Chapter 8 That’s My Coffee Order
That’s My Coffee Order
Darcy
I glance up, and my foolish heart does a stupid flip. Argh. In my defense, the human body is just not built to resist the sight of Eric Tremaine in a suit and tie, his hair still damp from the shower.
And he’s smiling at me.
Still, I keep my gaze cool. “Is there an issue?”
“Well, yeah. Hi.” He gives me a wave. “I’m the problem. It’s me.”
The corners of my mouth twitch involuntarily. “Did you just quote Taylor Swift?”
“She said it best.” He shrugs. “Here—this is a double capp with skim milk.” He hands me a cup.
I stare down at it. “That’s my coffee order.”
“I know. It’s a peace offering.”
Okay. Wow. I take a deep breath. “Thank you. That was kind.”
“It’s the least I could do.” He clears his throat. “Look, yesterday I was a total asshole. The way I spoke to you was just plain wrong, and I’m very sorry.”
“Oh.” Something warm unfurls in my chest. Most guys on the team would rather take a puck to the face than admit they’d been wrong. Words—actual, vulnerable words—aren’t part of the playbook.
But here’s Eric, standing in front of me with genuine remorse, offering not just coffee but accountability. It’s so unexpected that I’m not even sure how to process it.
“I appreciate that,” I say finally, and I’m surprised to realize how much I mean it. “Most guys would’ve just pretended it never happened.”
“Most guys could do better, then.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’d rather face this head-on than spend the next month wondering if you’re secretly plotting to swap my hair gel with superglue.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s… actually not the worst idea.”
“See? This is why I can’t afford to be on your bad side. You’re too creative.”
I study him over the rim of my cup. The thing is, I’ve worked with athletes long enough to know that apologies like this don’t come naturally to them.
They’re trained to forget their mistakes instantly, to never look back, to focus only on the next play.
The fact that Eric is breaking that pattern feels significant in a way I can’t quite name.
“Well,” I say, feeling strangely off-balance, “consider yourself forgiven, Captain.”
“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m told that I tried to apologize last night, but I was in no shape. I had a lot of whiskey…”
I roll my eyes.
“I know, I know. You never should have had to deal with me anyway. Yesterday afternoon, when I saw you, I was having…” He gulps, then drops his voice to a whisper. “… A panic attack.”
Oh my God. Men. “Eric, people have them all the time. It’s not a character flaw.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to do better. I’ll have a chat with the team psychologist so I don’t end up snapping at anyone else or taking stupid penalties.”
“It’s hockey, E-Train. Sometimes you take a penalty. But nobody thinks last night’s loss is all your fault.”
“Don’t they?” He rolls his neck. “I do.”
“Really? Even though that makes no sense? But since you brought it up, I’m more upset that I have to go to that wedding shower than I am about the game or about you snarling at me like a toddler yesterday.”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “God, tell me about it. Can you picture me dancing in front of people?”
“Actually, sure.” Hockey players usually have impressive rhythm. And all the women there will be drooling over him no matter what.
He shakes his head. “I’m not fun at parties. I can’t remember the last time I went out dancing. And making it into a contest is just weird. How does that even work? Wait—I’ll google it.” He pulls out his phone.
I move to where I can see his screen, where he’s searched: how to win a dance-off. “You want to win, huh? Even if you don’t know what it is?”
“Well, obviously.”
I chuckle. “Do you want me to tell you the rules? My sister makes everything into a competition, so I’m already familiar with this form of torture.”
“Hit me,” he says, looking up.
“You can enter as a couple or a group,” I tell him. “You choose a song, and you dance to a minute’s worth of it. Then it’s someone else’s turn. It’s stupid, but I can survive anything for sixty seconds.” Even my sister’s bullshit.
“Are you a good dancer?” he asks. “I bet you are.”
“I love dancing,” I admit. “Although not in front of my family.”
“We can still be teammates,” he says with a shrug. “If you want. But if you get a better offer, by all means take it.”
My heart lifts. “I don’t think you understand—if I’m dancing next to a professional athlete, nobody will even notice me.”
His expression turns confused. “If you say so. Can you pick our song? I don’t have a feel for these things.”
“Okay.” I guess we’re really doing this. “I’ll get back to you with some ideas.”
He snaps his fingers suddenly. “Maybe we’re overthinking this. What if I just bribe the DJ? A crisp hundred-dollar bill says our names never get called.”
I cackle in spite of myself. “That’ll never work.”
He sighs, and his smile turns sheepish. “Maybe it’s selfish, but I’m glad you have to go to this thing, too.”
“You bastard. You’d push an awkward family wedding on me just to even out the suffering in the universe?”
His forehead crinkles. “That’s not it at all. But if you’re there, at least I’ll know someone besides the bride.”
Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed this man would ever feel awkward at a party.
He’s Eric Freaking Tremaine. “They’ll love you.
You’ll be, like, royalty. I’m the one who won’t have any friends in that room.
Only my family, and when it comes to them,” I shake my head, “it’s complicated. Sharks are friendlier.”
“Well, that’s kind of terrifying. Is Maribel marrying into a crime syndicate?”
I hesitate, because the mafia is almost less complicated than my family. But I don’t want him to worry about his friend. “Theo is the best of the bunch,” I say eventually. And it might even be true. I just don’t know him well enough to say for sure.
Eric pokes his phone. “So… when is this party anyway?”
“Saturday,” I grumble. “Eight days from now.”
“That soon, huh?” He grimaces at his phone. “And I suppose I need a gift.”
“Unfortunately.”
“How are you getting up there?”
“No idea,” I admit. “I guess I’ll look at rental cars.” Amtrak to Boston would be more relaxing, but then I’d still need a car to drive up to the seaside town where the wedding events are all taking place.
“Ride with me,” he says with a shrug. “I have a car.”
A car. As if his Porsche Taycan Turbo S in midnight blue was just an ordinary ride. “I’d-um-sure?” I sputter.
“I’ll be nice, I swear.”
It’s cute that he thinks that’s the problem. “I’d love to ride with you,” I say, trying again. “That’s a really nice offer.”
“Cool. That’s settled.” He glances at his phone again. “Now let’s solve this gift problem. Do you know what kind of taste Theo has?”
“Not a chance. I don’t even know where they’re going to live.”
“He’s buying a house,” Eric says, so I guess it’s nice that one of us knows where my brother is moving. “Maybe my mother knows if there’s a registry.”
“Would she?” I suppose that info might be buried somewhere in my inbox. It’s been a busy month.
“Yeah, hang on. I’ll ask her.” Eric puts his phone to his ear. “Hey, Mom,” he says a moment later.
“Eric!” The connection is so loud that both of us wince. “Are you on your way home soon? We’ll do lunch at the graveyard. You haven’t visited your brother in ages.”
His gaze flips up to mine, checking to see if I heard that. And the look of surprise on my face probably confirms that I did.
Lunch at the graveyard?
“You can stay the week…” his mother chirps.
“I can’t,” he says quickly. “I mean, I’m coming for the shower. But I’m not going to linger.”
“Eric…”
“Mom, I’m busy. I’m supposed to…” He hesitates, and I see frustration flicker over his features. What could he possibly be busy doing during a week when he’d been expecting to play in the finals?
Am I a terrible person for enjoying this awkwardness? “Shaving your playoff beard?” I suggest. “Fumigating your hockey bag?”
He glances at me again, and then his eyes light up. “… I’m busy practicing my dance-off number.”
There’s a peal of joyous laughter from his phone. “You can do that here.”
“No, I can’t.” His voice rises in panic. “Because it’s a duet. I’m practicing with my date, and then I’m taking her to the beach. She’s had a tough month, too.”
We lock eyes, and this pronouncement sort of hangs in the steamy Florida air for a split second.
I won’t lie, the sound of Eric Tremaine referring to me as his date makes my belly flutter. Even if he did it for nefarious purposes.
Then his mother takes a sharp breath. “Your DATE! Oh, Eric! I can’t wait to meet her! Tell me everything!”
We’re still staring at each other, but Eric’s eyes widen in an oh shit kind of way.
“Uh, Mom? Gotta go. The bus is here. I’ll call you back.
Love you!” He ends the call and then takes a deep breath.
“Okay. Well. That escalated quickly.” He tips his head back and gazes up at the vaulted hotel ceiling. “God. What have I done?”
“In the first place,” I point out. “You failed to ask about the wedding registry.”
He groans.
“And now your mother thinks I’m…” I can’t actually say it aloud.
“My date for the shower,” he says quietly. “God, Darcy, I’m sorry. That was really…”
“Ridiculous?” I let out a nervous laugh. As if Eric didn’t turn up in my dreams. Regularly.
“I was going to say presumptuous.” He rocks back on his heels. “Oh God, I shouldn’t call her when I’m hungover. You don’t have to be my date. I can call her back after my headache lifts.”
Ouch. “Did you take something for that?”
He shakes his head.
I dig into my bag, producing the kind of Mary Poppins arsenal that keeps the Legends running—Band-Aids for the rookies’ blisters, Advil for the veterans’ aches, throat lozenges for my boss’s constant shouting, melatonin for jet lag, earplugs for when DeLuca snores on the plane, and—at the very bottom—an ancient protein bar that’s probably toured more cities than Beyoncé.
I fish out the Advil and hand it to Eric.
“You are a queen. And you don’t have to be my date. I…
panicked.”
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say. “Besides, this is probably my fault. I put the idea in your head.”
He looks confused. And then I see his eyes widen.
And yep, I’m an idiot. Because Eric had forgotten that I’d propositioned him. And I’m the dope who reminded him.
“Hey, that’s right,” he says slowly. “You did say you needed a date for this wedding.”
An awkward laugh escapes me. Because I’m surprised he remembered that part after the crass bits that came after.
“Wait,” he says slowly. “Maybe we could help each other out.”
My mind floods with some very inappropriate ideas. Then I blush to the roots of my hair, but Eric doesn’t notice because he’s opening the Advil, washing it back with his coffee, and talking faster.
“I think I’m onto something,” he says. “You wanted a date. Maybe to be a buffer against your family?”
I manage to nod.
“Then we have the same problem. My family is more than I can handle. If I’m dateless for the wedding, they’re going to expect me to spend all my time with them. This wedding is, like, a lengthy affair?”
Slowly, I nod again. The shower is only the beginning. “They’re calling it the Wedding Experience.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a thing people say?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I’m afraid to ask.” I retrieve the pill bottle and toss it into my bag.
“Fair enough. But I don’t want to experience it with my parents breathing down my neck. The wedding is going to be a trial for all of us. But if my ‘date’ was around, I could spend more time at the wedding hotel…”
“Which is supposed to be nice,” I agree, even if I’m privately seething at spending money—or points, I guess—for two separate trips. For a wedding I’m not sure I want to attend.
“The thing is, my mother will have to be on her best behavior. She’ll hold back on some of the depressing stuff she says when we’re alone.
Even a twenty-five percent reduction in her bullshit would help.
” He makes a face, then shakes his head.
“Hell. You know what? This is a bad idea. I don’t want you to be subjected to the other seventy-five percent of her crap.
” He takes a gulp of coffee, looking miserable.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm.
It’s like tapping a lead pipe. “You’re forgetting the cardinal rule of family drama.
Someone else’s mother is sixty percent less irritating than your own.
So, once you do the subtraction and then multiply by the open bar, I’d really only be subjecting myself to thirty percent of her bullshit. ”
He blinks. “Um, math isn’t really my thing. I’m a hockey player.”
“Well, I can math for both of us, and my sister is guaranteed to be ninety percent less obnoxious if you’re standing next to me.” In your new tux, I don’t add.
“So… you’re saying this isn’t a terrible idea?”
“Not terrible at all,” I insist, proving that I’m not a good person. Because I’m going to let Eric Tremaine do me a favor, and I’m also going to let him think it’s the other way around. “Let’s make a pact—you buffer me from my half sister if I buffer you from your sad parents.”
His shoulders drop a couple of inches. “Seriously? Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m really not,” I admit. “You’ll see.” What he doesn’t understand is that I’m going to a wedding on the arm of the most famous son of the North Shore of Massachusetts. In his Porsche.
The pecking order just rearranged itself in my favor. My sister will swallow her tongue.
And the Wedding Experience just got a thousand percent more interesting.