Page 35 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
She rolls her eyes.
“Why doesn’t someone stop it?”
“It’s a survival of the fittest situation.”
“So they’ll fight to the death? How barbaric. Why didn’t I know this before I signed on to marry a hockey player?”
Juniper laughs and nudges me back into my seat. She proceeds to tell me more about the sport to which I only partly listen because I have an eye on the television, waiting, praying, and hoping that I won’t see my fake fiancé being carried out in a body bag.
When the Knights win again, I trust that was only made possible with the help of their goalie so I assume he survived.
That night, I pace the seven unobstructed steps in my apartment, chewing on my thumb’s cuticle, and debating whether to text Beau.
Finally, I gum up the courage.
Me: Hi! It’s me. Um. Margo. Haven’t heard from you in a while. I know you’re busy though. I watched the game tonight. Way to go on the win! I saw there was a bit of a tussle. I hope you’re okay.
I wait, anticipating the little blinking dots to reveal that he’s replying, but they don’t come. I scour the internet for a police report or news article because I imagine a dead hockey player would make the headlines. But I don’t find one and finally fall asleep.
The next day, Beau replies and my heart launches itself into my throat.
Beau: I’m good.
Me: Me too.
That’s an abject lie. I’m stressed to the max. I bounced my rent check, can’t afford my weekly scone, and spotted Tate on my subway line the other day. Needless to say, I changed carriages.
Me: I mean that in the how are you doing kind of way. Obviously, I wasn’t in a scrum at a hockey game. But I’ve been watching your games.
Beau: Coach has me on lock.
Me: What does that mean?
He doesn’t answer.
A few days later, while watching the Knights play the Denver Blizzard, I ask Juniper about his reply. She explains that hockey is a demanding sport.
“They’re doing exceptionally well and likely the goalie is—” She pumps her fist in the air. “That is how it’s done. Yes!”
I wish I could muster up Juniper’s level of enthusiasm. Not going to lie, I’m a little disappointed. I should be relieved. Safely back in New York, I’m beyond my mother and sister’s reach, I rather liked the idea of being fake engaged though, and now it’s like an afterthought ... or a forgotten thought. Whatever happened to the marriage of convenience?
Feeling a little attention-starved from my best friend and my fake fiancé’s mutual obsession with hockey, I say, “Um, thegoalie is likely guarding things, er, tending the net thingy so the puck, what everyone seems to want to get their sticks on, doesn’t slip inside.”
“The goal,” she corrects.
“Not going to lie, from a logical standpoint, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but neither did Beau pinching my butt.” I leave that there and count how many seconds it takes Juniper to come out of her hockey trance and reply.
Two point five seconds later, she nearly does a spit take. “He what?”
“I guess I left that part of the story out.”
It was the highlight of my year so far.
She wants details, so I dish while helping myself to free popcorn.
After the game, I send Beau a text but don’t hear back. I wouldn’t mind communicating with him about our fake engagement and marriage of convenience. Maybe Celeste is right. I’m easy to forget.
The next fewweeks pass in much the same way with only a few words from Beau here and there while I torture myself by watching the Knights games with Juniper and eating complimentary baskets of food at various restaurants that host hockey on their big screen TVs. At least I’m getting my gluten and corn chip fix.
