Page 18 of Taking It To Overtime
It takes painful seconds for me to realize why Spags is about to have a damn coronary on my parents’ hallway floor. He may call me dad for fun, or to make my eye twitch—or both—but the guy he really looks up to, the one he’d willingly crawl naked to the blue line for, is Vic. The same Vic who dealt with a damning paparazzi photo that not only spilled the beans on his marriage, but almost ruined the guy’s chance with the woman he loved.
It doesn’t matter that Vera is used to the spotlight while Tristan isn’t. It doesn’t matter that no one is speculating on our marital status—that I’ve seen—or even truly speculating that we’re an item. Not off of one set of photos. There are no rules here to break other than our personal unwritten ones. There’s no big boss ready to hand either of us a pink slip because I lost my fucking mind and kissed the side of her face.
The worst that will happen is the internet will speculate for a couple months, and we’ll go back to our everyday norm. Our parents might bring it up, or they might not. I don’t know if Mr. and Mrs. Novak have a Google alert set for their daughter’s name, the way mine do, but it’s possible they won’t see the photo at all. There’s nothing to handle. Nothing to warn. Nothing to worry about.
I pull my phone out one more time just to check she hasn’t texted. For science.
The little red bubble tells me I have new messages. Forget my illustrious hockey career, forget that I’m supposed to strap my gear on tomorrow and coach a bunch of standout high school players. I almost sprain a thumb with the speed I use to open the app.
Vic:
Anything you wanted to tell me about snookums?
Perhaps something red-headed and freckled?
Or should I say someone?
Me:
Glad to see the gossip train is still working well, even while you’re on your honeymoon.
Shouldn’t you be fucking busy? Or busy fucking?
Vic:
Tristan has an alert.
I’m supposed to ask if she’s “the one,” but we both already know the answer to that. She also asked if Vera knows about the picture.
And she’s freaking out that you know THE Vera Novak. *Apparently*, you are nothing to write home about.
Me:
It was a coincidence. Nothing more.
Tell your wife to calm down.
Vic:
I will not be doing that. Thank you.
Me:
If you’re texting, does that mean the honeymoon’s over? Can I send back the kid?
No more messages come after that.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to swing by her old home, just to make sure everything’s fine. It can be low key. I can come up with a convincing-enough excuse on the walk over.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask Spags, and he’s no longer bouncing off the walls, but his eyes are still wide, worried. “If I leave you here with my mom, you going to survive? Or do I need to bring you with me?”
“Bring me with you?”
Life would be so much easier if people could just read my thoughts.
“Vera,” I say.
Spags frowns, then smiles, then nods. His chin drops and his eyes narrow as the smiles morphs into a smirk.
