Page 135 of The Dixon Rule

I grin at him. “You’re naive if you think that won’t interfere with hockey. These things you say you want—a wife, kids. They need to come first, you get that, right? How do you expect to juggle that with your NHL career?”

He frowns. “Lots of NHL players have wives and families and still play the game.”

“Would they walk out of a game if their wife needed them?” I challenge.

“That’s a loaded question. Depends on what she needed.”

“She’s giving birth.”

Shane shrugs. “Russell Doolie missed the birth of his first child because of a playoffs game. His wife was cool with it—she’s the one who told him to finish out the series.”

“Fair enough. Then I guess you need to make sure you marry someone who’s okay with making those sacrifices. Not many women would be.”

He gives me a curious look. “Would you?”

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. Then I shrug. “But it doesn’t really matter because I don’t plan on having kids till my early thirties. Do you know how much work those things are?”

Shane snickers. We’re interrupted a moment later by Beckett, who grabs Shane and whisks him away to do celebratory shots with the entire men’s hockey team.

I’m suddenly reminded of the wedding I went to with Percy last year. As much as I loathe even having his name inside my brain, because it triggers my anxiety, the memory lingers. A friend from high school got married, and I brought Percy as my plus-one. He barely said a word to anyone the whole time and kept a deadly grip on my hand or a possessive arm around my shoulders whenever anyone with a penis tried to talk to me. I broke up with him not long after that. I was starting to notice that behavior happening far too often for my liking.

Unlike Percy, Shane doesn’t care who I talk to or dance with. For the next hour, everyone goes wild on the dance floor. The hockey boys are just the right amount of tipsy, though I imagine they’ll be properly drunk once more of the older folks start heading out and it’s only us young’uns closing down the country club.

But now it’s nearing midnight, and the crowd still hasn’t dissipated. If anything, the older guests are as drunk as the young ones. I’ve lost count of how much champagne I’ve drunk, and a part of me wonders if I’m mishearing it when I stumble onto Shane and Garrett near the bar discussing Fling or Forever. But it’s no secret that Gigi’s dad is a fan of the show.

“He’s so snakey,” Garrett is saying.

“Yeah, but he didn’t deserve to be mugged off.”

I make an exasperated noise as I glare at the two men. “Just because Donovan is a Brit doesn’t mean you are! Stop using British slang. It’s embarrassing.”

Shane is defiant. “So you’re okay with Donovan cracking on with Ky?”

“Oh my God, I’m not defending Donovan! Leni is a national treasure. I’m just saying, stop being weird!”

Shane flicks an eyebrow up at Garrett. “And she considers herself a superfan.”

“I’m leaving now.” I roll my eyes and wander off to find someone normal to talk to. I scan the guests mingling on the well-manicured lawn and spot Ryder standing at the edge of the dance floor.

I join him, following his gaze to see Gigi dancing with friends. She is absolutely radiant. Glowing. Her reception dress is a floor-length satin number that clings to her body like a second skin. Her hair is loose, dark waves streaming down her shoulders.

I give Ryder a pat on the arm. “Do I need to give you the whole speech, or does it go without saying?”

He glances over wryly. “What, hurt her and I’ll kill you?”

“Okay, so you know it already.”

“Trust me, I’ve gotten it from every single uncle, aunt, cousin. Her dad, obviously—”

“Obviously.”

“And even Hannah gave the speech, although hers was accompanied by a hug so I don’t know if I should take it seriously.”

“Oh, you should. She’ll cut a bitch.”

Ryder chuckles.

Before my next foray onto the dance floor, I chug some water, use the bathroom, and then return to the throng of bodies. While Shane dances with Mya, I dance with Beckett, then Will, then Gigi’s twin brother, who flashes his lady-killer smile at me.

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