Chapter 11
Eleven
Conor
“Where the fuck are we going?” Tweetie asks.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Alvin says, elbowing Simon, who elbows Theodore. I guess none of them are going to tell Tweetie.
I sure as shit am not going to say anything because he’ll stop me for sure, the commitment-phobe he is. He wouldn’t understand.
“You didn’t have to come,” Simon adds.
“We had this handled,” Theo says, the three of them having some nonverbal communication with one another. They’re like creepy triplets or something.
It’s almost comical seeing Tweetie in the dark. “What the fuck? Winnetka? I’d hoped we were heading to a bar crawl or something. And why is Conor shitfaced?”
Tweetie turns around from the front seat of the Uber XL, but all three of the chipmunks shrug. He blows out a breath. I know he’ll only take being out of the loop for so long, but our driver asks him if he’s Tweetie Sorenson and if I’m Conor Nilsen, which retargets his attention.
“Yeah. You a fan, or are you going to criticize us?”
Leave it to Tweetie.
“I know the Cup is yours this year,” the driver says. “Last year was a hard break, but that first line is too good not to come through this year.”
“Fuck yeah, we are,” Tweetie says, looking over his shoulder. “And we got one helluva goalie.”
The driver looks through the rearview mirror at me. “You are a wall, man.”
“That’s why he’s got his nickname.” Tweetie winks at me. “Another brick in the wall.”
“I thought it was from your pinkie?” Theo asks.
“No, asshole, he was Pinkie way before the injury.” Simon shakes his head as if he’s embarrassed for his friend.
“It’s just a coincidence that I have two reasons for them to call me that. One for the Pink Floyd song, ‘Another Brick in the Wall,’ and then the pinkie injury happened.” I shoot Theo an expression to say don’t sweat it.
The injury could’ve been so much worse. Taking a blade to the tip of my pinkie. Most people don’t notice it unless they’re staring at my hands, but it does suck that I’ve got nerve damage. Thank God, it’s only my pinkie.
“That’s a killer nickname,” Theo says.
“Thanks.”
I’m proud of my hockey name. I’ve worked hard to become one of the best goalies in the league. So hard I’ve pushed anything personal to the back burner, but damn, Eloise makes me second-guess that decision. Because she’s marrying some other guy right now.
I lean over to check the time on the car dash. In five minutes, my opportunity will be gone.
We pass the sign that says we’re entering Winnetka, and my heart hammers.
Alvin pats my shoulder from the seat behind me and holds out a flask. “Liquid courage?”
Theo smiles next to me, and I accept the flask, downing a few swigs.
“Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him, but Theo snatches it and downs a shot worth.
I watch the GPS on the Uber’s dashboard, which says we’re only two minutes away.
“We’re getting close,” Simon says, running his palms together.
Alvin puts his hands on my shoulders, massaging me as if I’m getting ready to enter a boxing ring. “You’re fucking Conor Nilsen. This is your moment.”
Simon and Theo join in with encouraging comments, as if I’ll be facing the heavyweight champion in a second.
“What the fuck is going on?” Tweetie glares at us over his shoulder.
We pull up to the church, and I open the van door, knowing I have little time left.
“Why are we at a church?” Tweetie shouts, getting out of the van. “Oh shit, no, Pinkie.” He rushes in front of me on the sidewalk leading to the steps, putting his hand on my chest. “You can’t do this.” His gaze zeros in over my shoulder. “What are you assholes thinking?”
“He likes this girl. They had an instant connection. You can’t stand in the way of true love!” Simon says.
“You thought you wanted that Aubrie girl last year. And where is she now?” Tweetie asks Alvin.
I use Tweetie’s momentary distraction to get around him, and I jog up the church’s stairs, pushing through the door. The entry area is quiet, so I burst through the next set of doors, bending over to catch my breath.
I hear some people gasp, and I hold up my hand for a second before standing straight and searching out Eloise. She’s at the altar, next to who I assume is Tristan, the douchebag.
“I object!”
More whispers and yells surround me.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Tweetie says from behind me.
Henry and Rowan push out of a pew and hurry over to me.
“Conor, what the hell?” Henry says.
“You let him come here?” Rowan asks Tweetie.
Tweetie raises both his hands. “Listen, I’ll admit that something like this has me written all over it, but I swear I had nothing to do with it. It was the chipmunks. They got him shitfaced and talked him into it. Even I wouldn’t let him do something this stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say, waiting for Eloise to respond.
She’s still standing there, looking so put together like she should be on top of a cake. Her dress is big and puffy, and her hair is so tight in a bun that I want to release it and let her blonde strands fall over her shoulders. She looks rigid and cold. Not at all like the Eloise I met last week. They’re like two completely different people.
I walk down the aisle, the flower petals crumpling under my shoes.
“Con—” Kyleigh steps in front of me “—you’re drunk. What are you doing?”
I don’t look at her. My eyes are solely on Eloise. “I’m sorry, Ky. I know this is a big deal for you, but I can’t let her marry him.”
“It’s not your decision,” she whispers.
Tristan hasn’t even reacted yet. I know I’d be down those steps and knocking out the guy who’s trying to steal my girl.
I place my hand on my sister’s hips and pivot her out of my way. “Eloise?”
“I knew it! She’s a whore!” A woman on my right points at Eloise.
“Excuse me?” A woman from on the left stands and steps into the aisle.
“Are you Conor Nilsen?” one of the groomsmen asks, hitting Tristan on the arm. “Shit, half the team is here. At your wedding, man.”
I ignore them all. “Eloise?”
Her eyes soften, and there she is. I get a glimpse of my Eloise. Then her eyes narrow, she lifts the skirt of her dress, walks down the steps, and grabs my hand. “Come with me.”
She pulls me down the aisle and out the doors.
This isn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for.