Page 57 of Love at Teamsgiving
From the other end of the table, the woman with the curly hair says, “We haven’t met yet. I’m Delaney. It’s so good to meet you.”
“My wife,” Hayden says.
“And I’m Whit.” The other woman who came with Margo offers a friendly wave.
“My wife,” Redd echoes.
“I’m not anyone’s wife, just saying.” Leah wears a pageant queen smile, then adds, “Not yet.”
The other player, whom I don’t recognize, is about to say something, but Margo cuts across him.
“Obviously, Beau and I are together, but you knew that.”
The grumpy goalie’s eyes soften in his wife’s presence.
This would be Miguel’s cue to say something stupid about us being ex-fiancés.
Instead, I do—say something stupid that is. “I’m happily single.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mystery Player says.
“Grimaldi,” Redd grinds out.
Miguel looks like he’s about to flip the table.
“Juniper, ignore them. You can wear what you want to the game tonight,” Margo says. “Moving on. We need to discuss my fantasy hockey league standing.”
I have to give myself a pat on the back. A year ago, the woman didn’t know the difference between a hockey stick and a puck, but she’s fully invested in the sport ... and her marriage, thanks to me.
“They can’t share insider info.” A large figure hulks over the table.
Gracie bounces to her feet and pecks Vohn on the cheek.
He says, “Boys, Nat isn’t going to approve of this off-plan meal.”
“What did hockey players do before they had nutritionists?” Pierre asks.
Vohn tips his head from side to side. “Arsenault, Cara is waiting for you at the Ice Palace.”
“You came here to deliver me that message?” he asks.
“No, I came to have lunch with my wife.”
“So, Cara isn’t waiting for me? She said she had meetings all afternoon.”
“You’ll find her in the galley.”
“I think you just want me to eat something healthy. Technically, potatoes grow in the ground,” Pierre says, like he’s trying to talk his dad into letting him eat dessert for breakfast.
This brings to mind the cake-eating spree Miguel and I went on the other day and the way he looked at me when I licked my fork clean. My cheeks heat.
Vohn counters, “French fries don’t grow in the ground, and if a certain French Canadian doesn’t get on top of his macros, he’s not getting ice time.”
Just then, the waitresses bring out our meals. Because of the game of musical chairs earlier, they’re not sure what plates go where.
In the end, I have a spicy chicken sandwich and Miguel has my cheeseburger.
“That’s mine,” I say, gesturing for him to pass me my plate.
