Page 89 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate

Noah

THE WEDDING IS GORGEOUS, but Finn is silent when he leads me to the dance floor after we’ve eaten our perfect food and listened to the wedding party deliver perfect speeches. Love fucking wafts through the air. I mean, there are humungous vases stuffed with flowers on every table, and the violins have been abandoned for Frank Sinatra-style jazz.

It’s not unromantic. Movie directors of romcoms would want to take notes on this event.

I wrap my arms around Finn’s neck, and we shuffle together. I guess dancing isn’t one of Finn’s fabulous qualities. We can work on that.

“Maybe we should leave,” he says.

“Already?”

He gives a miserable nod, and I move into action.

“Let’s go then.” I take his hand and lead him from the dancefloor, waving goodbye to the teammates I see who aren’t utterly gone for their dates and staring deep into their eyes and murmuring every romantic line from every romantic song ever.

“Sorry,” Finn says, once we’re outside. We stare into the dark, starry night, the shimmering stars brighter outside of the city. “We can go back in if you want. I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “You don’t always need to be on. Let’s get you home, big guy. I’ll even drive.”

He fixes a glare at me. “I’m shorter than you.”

“Oh? I wasn’t sure since you’re always insisting on carrying me around.”

He snorts and almost has a smile on his face by the time we reach the car.

“You weren’t upset by the wedding?” he asks.

“Because I fucking hate love?” I draw my forehead together, probably forming all sorts of abysmal wrinkles.

He laughs. “No, you’re too innocent to be that cynical, baby. I just mean—don’t you wish that we had had that?”

Something stirs in my heart. Something makes it beat faster. Something makes me turn so I can see his exact expression, look at his eyes, and...

His head is turned, focused on the view of the waves.

I shouldn’t have offered to drive.

“You would have wanted us to have had a big wedding?” I ask.

I’m sure confusion ripples through every word in my sentence.

Finn heaves a sigh. “No, of course not. We would have been sober by the time they’d all arrived at the wedding. This takes months to organize.”

I give a weak laugh. “Yeah, that would have to be some bender.”

“We wouldn’t be playing hockey.”

I stare out the windshield at the glum depiction Finn just made.

“We wouldn’t have done that,” I say finally.

“I know,” Finn says, but his voice almost sounds miserable.

But I’m sure Finn doesn’t mean that he wishes we’d gone on a months-long drinking disaster.

“I’ll give you a blowjob when we get home,” I promise.

He laughs. “Oh, yeah?”