Page 5 of The Rebound Plan

“What’s wrong, Rusty?”

The groom’s sister drops into the seat beside me. I haven’t seen her in a couple of years, but that doesn’t stop her from immediately inserting herself into my private misery.

Once upon a time, Emery “Buzz” Granger was a tomboy teenager who geeked out on getting to play hockey with pro athletes because her older brothers are all in the league.

Today, she’s a bridesmaid at her oldest brother’s third wedding. She’s still a bit of a tomboy, because she’s got Converse sneakers on under her champagne-coloured satin dress. Earlier, she won an arm-wrestling competition against a D-man twice her size.

Grangers have always been fiercely competitive. And nosy.

“Who said anything’s wrong?” The open bar has thickened my usually mild Scottish accent. Twenty-four years of living in Canada undone by top shelf liquor.

“Your face.”

An observant tomboy, then.

I narrow my eyes at her. If the universe thought this was the woman to put in my path, there’s no hope for me.

But all I see staring back at me is friendly curiosity.

And fuck it, I need to talk this out with someone. Might as well be someone who doesn’t know anyone on the Highlanders. Emery speaks hockey, but she lives three states and a province away from all my problems. I’m not likely to see her again for another three years after tonight—or ever.

“I bought a house two weeks ago.” I leave out the fact that it was a rash purchase, a reaction after another wedding just like this one, teaming with hockey players and their wives and girlfriends.

The girls, too?

I walked right into that one.

The worst part is that he doesn’t even want her there—but I can’t resist the temptation of making him bring her along.

“My condolences,” Emery says dryly.

“It’s a huge compound in cottage country.”

“Even worse.”

“And my team captain just found out. He’s, uh, demanding I host something for the team next weekend.”

“Oooooh.” Now her sympathy seems sincere. “You got volun-told.”

“I sure did.”

“A team-only retreat before training camp? Getting everyone on the same page about coming back even tougher than last year?”

“You really were raised in the NHL, weren’t you?”

“The hype speech pumps through my veins, yeah.” She lowers her voice and does a bang-on imitation of her father, a legendary player and now a part of the Chicago front office. “You have to dial in and really find a focus together.”

I laugh despite myself.

She sighs melodramatically. “How are you going to survive?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” She swirls the ice in her glass, then shoves it at me.

I take a swig, expecting it to be whiskey.

It’s ginger ale, and the sweet carbonated bubbles make me choke in surprise.

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