45. Forbidden Oreos, Betrayal, & Wins #2
Cara narrows her eyes and Jennie gives her that signature Beckett grin, all charming and dimply. It works on everyone, even Cara. Even in this moment.
Cara’s been screaming all night. She thought it made the most sense if we worked on her wedding favors while we watched the game.
She’s the only one who thought it was a good idea, but everyone was too afraid to tell her that to her face.
At least we only have to work between periods; she’s too busy shrieking at the TV the rest of the time.
Alannah, Jem, and Hank are the only ones who got lucky enough to sit this one out. And I guess now Jeremy.
Cara and Emmett’s wedding is eleven days away, two Sunday’s away, the day before Canada Day.
Cara’s high-strung as it is, and she’s reached an entirely new level these past few weeks.
She stayed over last night after the boys left for New York and insisted on sleeping with me.
She was all too happy to snap a picture of herself in Carter’s bed and send it to him.
She also came to work with me today. You heard that right. She says she can’t get any work done for the wedding while she’s at home, because it reminds her of Emmett, and she misses him. So she sat on the gym floor while the kids helped her with table numbers. I’m exhausted.
“Cara, if I were still young and handsome, I’d marry you myself.” Hank thinks Cara’s the funniest person in the world.
“You’re still handsome,” Cara points out. “And you laugh at all my inappropriate jokes. We’d make a great couple. But I’d always come second to your Ireland, and therein lies the problem. Cara soon-to-be Brodie never comes second.”
Jennie blows out a heavy breath, eyes bulging at the stack of card stock in front of her. “How many more of these do we have to do?”
“I think it’s fun,” Holly, Carter’s mom, says. “I love doing this type of stuff. Maybe I’ll get to do it again in the near future for one of my children.” Her eyes do a blatant shift my way, making Jennie and Cara snort.
“I’m not fucking helping with shit when you and Carter get married,” Jeremy grumbles, arms pinned across his chest. “It’s bad enough I had to do it for my own wedding.”
Alannah rockets to her feet, shoving her finger in her dad’s face.
“Two dollars for the swear jar! Pay up, buddy!” She swipes the money from Jeremy’s unwilling hands, then plants herself between Hank and Dublin.
“Mommy said I get to keep all the money this week from Daddy’s swearing.
I’m making a lot because he’s extra stressed from the hockey games. What should I buy?”
Hank taps his chin. “How about we go for cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes?”
Her face lights. “Hot fudge?”
“ Extra hot fudge.”
Wedding prep is forgotten when the third period starts up, and Cara goes from shrieking to silent, which is way scarier.
She’s sitting on the couch, kind of, one knee on the ground, fingernails in her mouth while she stares at the screen.
I don’t think she’s even blinking. They’re tied at two goals a piece with only three minutes left in the game.
It’s when Emmett gets tangled up with two players from the other team and his stick slips between one of their legs that things heat up. The ref raises his hand and blows his whistle, indicating Emmett for tripping, though it was clearly unintentional.
“ That’s fucking bullshit !” Cara screams, jumping to her feet. “Bullshit! It was a fucking accident! Go home, ref; you’re drunk!” She pulls a ten-dollar bill out of her back pocket and slaps it in Alannah’s waiting hand without looking at her. “Keep the change; you’re gonna need it.”
I’m too on edge to pay attention to anything other than the game.
It’s do or die; win and go to game seven, have one more chance at the cup, or lose and go home.
And now they have to kill a two-minute penalty with less than two-and-a-half minutes left in the game.
The odds aren’t great. Both teams are on fire tonight.
Carter’s busy arguing with the ref over the call when his coach calls a time-out.
He switches up the lines, sending out a few huge guys who manage to keep the puck away from the net as the opposing team circles our end relentlessly, and with fifty seconds left, Carter and Garrett dive over the boards from the bench.
Carter’s screaming out orders, digging his way between a player and the boards, fighting for the puck, and when it springs free, he sends it across the ice to Garrett.
Garrett hammers it off the boards, around another player, and collects it on the other side before passing it back to Carter, who receives it right before he enters the defensive end.
Emmett’s penalty ends with sixteen seconds left on the clock.
He bursts through the door, shouting for Carter.
Carter spins around a defenseman, the puck moving so quickly, so fluidly between the front and back of his stick blade I can barely see it.
Without so much as a glance at Emmett, he slips the puck backward and to the left.
Emmett winds up as the puck hurls toward him, and the second it hits his stick, it soars through the air.
Bloodcurdling shrieks drown out everything around me as the buzzer glows red, and the Vancouver Vipers flood the ice, falling to one big blue and green pile.
They won. They’re coming home, and they’re going for the cup.