

“Because eventually you get old enough to understand there’s more to life than sex.”

“I’m serious, bro—why would you friend zone her? She’s beautiful and single. And you’re single too. What’s the problem?”

I honestly don’t have an answer other than, “Well, I’m not even legally divorced yet, so I don’t want to do the rebound thing.”

“Sometimes a rebound thing is a good thing.” He gazes over at Effie. “We both know Effie was just trying to get over her ex when she went out with me, but look at us now.”

I smile. “She seems like a nice girl—just don’t get too attached. You’re young. See what else is out there. Don’t marry your first serious girlfriend.”

Like I did.

I don’t say that last part aloud, though.

He’s momentarily thoughtful, which doesn’t happen often with Connor, especially if it’s not hockey related. “That what you did?”

“Yup. I mean, there were one-night stands, but Brenna was my first adult serious relationship.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promises quietly.

Then he takes his beer and wanders off.

“I need another glass of champagne,” Stevie says, joining me.

I turn to the bartender. “Another glass of champagne for the lady.”

“Right away.”

The wedding is low-key but elegant, with a small bar set up under a canopy, tables and chairs under a tent, and a makeshift dance floor near the pool. It’s a little cramped for fifty people, but it feels cozy instead of crowded.

I hand Stevie her drink, and we make our way back to the table where we’ve been sitting.

“So.” Her eyes twinkle as she looks at me. “Our third wedding in less than a month.”

I chuckle. “Third time’s a charm, I guess.”

“Is it time for that dance you owe me?”

“Absolutely.”

She downs her glass of champagne and then takes my arm as we walk to the dance floor. She moves against me easily, apparently unconcerned with the fact that a fast-paced song is playing. We’re making our own rhythm, a little more slowly than the beat.

“You really like to dance,” I say, smiling down at her.

“I do. And most guys don’t. So I fully admit to taking advantage of your willingness to humor me.”

“I enjoy dancing,” I respond. “I’ve just been told I’m not good at it.”

She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “Who told you that? Brenna?” She rolls her eyes when I nod. “Fuck her. Seriously, she doesn’t know anything. Personally, I like the way you move.”

“And I like your company.” I slide my arms around her waist and pull her closer.

“That goes without saying,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Emma talked about you fixing that bow in her headband nonstop. She won’t let me take it off.”

“She’s adorable.”

“They’re pretty great,” I admit. “But it’s nice to get away for a few hours and talk about something other than Bluey and hair bows.”

“Or we could just dance—without talking.”

“We can do that too.”

We move around the dance floor, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. She’s light on her feet, probably much more so than me, but it doesn’t feel hard to keep up—or to lead. Brenna never let me lead once she decided I wasn’t good at it, and it’s nice to be with a woman who doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ addresses everyone. “If you’ll clear the dance floor, the bride is going to toss the bouquet.”

Stevie slides her arm through mine, tugging me off the dance floor.

“But you’re single,” I say.

“Not getting married any time soon,” she responds.

“Come on, Stevie!” Effie grabs her arm and pulls her away from me before I can react.

“Bristol!” Rowan calls to her maid of honor and Bristol shakes her head vehemently.

“No no no.” Bristol mouths the word over and over, but Rowan won’t be deterred. She grabs her friend’s arm, whispering to her, and Bristol looks like she’s headed to an execution instead of a silly wedding ritual.

“If Effie catches it, I’m in trouble,” Connor says, laughing.

“Remember what I told you,” I remind him.

He just laughs and then puts his fingers to his mouth to let out a loud whistle. “Let’s see some action, ladies!”

Sometimes I forget he’s only nineteen.

Bristol is at the far back of the crowd of ladies, and Stevie and Effie are right in front, laughing about something.

Rowan turns her back, lifts her arm and tosses the bouquet.

It sails high, all the way to the back, right toward Bristol, who puts her hands up as if defending herself. The bouquet bounces up, Blake’s sister tries to grab it but it somehow bounces out of her hands, up in the air again as multiple hands grab it.

Then, as if it were manned by remote control, it very precisely makes a delicate landing—right on Stevie’s chest.

She blinks, surprised, and then somehow does a little wiggle—sending it gently into Effie’s waiting hands.

A cheer goes up and Stevie smiles as Effie lifts it.

Then her gaze falls on me, and I wink.

“Why do I find this hot?” Connor murmurs.

“Because you’re twelve and hormonal,” I grunt.

He just laughs and runs to Effie, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around.

It’s interesting watching the two of them interact.

She’s a year or two older than him, and a successful model in her own right, while he’s just a kid from bum-fuck nowhere whose parents did a shitty job preparing him for life both in the big city and as a professional athlete. So the older guys on the team—me, Gabe, Canyon, Ivan—we’ve taken him under our wing. We bought him his first condoms.

Hell, it was Chey who asked Effie to go out on a date with him just to build his confidence. We had no idea she’d actually like the goofy teenager.

Not that he’s a bad kid. He’s a great kid. Smart, talented, and big-hearted. Just immature and na?ve about the ways of the world. We worried he’d knock up the first chick to pop his cherry and wind up tied to her for life—at eighteen. Instead, Effie has turned into a true blessing. Helping him grow up without any obvious attempts at manipulating him, financially or otherwise.

I’m so lost in thought watching Connor and Effie, I don’t realize that Stevie is standing next to me, following my line of sight.

“They’re so cute together,” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember being young like that?” she whispers.

“Sure.” I shrug. “But not well.”

“I used to think that love always had a happy ending. Obviously, some relationships didn’t work out, but that once you found your soulmate that was all that mattered.”

“What do you think now?” I ask curiously.

“That love and soulmates are fallacies invented in romance novels.”

I kind of agree with her.

It’s just hard to say it out loud.

“I think maybe our expectations were too high,” I say instead. “Like, I expected Brenna to share my dreams for the future. That I would work hard at hockey and provide a wonderful life for her and our kids, and she’d be waiting at home for me. Like, this fucking hockey-themed fairytale.”

“Did you ask her?” she asks curiously.

That gives me pause.

Did I?

We talked about kids, of course, and she knew I was a professional hockey player. “I think the conversations we had and the reality of what our life became were two different things.”

“She didn’t enjoy staying home with the kids while you traveled with the team and did your thing.” There’s no censure in her voice, just a kind of understanding. Obviously, one I never had.

“I’m sure I’m partially to blame, because she was alone a lot, but I’m also frustrated. What did she think would happen? I didn’t get her pregnant on my own—she had a part in that. I couldn’t be there all the time, but she had help. A cleaning service that came twice a week. The money to pay for babysitters any time she wanted to go somewhere. Martin was already in pre-kindergarten, so he was gone from nine to two everyday…” My voice trails. I’ve had these conversations in my head a million times, trying to figure out where my marriage went wrong.

“I don’t think you’re going to get the answers you’re looking for,” she says softly. “At least, not from me. The only person you’ll get them from is her. But if you want a woman’s perspective, I’m happy to give it.”

Do I want a woman’s perspective?

Yeah, I do.

In fact, I desperately need one.

“Shoot,” I say after a moment. “Let me have it.”