Page 10 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Instead of a post-win celebration, I make a quiet exit after our debrief.
It could be that I’d rather do anything than go to the wedding tomorrow. This only reminds me that part of the agreement with my grandfather involved one of these events with me starring as the groom.
I’ll take a raincheck.
The next day comes too soon. I stuff myself into a dark blue suit. When I glance in the mirror, I rough my hand through my hair. No sense in looking too refined. But I did take some time to trim my beard. A couple of months ago touching thething would’ve been off-limits, but I’m trying to let go of some of my habits. Considering we won against the Kings without me wearing my lucky socks says a lot about me conquering these compulsions.
Grabbing my truck keys, it’s too late now tounsave the date for this wedding.
I roll up to the venue, feeling like I’m wearing an itchy wool sweater instead of a custom-tailored suit. I’m not a big fan of fancy affairs. I’ve been to enough for a lifetime, thank you very much.
Lots of small talk, which I don’t do. Shallow and pithy comments grind my gears. Too much pointless handshaking and backslapping makes me twitch.
I make it through the ceremony only visualizing my dead-end future at the front of the chapel three times. I dismiss every single one. The clock is ticking and I have to find a way out of marrying my mother’s best friend’s daughter, Pixie Galaxie. If you knew the kinds of people she hung around with after being involved in the “Sell your kid into fame biz,” you’d understand.
The cocktail hour is textbook. I get recognized by numerous distant relations and spot a few acquaintances from Concordia. Most people wonder why anyone would want to leave the nation even for a long weekend. I can think of a few reasons, namely Sukie Hammer, her husband, and their insane plans for my teenage life that I barely escaped.
I’ll admit, I’m relieved when a hockey fan recognizes me and bangs my ear off about the upcoming game against the Carolina Storm. Max Sherwood shares his thesis on how goal tenders are underrated. I agree for the most part, but that’s also how I like it. I don’t want the spotlight on me. I’m not the son of a vampire, but Sukie, my mother, will suck the lifeblood right out of you.
Sherwood says, “I’m telling you, Morgan is a plumber on defense. He’ll do your dirty work. Thoughts on Cruz for the nextdraft? What about that guy Grady? I’m glad Powell is back. The man is a beast.”
“A bear,” I correct.
“TheBear.” He chuckles.
While we speculate about the remainder of the season, seemingly out of nowhere, a woman with red hair and wearing a mint green dress rushes over to me and says, “There you are.”
Max bobs his eyebrows, but my expression must read confused—or, given what Badaszek said about sticks and pucks, bordering on criminal.
Max mutters, “Puck bunny.”
She says, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I meet her medium brown eyes—the color of coffee with cream. They’re light and sweet. She beams a smile. Her lips are plump in the middle and her expression flashes with intense—or desperate—recognition.
“Here I am?” I ask, caught off guard.
“Figures you’d be over here.”
Hereis nearly identical to the other quadrants of the ballroom hosting the reception except the cake isn’t on display. I glance around, wondering if she’s mistaken me for someone else.
My responses to her questions come out delayed. “You have?”
She nods profusely.
Do I know this woman? I meet people all the time and can’t say that I’m great with names, but rarely do I forget a face. Hers I would definitely remember.
Also, being the gear-covered goaltender means I don’t generally have women throwing themselves at me. I don’t have the hotshot role on the ice. If Sherwood is right and she’s a puck bunny, I’d remember her. But I don’t. Not even slightly.
If ever I could use an assist, it’s now, but Max disappeared among the guests.
In a slightly lower voice—filled with tension, suggestion, or something else, I can’t tell—she says, “My family has been pestering me about meeting you, and I know coming to the wedding was a big deal, so I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.” She spins her hand. “That’s the back story.”
My head slides from side to side at the same time her eyes widen with a flash of panic. She starts nodding, matching my pace.
“I’m sorry I?—”
Cutting me off and still wearing a smile, through gritted teeth, she says, “Please play along.”
