Page 19 of Game Day

“Who else is coming?” Brooke asks.

I run her through the guest list, including with the team.

“We’re going for intimate and informal,” I say. “No bridal parties, no special roles. This way everyone, including Kat and Clay’s parents, can just show up and have a good time.”

“I thought I was so ready to be married,” Mari says from my shoulder.

“You were perfectly prepared. You had a checklist a mile long. And Chloe,” I remind my sister.

“That’s not what I mean. Being a wife is different from being a girlfriend. You’re going to be dealing with his family, the public pressures…"

"All of which we’ve already dealt with,” I insist.

On the way back to Clay’s and my place, Brooke and I talk about the wedding and the decisions still to be made. My sister is quiet in the backseat.

After we park and head for the elevator, Brooke asks, "Flowers?"

"I'm going to look. Tomorrow maybe?" I say, fumbling for my phone.

"I can go with you," Brooke offers.

"I thought you had to go out of town?" I say to my friend.

"I can cancel."

My gaze flicks to my sister, guilt rising up. Brooke has a way of knowing what looks fantastic together, and she always has my back, but I’m worried about Mari. “Mar? Can you help me with flowers?”

“I suppose.”

"Great." When my friend’s face falls, I add, "Brooke, can you help with the venue later this week?"

"Absolutely."

All my life, I wanted people to love and accept me. Now, having two people I care about clamoring to be there…

I’ll remind them they’re both important to me.

We head inside the condo, and the beautiful brightness of the open space greets us.

During our short stint in LA, I found us a house to rent. After returning to Denver the next season, it made sense to return to the condo Clay purchased when he first signed with the Kodiaks. It’s objectively beautiful, but it’s never felt like mine, and now that I’m keeping busy with painting and Clay’s starting to set down roots, we’re running out of room.

I have my rented studio in the city where I can paint, but sometimes it would be nice to have some space to spread out at home. The second bedroom of the condo is a jumbled mass of paperwork, Clay’s trophies and awards, and my painting stuff.

The wine fridge in the kitchen isn't as impressive as Mari and Harlan's walk-in basement wine cellar, but there’s no champagne inside.

I open the cupboard and find a foil-covered bottle of Moet. "How's this?"

"If that's all you have," Mari says.

"It's not about the brand. It's about the quality," Brooke weighs in.

“It’s also warm,” Mari counters.

Brooke shrugs. “Hand it over.”

She grabs a towel to open the champagne and my attention drifts to the photos on the wall. There’s a selfie of Clay and me in Aruba, his tattooed arms circling me from behind as we lie on the beach. Another of the Kodiaks crowded around their booth at Mile High. One of Mari and me as kids wearing flower crowns and dancing in a field.

Finally, there’s one of Clay and Kat, both of them kids and dressed in footie pajamas, their parents behind them. They’re not terribly close to Clay and Kat, and I’ve only met them twice on video calls.

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