Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau (Nebraska Knights)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

New year. Same me. I wish I could say at the stroke of midnight I changed from a pumpkin into a princess, but no such luck.

Not that I want to be a princess, though my mother wouldn’t object to the prospect. As the only remaining single woman in a family of marry-rich overachievers, I’m starting to feel desperate.

Desperate like waiting in line at the bakery and the last scone sits behind the display case with my name on it, but there are half a dozen caffeine-deprived and sugar-hungry people in front of me who have no idea what will happen if that cranberry and white chocolate scone isn’t in my hot little hands in five minutes.

If you made it through that sentence without stopping for a breath, you know how I feel. About scones. Baked goods. Yummy in my tummy combinations of flour, butter, and sugar.

DEFCON three desperate.

I crane my head, lifting onto my toes to take a peek. It’s still nestled there waiting for me. A shaky breath of relief escapes.

A man with a leather jacket bumps into me ... but then doesn’t move. His arm presses against mine and it looks like he forgot to rinse the conditioner out of his long, greasy hair. More concerningly, why is he in my personal space? Granted, it’s busy in here, but—excuse me—we can all maintain our bubble without trouble, sir!

I shift away, feigning intense interest in the chalkboard menu behind the counter, even though I mostly have it memorized.

He sidles closer to me.

The cardinal rule with these weirdos is not to make eye contact while at the same time assessing what I’m dealing with. Facing dead ahead, I strain my eyes to the right to get a better, but discreet, look.

“Do you like cake?” he asks.

I’ve been spotted!

I do not want to engage, but sometimes ignoring these types only makes it worse. The general content I downloaded when I arrived in New York City from my small midwestern town is that not everyone has well-meaning intentions.

Keeping my voice light because I don’t want to be rude, I reply, “Actually, no.”

“Too bad. I’d like a slice of you.” Eyes heavy, he smiles.

I’d rather check my phone for texts on the family chat than continue this conversation. My sister recently changed the title to Margo is Still Single if that tells you anything. Celeste is classy and considerate like that.

Later this month, my cousin Maxine is getting married to a millionaire named Marlon. In this economy, a millionaire is more like a thousandaire, but I wouldn’t object to a bank balance that is more than the exact amount for this month’s rent—but on my terms and earned by my hard work and commitment, thank you very much.

Maxine’s big dream was to tie the knot on Valentine’s Day, but all the venues were booked, so they bumped it up to January. I repeatedly offered to be her official event planner, considering IT’S MY JOB, but it’s like I’ll forever be “Margo, the little engine that couldn’t .” That’s a direct quote with multiple variations. I’m not sure why they chose me to be at the bottom of the pecking order, but I suppose it always has to be someone.

Maxine insists she has a friend doing the wedding planning. In reality, I’m certain she’s DIY-ing it, otherwise, she would’ve sent the invitations back for a reprint since they had several typos.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrifty and pick up pennies off the ground even if they’re on the tails side. The invite read, We request the honor of your presents instead of presence . It’s not a huge deal, but given what I know about Maxine, sounds more like a gentle suggestion rather than an error.

I’m not a big spender. Not like Celeste and our brother Gerard. If being flush with cash burns holes in people’s pockets, my siblings’ designer pants are in flames.

But I don’t want to be like Maxine or Celeste. Does this mean I’ll have to settle for someone like the greasy guy in line who wants a slice of me? Sounds stabby.

I can do better than yesterday’s discount baked goods. I just haven’t met the right person. He’s here, in this city, somewhere. I just know it.

Right now, I’m growing Margo A Go-Go. I have my first wedding in the works for St. Patrick’s Day. So far, everything has been going smoothly, so hopefully I’ll be able to keep my closet-sized apartment in Midtown East and not have to move back home.

From behind the counter Sophie calls, “Next.”

The greasy guy gestures for me to go ahead. “Ladies with muffins like yours go first.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I mutter.

Sophie must notice my red face and stricken expression because she says, “Tate, you’d do better in life if you spent all that creativity on something productive rather than bothering my customers.”

I might have to change my scone schedule, given Sophie knows his name, which means he’s probably a regular.

Tate bobs his eyebrows. “I keep telling you, I’ll be your sugar daddy.”

Sophie is a gentle doe, but the words that come out of her mouth are anything but, “And I keep telling you that I’m married and if you don’t cut it out, Teagh is going to show you who’s daddy.”

He chortles. “I feel like you just spanked my inner child.”

“Tate,” Sophie says in a low warning tone.

He frowns as if defeated again. “Okay, fine. I’ll take a small coffee. Be generous with the cream.”

So much for ladies go first.

When it’s my turn, the tray with the little cranberry and white chocolate scone doodle label is gone. “Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory or something like that,” I say with a sigh.

Sophie laughs. “Good morning, Margo. I take it what you wanted is no longer in the case.”

“I have to start getting here earlier.”

“Especially if you want to avoid Tate. Sorry about that. He’s harmless once he’s fed and watered.”

“Sounds like a real beast.”

She subtly sniffs the air. “Good news. We have chocolate chip and banana muffins coming out of the oven. I can grab one for you.”

My taste buds light up. Crisis averted. “That would be phenomenal. Thank you!”

I don’t want to be rude and occupy too much of her time, but when she comes back and asks me how things have been, I say, “I have a wedding to attend later this month and one to plan for March, so I’m doubling up on the reminders that I’m single with no thanks to Tate . But other than that, I’m good.” I smile because I mean it in a chin up and stay chipper kind of way.

Sophie offers an understanding smile that suggests she recognizes how hard I’m trying to keep my head above water because she’s been in my shoes too—though, like a normal person, she’s wearing cute sneakers rather than stiletto leather boots.

She says, “Teagh scored free VIP tickets for a hockey game tonight, but we couldn’t get a sitter, so?—”

I adore kids and light up. “I took a babysitting course in high school and am certified. I’d be happy to look after your daughter.”

She laughs. “That’s sweet, but Franny has a sniffle. I think we’re going to enjoy a nice night in. However, the two tickets are up for grabs if you want them. You could invite a plus one.” She lifts and lowers her eyebrows.

In a whisper, “Please don’t say you mean—?” I gesture behind me. Thankfully, Tate is out of earshot.

She slaps her hand to her chest. “Bless your heart. No, not him. I’m sorry you had the dis pleasure of a morning chat. He has a bad habit of trying to pick up doughnuts and dates in here.”

She gets my order, and I’m about to pay when I realize I don’t have enough cash for a tip and don’t dare overdraw my debit account again. My credit cards are maxed out. “Actually, I’ll just take the coffee today. I’m meeting a friend here and am afraid I won’t want to share the muffin.”

She laughs. “Sounds good. I’ll find you in a bit when the line thins out and give you those tickets.”

I take my coffee and navigate my way through the crowd to find my best friend, Juniper, seated at a table by the window.

Without preamble, she says, “I see you had your first encounter with Tate. Consider yourself in the club.”

“The lonely hearts club? FYI: I’m not here for the sweet meet market. I come for the coffee and scones. Though, at some point in the not-too-distant future, I wouldn’t mind meeting a sweet guy,” I say, gazing into the middle distance.

She chuckles and taps her coffee cup against mine. “You and me both.”

I moved to Manhattan thinking I’d live a cosmopolitan lifestyle, including:

Building my event planning empire—proving to my family that marrying rich isn’t the only path to happiness and success.

Finding my Mr. Grand—he doesn’t have to be a billionaire despite the Cabot-Ward family unofficial contest.

Gaining the ability to walk comfortably in high heels without feeling like I’m doing irreversible damage to my feet.

I can’t claim to have any checkmarks next to that list. However, some might argue that getting coffee once a week at this bakery, that’s more Southern charm than it is New York glam, has its advantages.

Juniper laughs. “On second thought, with men like Tate, I’d rather be single.”

I’ve gleaned that she doesn’t believe in love, whereas I’m a hopeless romantic, emphasis on the hopeless part.

Juniper says, “One morning, while I was innocently putting the lid on my coffee, he breathed in my ear, ‘Do you have a recipe?’”

I lean in, afraid of where this is going. Knowing Juniper, he may have lost a tooth after that comment.

“When I asked the obvious, the punchline was ‘A recipe for being this cute. I think you’re the missing ingredient from my life.’” She closes one eye and sticks her tongue out.

My laugh is the sound of commiseration. “What’s with him and the bakery pickup lines? Do you suppose he has them tailored to wherever he goes?”

Again, we both laugh, which I suppose is better than crying. I’ve done plenty of that these last few years.

“If you’ve lived in New York City for any length of time, you’ll know there are four types of men. I call this the ‘Male Scale.’ There are the normal ones, which speak for themselves,” Juniper starts.

Born and raised here, she was the first person I met who didn’t make me feel helpless. She has a seriously gritty, can-do attitude, and if one day she came to me and said she planned to build the eighth wonder of the world, I wouldn’t put it past her—if the modern structure consisted of hair. She’s a stylist.

“Then there are the other three.” Listing off on her fingers, Juniper says, “One: the Sewer Dwellers. The lowest of the lowlifes and easily identified by the overwhelming stench of cologne trying to mask their zombie stink. Stay out of their basement lairs.”

“Sounds like Tate.”

She nods gravely. “Two: the Surface Sketchies. At the outset, these guys seem normal, but upon closer inspection, something is slightly askew. It could be visible, but more than likely it’s a character defect.”

“I’ve encountered one or two of those.”

“Three: the High Rise Haughty & Naughty. They hide serious wounds and likely experienced neglect from their mother or are trying to prove something to their father, and aren’t above using you to achieve their goal.”

“My mother would approve.”

“But you’d be miserable. I know this first hand.”

Sounds like Juniper has a story there, but I don’t press as she continues to lament the lack of datable men in this city.

When my mother, Wren Ward-Cabot, is not clutching her newfound status with an acrylic nail death grip, she shoves my siblings and me toward the life she desires for us, rather than letting us live the ones we have.

So far, my brother and sister have succeeded in her estimation. In fact, the rest of the Wards have gotten in on the act and have or are in the process of marrying up.

She should offer an online course and call it “How to Be a Gold Digger: a Guide for the Modern Woman.” Then she’d have to work, and that goes against the whole point.

But it could be a family business. Everyone would chip in with testimonials and “Buy Now!” bonuses. Then again, cousin Selby’s sommelier husband is questionable—which might undermine the success rate. The job sounds fancy, but I think he’s drinking more wine than he’s selling.

Taking a sip of coffee, I ask Juniper, “Where can I find a normal one?”

“They are a rare breed indeed.”

“When I moved to Manhattan last year, I expected to get a manilla envelope labeled Top Secret . Inside would be instructions for how to switch on a resting don’t-look-at-me-or-I-might-cut-you face.” It would also include an operator’s manual for how to navigate the subway system without having to pull out my phone, making me look like a vulnerable tourist. Then I add, “Among other city-folk resources, namely, it would reveal where all the hot, eligible, and financially resourced guys are.”

Juniper says, “The last guy I went on a date with was wearing Crocs. To be clear, we were not visiting a body of water. I understand Crocs’ comfort and practicality, especially for children twelve and under, but only when at a pool, lake, river, or beach is involved, and even then it’s up for debate. Also, he paired the Crocs with a trench coat. Who let him leave the house?”

“I take it you did not let him in your house.”

“New criteria, if you can’t be bothered to wear footwear in the winter that involves laces or even a zipper, no first date.”

“I’m taking notes,” I joke, but she’s not wrong.

“Oh, then there was Cringe-inator. He called himself the Jerm-inator, short for Jeremy. He played guitar video games and lived with nine other people, an iguana, and a questionable fungus cluster growing out of the windowsill in his filth-floor walk-up. Did I say filth? I meant fifth.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“So if I meet a guy who wears Crocs, has a nickname for himself, or?—”

“Or has a wispy mustache and pimples. It’s a pass.” She tells me about a guy who had volcanic acne, ready to erupt.

Ew. Gag. Yuck.

Juniper’s phone beeps and she jumps to her feet, then glugs her coffee. “I almost forgot. My fantasy hockey league group call. Gotta run. See you later.”

I surreptitiously glance around, hoping the vacant chair doesn’t invite Tate to sit down.

Thankfully, only Sophie appears. “Got those tickets for you.”

I express my gratitude and ask, “How’d you meet your husband in this city? Tell me your secrets.”

“It was a real hate-to-love story.” She points to the wall. “His boxing gym was next door and let’s just say when we first met, I wanted to punch his lights out.”

We both laugh.

She passes me a pastry bag brimming with baked goodies, too. “Go have some fun. Maybe you’ll meet someone in the VIP box or score an event to plan. Be sure to bring some of your business cards.”

It’s wishful thinking, but all the same, I thank her profusely, then wave goodbye.

I don’t quite have a spring in my step because it’s winter and these are New York City sidewalks. Given my footwear, I don’t want to break an ankle, however, I can’t help but smile as I stride down Madison Avenue.

With the hockey tickets and muffin in hand, I feel blessed. Maybe it’ll be a good day after all. Then again, I’m on my way ... well, nowhere. That’s the problem with being a fledgling self-employed person in a massive city. I can’t afford an office or even a shared workspace, so I go back to my three-story walk-up, determined to prove to my family that I don’t have to resort to marrying rich to make it.

I’d set out to succeed on my own merit and not through a marriage license, but so far I’m 0-12. My mother is one of nine and all of her siblings reproduced. Plus, my dad also has a brother and sister and they duplicated themselves on top of a few adopted kids, so there are a lot of Ward-Cabot marriages happening, leaving me as the last woman standing. Well, those of marriable age. I still have some younger cousins. Despite the Ward practices back in the day—so says Aunt Cindy—they remain matrimony-free.

Once, when my father was out of town, my mother got into the brandy. She went on to recount how, when she was a child, all she had to play with were corn cobs. She’d fashion clothes for her corn cob baby dolls out of husks and sneak nubs of crayons from school to give them faces. We don’t speak of it. But it prompted her to find a way out of destitution.

The solution: marry a rich man.

Dad was in the music industry back during the boy band heyday. I got into it when I was a tween but then lost interest because my sister Celeste made fangirling her identity for nearly two years, locking me out entirely.

For my father, it was a mega payday that allowed him to retire early, move back to Nebraska, build my mother’s dream home, and spend his life traveling to the best golf greens in the world. Their relationship is secondary to Mom’s shopping allowance and his golf habit.

But what about love? Attraction? Genuine connection? Fun? Laughter? And all the other ingredients that make a lasting relationship?

This explains why I am the way I am.

No sooner am I home, does my phone beep from the Margo is Still Single chat.

Maxine: I need to know who’s bringing a plus one.

This question is very pointedly directed at me. The group’s name says it all.

Thanks, Celeste .

I ignore my device, lighting up with responses of all the couples replying that, of course, they’re bringing their spouses.

It started like this: I love helping people create their special day, leaving little time to find someone to say my I dos to. But that’s okay. Mostly. I believe the right person is out there. I’m only twenty-three (and intend to remain this old for as long as possible because no one in my family has remained single past the age of twenty-five). I’ve lived in the city long enough to know that I could dip out. Stand up and tell them I’m doing things my way and there is nothing wrong with being unmarried at twenty-three.

I repeat, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING SINGLE.

I want to tell them to calm down, to relax. There’s plenty of time. All of this is true.

However, if you’ve met any of the Ward-Cabots or the auxiliary people who’ve somehow been absorbed into my family, then you’ll know the pressure is real.

And despite my family’s flaws, shortcomings, and—I’ll use my manners here— quirks , they were there for me when I needed help getting off the couch. Like serious help. Professional and familial. Without realizing it, they were a steady anchor when I was cast out to sea—a sea of corn, considering I hail from landlocked Nebraska, but still.

The first year of college was okay. The second was a doozy. So doozy-ing that I never went back. It took me a year to recover. It’s smooth sailing now, but rough seas are no joke. If you know, you know.

Finally, I reply to Maxine, being as diplomatic as possible.

Me: Would you like me to forward my guest status information to your event planner?

Yeah, I’m guilty of trying to get her to reveal that there is no such person and the money her mother and stepfather earmarked for the event planner is going to Maxine’s casino cruise honeymoon fund.

Maxine: I’m in touch with her.

Celeste: Does this mean you’re bringing someone? Dish, sis.

Selby: Luis has a friend who’s recently single. He rides a motorcycle and owns a winery. Well, he will once he gets some things straightened out. I guess he can’t find his driver’s license or something.

Somehow, I think riding a motorcycle and wine are an ill-advised combination.

Mom: You all text too fast. I’m trying to catch up. I spoke with Mona this morning and Lana is bringing her husband. Thank goodness he got the time off.

Mona: I’m here. Also, Cade and Willa have to bring the kids.

Maxine: They cannot bring Indigo and Sage. You saw what happened at the engagement party.

Celeste: But what about Margo?

Me: What about me?

No less than five people ask if I’m bringing a date. I tell myself I have other things to do, then get trolled by my own family.

Celeste: At this rate, Margo is the most likely to bring home a cat and then keep collecting them. We can call her Margo the Cat Lady.

Me: What’s wrong with cats?

Selby: Mrs. Gormely has cats.

Celeste: And a husband, so she can’t be a cat lady.

Me: I’m more of a dog person, but seriously, what is wrong with cats?

Celeste: Lucky for me, I’m allergic to both.

She’s also allergic to children and kindness, but I digress.

It’s no surprise they’re piling on. It’s only gotten worse over the years. It’s not like I’m the only twenty-three-year-old on the planet who is single. It’s not weird.

Mom: More importantly, Margo, do you have a date?!?

Tate from Honey & Lavender comes to mind. The answer is unequivocally no.

There are thousands of miles separating me from my mother and the rest of the family’s badgering, so I can take a deep breath, but like my bad habit of blurting things like Crocs in a crowded room, my answer to Do you have a date? is ill-conceived. Let’s just say my finger slips across three buttons on the keypad instead of two in response.

Me: Yes.

If cell phones had tires, mine would be bald right now. The Margo is Still Single group chat gets a lot of mileage out of that whopper as they badger me with questions and speculate about my mystery date.

This time, my finger slips over the power off button.

As the reality of what I just did sets in, I realize that I’m going to have to do something about it. Or finally cash in that one-way plane ticket to Timbuktu (wherever that is) that I’ve fantasized about buying during moments like this. I’d get on that bird and never look back.

But then I remember I have two hockey tickets for tonight. I invite Juniper. I’m not going to say she’s my only friend in the city, but her fantasy league group call earlier reminded me that she’s a major hockey fan.

I’ve got my fingers crossed that I meet someone who hires me for a super fancy and important event, so maybe I won’t be able to go to Maxine’s wedding after all.

My hometown of Cobbiton, a suburb of Omaha, hosts the Nebraska Knights arena, so I’m no stranger to hockey, in so far as I know how to spell it B-O-R-I-N-G, and that there are ice skates and sticks involved.

Seated in the VIP box at the Empire State Kings arena, only partway through the first period, I realize I’ve been W-R-O-N-G.

Juniper literally jumped up and down when I told her about the tickets. She’s a hair stylist and I’ve referred her expertise for a couple of events, but she’s not the jump up and down type. More like the wear-all-black, strut confidently through a crowded room, and get not-trolled by her family type. I’ve never seen her jump, no less do a happy dance.

When one of the guys with sticks rushes down the ice, she hops to her feet along with the rest of the people in the building and screams obscenities. Scratch that, only half the people are shouting. The rest are smiling maniacally because the action favors their team.

Juniper isn’t a delicate flower, however, I’ve never seen her this, how shall I put it? Animated. Eyes sharp and fists in the air, she, along with the rest of the fans, come unhinged as they bellow and bark at the players, the referees, and each other. The guys on the ice are burly and I’d avoid getting on their bad side. They’re masculine. Strong. Tough. Able to take a hit and keep on going.

Juniper drops down next to me and says something that sounds like, “Sports word, sports word, sports word.”

“I had no idea you were so into hockey.” I guess I brought the right person to appreciate these free tickets.

“My brother played in college then quit when She stole him from us.”

Juniper refers to she-who-shall-not-be-named who absconded with Juniper’s best friend and twin, aka her brother. Supposedly, they live in Thailand, a country where hockey probably doesn’t exist. I mean, they might have ice hockey there, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the tropics which presents a problem, what with the ice and all. Then again, until now, hockey wasn’t part of the United States of Margo. New things happen all the time ... and I think I like this new thing, well, at least the eye candy on skates.

Even though they’re mostly hidden under padding and jerseys, I can tell the players are powerful. The kinds of guys who could sweep a gal off her feet and not say something like, Whoops. You’re heavier than I expected. Yeah, that was Boyd. Mistake number one.

The hockey players aren’t bulky, just big. Especially the goalie. He’s either massive or the goal isn’t regulation size.

When he blocks a shot, three of the guys on the Knights team tear off their helmets and shout at him like barbarians. Like he slayed a dragon and saved the village. I can’t be sure, but I think this is a good thing.

It’s hard to tell with all the equipment, but from the glimpses I get and the shots on the jumbo screens overhead, the goaltender resembles a Viking Highlander hybrid. Blond hair, green eyes, and a light smattering of freckles.

After the crowd settles down, which is a very relative statement since they’d be classified as lunatics in any other setting, I say, “I’m not sure who I should be cheering for.”

Not tearing her eyes from the guys in silver and purple, she says, “New York, obviously.”

“But I’m from Nebraska.”

Without looking away from the action on the ice, Juniper taps her chin. “Hmm. I see the conflict of interest.”

While a guy from each of the teams gets put on the naughty step, er, penalty box, Juniper returns to planet earth, rather than orbiting in the insanity that is the hockey-sphere.

“My brother isn’t a sports bro. More like a sit-and-be-pretty boy. I mean, he does stuff like shop, tell his wife how gorgeous she is, and update his social media on the hour—I hear he’s having some success as a ‘House Husband’ and is developing quite a popular viral lifestyle and food hack following.”

Juniper snaps her head in my direction. “Don’t tell me he’s @GerardsLuxeLife? It’s been all over my feed. If my man decided he wanted to be a house husband, I’d build him a dog house in the backyard to live in.”

I chuckle. “My dad is big into golf, which counts as a sport but is sort of solo like running cross country, which was my thing in high school.”

“We should go for a run in the park again sometime soon.”

Thankfully, I no longer live on the couch, but I haven’t gone running in a bit. I’m afraid if I put on a pair of sneakers, I won’t want to resume wearing high heels. My mother says they help make my legs look longer and are more professional.

I glance down at my feet. “The soles and balls of my feet would love that.”

Juniper gives me an odd look.

“My mother said ladies wear—” I point to my foot, showing how the knockoff red-soled Louboutins give my legs the illusion of length.

“Do you listen to everything your mother says?”

“You haven’t met her,” I mutter.

My life is like a triathlon. I’m constantly running from my mother and sister’s comments, reminding me how I’m just not good enough. How I’m ordinary ... average. Average height, medium auburn hair, medium brown eyes. I’m also a bit bubbly, as my sister once so thoughtfully said about my figure. They’ve established the pack dominance hierarchy. I’m the omega, so can you blame me for wanting to prove myself?

For the swimming relay portion of the triathlon, ever since the breakup with Jonathan—mistake number two—I’ve struggled to keep my head above water. He pushed me into the deep end and I haven’t quite found my way out. Mom and Celeste threw me a rope, but mostly so they could tell me how I’m doing life wrong.

Margo A Go-Go is the cycling part, but on a stationary bike because I just can’t seem to get ahead, pay my rent without a juggling act of funds, and do better than the living paycheck-to-paycheck grind.

While watching the players race up and down the ice, thoughts about my multi-sport endurance challenge, aka my life, recede. I admire the mental and physical game in front of me, soon finding myself absorbed in the play until Juniper jumps from her seat again and yells nonsensically.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to gauge her response since I don’t quite understand the rules yet. Is she mad at the team? The puck? The men dressed like zebras? I can’t tell.

All eyes are on the players speeding up and down the ice, passing the “flattened ball” like they’re doing a giant Etch-a-Sketch. I imagine the cameras zooming out and we’ll see they created an image of a knight or a king, depending on the winner.

Even though I’m a New York resident and on New York turf, I secretly want Nebraska to triumph. You could say I’m loyal to a fault.

When a hush falls over the arena, my gaze is once more drawn to the player fully outfitted in padding and a helmet. But by his stance, I can tell he’s staring down the opposing team, daring them to try to make a shot. The guy is formidable, a veritable tank, imposing. He’s not going to let the puck into the net. I know it. He’s laser-focused and has his team’s back, no matter if they have the home arena disadvantage.

As the puck sails toward its target, with one decisive slice of his stick against the ice, like a guillotine dropping, he blocks it.

Even though Juniper is a Kings fan, she cheers. The play was that amazing.

I have no idea who the goalie is, but I can tell he’s the kind of person you want on your team, in your corner. His wife or girlfriend—or puck bunny, as Juniper explained hockey groupies earlier—is a lucky woman.