Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Margo slept in my jersey. Well, it’s a sweatshirt, but it has my last name and team number on the back.
She whispers, “So you do have a smile.”
It flickers. “I don’t.”
“It’s a rugged smile, just as I predicted.”
Forcing a frown, I deny it. “Nah.”
“I like it.” The residue of my smile must rub off on Margo because the corners of her mouth lift. Her grin is so wide and bright, I’d bet it’s visible from space even without a sophisticated satellite. If aliens are watching, they’re definitely wondering what’s making this earthling so happy.
“Don’t get used to it,” I murmur.
Her grin dims which makes me wish I could take the words back or return the smile to my face. I cannot do it on demand. I’ve tried and look like a deranged ape.
She asks. “Why were you smiling?”
I drag my hand through my beard. Instead of telling Margo how seeing her in my jersey made me feel like we belong together, I tell another truth. “It’s my birthday.”
She inclines her head. “Today is your birthday?”
“I always watch the sunrise on my birthday. Even though it changes from year to year or depending on where I am, I was born at dawn. Come on. Let’s go inside. You’re cold.”
Her teeth are starting to chatter.
Instead of going to the SkyBnB one level down, she exits the stairwell on my floor.
I say, “You live downstairs.”
“I’m staying down there. You live up here. I want to see your lair.” She smirks.
“Fine. You can come in. But ignore the spilled cereal milk, Honey Butter. Watch out for pirates and all the socks littering my floor.”
She laughs and then with an air of surprise, she adds, “You just made a joke.”
So I did.
Standing just beyond the entryway where the open-concept condo spills generously toward a big bank of windows, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Spilled milk? Socks on the floor? Pirates?” She steps closer to me, eyes narrowed. “Maybe your secret is that you’re a liar.”
Or I just don’t tell the entire truth. Some things are better left in the past.
She takes an unabashed spin around the space, offering commentary, “Your condo is tidy but lived in. It’s practical but also functional and not quite minimalist. I don’t get sterile hospital ward vibes, but neither would I be led to believe you cohabitate with a bunch of gamers who get the munchies. My brother went through a phase.”
I brew some coffee and take out the cereal milk along with the cream and sugar I picked up in case Margo came over.
She bypasses both and adds the cereal milk, same as me, measure for measure. “So, that talk we were supposed to have a few days ago ...”
“Yeah. I’m not usually this busy. I had to take a trip.”
“To Colorado. Good game by the way.” She takes a sip of the coffee with cereal milk and her eyes light up.
“It was a pre tour.” I rub my face, hoping the coffee kicks in soon because the jet lag is real and I only got in a couple of hours ago, hoping to share the sunrise with Margo.
“I’m learning hockey lingo, but don’t know that term.”
“Like a detour, but instead of going a different way to my destination, I went to Concordia first.”
“Home?”
“Cobbiton is home.”
“I’ll need your help to fill in the blanks. By the way, I now understand cereal milk in coffee. Game changer.”
“I had to talk to my mother before we had this talk.”
“Is everything okay?” Concern flits across her features.
“It’s as okay as it’s ever been. I figured it would be best to tell her our plans in person.” And I had to pick up the engagement ring.
“Right. So what are our plans?”
“We’re getting married on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“That seems like bad luck. Weird luck. I don’t know what kind of luck.”
“I’m a recovering expert on superstitions and bad luck.”
She nearly sputters her coffee. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I struggle with things like that. For years, I had to check my gear in a particular order. My pregame meal was always the same: chicken, rice, and blueberries.”
“Blueberries.”
“Another Pierre influence.”
“Could be worse.”
I continue, “No shaving or even trimming the beard during playoffs. Tap the goalposts in a certain order when I’d get into position. The lucky socks, which is mostly what broke me because the brand stopped making them with the red and black lines on the top. I tried to get them custom-made, but it proved ridiculously involved.” Very few people know the extent of this. Heck, I didn’t realize it until something interrupted my patterns—holes in my last pair of triple-striped athletic socks.
“You’re not joking, are you?”
“I wouldn’t joke about this, Honey Butter.”
Her cheeks turn rosy.
“When you said that couple you called the Leprechauns canceled, I took it as a sign.”
“But wouldn’t signs fall under the category of superstitions and luck?”
“Let’s not complicate things.”
“Okay, we’ll play your way.”
More of the truth skates close, but I’m not sure how much to tell. “For a long time, I didn’t have much control over my life. So I formed habits, rituals, and that kind of thing to create the illusion that I had some agency. It became so second nature that I didn’t notice that it was consuming me. When I joined the team, Coach Badaszek noticed. Got me to talk to someone.”
“But you’re not a talker.”
“Exactly. But it planted a seed. In the same way it escalated, I eventually de-escalated it. Win by win, I gave up one of my habits. The game you watched in New York was the first one where I didn’t have on the supposedly lucky socks. That meant something.”
“You took that as a sign?” she echoes.
“More like a confirmation that my life was mine again. That I didn’t need to do certain things or risk my desired outcome.”
She smiles proudly. “You shut down that game.”
“It was a shutout,” I gently correct.
She snaps her fingers. “Which is different from a shootout.”
I nod. To my knowledge, it was also the first time Margo and I were in the same building together even though we didn’t know each other yet. “Maybe you’re my lucky charm,” I say, referring to her calling me her good luck beau.
“Could be that we bring each other good luck.” Her eyes soften.
A trickle of electricity passes between us. It’s smooth yet sparks. We share a connection that goes beyond words.
Then she jumps to her feet. “It’s your birthday. We need to celebrate. A birthday breakfast, a day out on the town, dinner, cake, presents. Do you want presents?”
“I have everything I need.” Once more, my gaze lands on her.
Maybe the guys were right about the whole Honey Butter thing.
“I wish I’d known March fifth is your birthday. What do you like? I want to make your day special.” She clasps my hands and jumps up and down.
My lips ripple at her enthusiasm.
“I’m good.” I’m relieved that she didn’t scream when I snuck in to wake her up for the sunrise, resulting in a neighbor calling the police. I’m glad that we watched the sunrise together. I’m grateful she listened while I talked about my bout with the repetitive and borderline obsessive pre-game checklist and compulsions. I’m thankful we’re getting married.
“Beau, I’m an event planner. This is literally what I do. Please let me organize something. Even if it’s last minute. What’s your favorite restaurant in town? We’ll rent the private room and invite your teammates. Have dinner. Keep it simple. Low key. Maybe I’ll jump out of a cake.”
My lips part, laughter building inside. “Doesn’t sound low key, but that I’d like to see.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? I. Will. Make. It. Happen.”
I’m about to tell her not to make a fuss, but she’s so enthusiastic as she takes a slug of coffee, gears turning in her mind, I don’t want to rain on her happy parade. But there’s one thing ...
“Maybe instead of my birthday, we should discuss the wedding.”
“No business on your birthday,” she says, pacing a short path by the window as if calling up Cobbiton’s restaurant directory in her mind.
“But is it business?”
“Is our marriage of convenience a business arrangement? I think the convenience part indicates that yes, it is indeed.”
I ask a question that’s been tossing around in my mind, restless. “Does it have to be?”
Her eyes float to mine. In them, I see so much promise.
She whispers, “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
Me neither. “The Fish Bowl or the Bell Tower,” I cite two Cobbiton dining establishments that aren’t the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station to turn the subject back to the one that had her smiling.
“High or low, fancy or casual, huh?”
“Pub food or fine American fare.”
“I’ll see which one has an opening on short notice. Can I borrow your phone?”
“It’s not even nine a.m. They’re not open yet.”
“I need your contacts to know who to invite.”
Less than nine hours later, the guys on the Knights, including Micah and Meg, Hayden and Delaney, Redd and Whit, Ted and Harlow, Pierre and Cara, and some others with their wives and girlfriends, and even Badaszek and Vohn sing happy birthday to me in the party room at the Fish Bowl. Hayden and Redd wheel out a giant cake topped with sparklers.
They chorus, “Make a wish.”
The second the room goes dark, Margo pops out of the cake holding glow lights. Everyone claps and cheers.
It’s a strange feeling, once again being the center of attention when I’d worked hard to be the guy alone at the other end of the ice. But there’s nothing odd about Margo wrapping her arms around me in a birthday hug. It feels perfect. Right. Meant to be.
We don’t eat the fake cake, but she did pick up two from Busy Bee. One has extra icing and the other is just the sponge layered together.
And just like that, we have an inside joke.
She also got me a jar of Honey Butter, which means she must understand the intention when I call her that.
“Happy birthday, Old Man,” Ted claps me on the back.
“Wait. How old are you?” Margo asks.
“Shouldn’t you know that?” asks a woman I’d wager Margo didn’t invite.
She’s slender with sharp features, a stark contrast to her sister in every way except they have the same nose. Celeste arches a sculpted eyebrow.
“What are you doing here?” Margo asks.
“Tsk. Tsk,” she says obnoxiously. “Where are your manners, sis?”
Margo says, “This is a private party.”
“But I’m your maid of honor. Surely you’d invited me to your fiancé’s birthday celebration?”
Margo starts to object, but Celeste cuts across her. “Seems strange that you don’t even know how old your fiancé is.”
She chokes out, “Actually, Juniper is my maid of honor.”
Celeste narrows her eyes. “If there’s a wedding.”
The room is dead silent, a first for a rowdy bunch of hockey players except for the occasions when Badaszek or Vohn shut us down.
I know most people would be embarrassed. Likely Margo is. But I’m just as mad as a mule chewing hornets—Badaszek says that’s what I look like under my helmet.
Preparing to come to her defense again, Margo lengthens her spine and lifts her chin. Maybe she’s got this.
“My fiancé is twenty-nine. Hardly what I’d call old.”
Celeste scoffs. “A little old for you, no? You’re only twenty-three, little sister.”
“I’ll be twenty-four at the end of the month.”
This is news to me. Also, Margo is far more mature than Celeste who clearly takes pleasure in trying to cut her sister down.
Someone in the room whistles.
Another says, “Honey Butter.”
Margo wears a secret smile as if she realizes I may have mentioned her in a roundabout way, my way, to the guys.
Micah doesn’t skip a beat when he asks, “When are you tying the knot?”
“St. Patrick’s Day,” I answer.
“That’s the day before a game,” Badaszek says.
I nod and lock eyes with Margo. “I’ll be there.”
“We all will,” Hayden says.
“This is a big deal.” Pierre hoots.
The room erupts into mayhem. The guys seize any opportunity to celebrate. I’ll have to thank my captain later for that assist. They chant, “Hammer, Hammer, Hammer.”
“I’m going to expose you both for the liars you are,” Celeste hisses and storms from the room but not before kicking the fake cake out of her way.
Margo’s smile falls like the painted plaster cherry on the cake as it rolls onto the floor.
Meg, Delaney, Whit, Harlow, Cara, and a few other women circle Margo, but not like they’re going to point and laugh. More like they’re going to boost her onto their shoulders and perform an enthusiastic cheer complete with pom poms.
With the harbinger of what turns out to be good news gone, we continue to celebrate heartily as only a hockey team can. It isn’t until the last guest leaves that I finally have a moment alone with Margo. Coats on, we walk past the town green that hosts the Christmas Market during the holidays and the big Independence Day Corn event called 4 th on 4 th in the summer. The truck is parked on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finding her hand.
“About what? Celeste? I’m the one who should be apologizing. She’s my sister.”
“That’s not how family should treat each other.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“A bunch of hockey brothers. But I apologize for not telling you how old I am.”
“I’m not sorry that I searched you online and found out all your stats.”
Alarm streaks through me. “You looked me up?”
She bashfully lifts one shoulder. “Tried to find any secrets I should know about.”
My blood runs cold and if my breath weren’t stuck in my chest, it would cloud in the air.
But the beautiful smile that blooms on Margo’s lips instantly thaw me as she swings our hands between us. “We actually do make a good team. I think we can pull this off.”
“Pull what off?”
She playfully swats me. “Our fake wedding.”
“Our fake wedding?” I repeat, moving us toward the gazebo on the edge of the park.
“The only problem is on such short notice I have my work cut out for me.”
“I thought your Leprechauns canceled.”
“They did, which I believed was bad luck, but I guess that was good bad luck, since now I’m back here and got to spend your birthday with you.”
“I didn’t even need to make a wish,” I say.
Her eyes flick to mine as if grasping my meaning. My wish already came true.
“So for the St. Patrick’s Day wedding, how can I help?”
“I already gave notice to the church that the wedding is off. My to-do list is long. I still have to cancel all the vendors and probably lose the deposits on everything else.”
“No, keep it. All of it.”
“What? I can’t afford that.” Margo pauses on the sidewalk.
“I can afford it, Margo.”
Her face lights up. “But I can’t ask that of you.”
“You can and you will, Honey Butter.”
That teases a grin out of her. “Honey Butter?” she repeats.
The corners of my lips swizzle or something. I don’t know. “I wanted to give you a nickname. It fits.”
She turns to me and bounces on her toes. “Ah, there it is. What I’ve been waiting for all night. A birthday smile. I even see your teeth. Wow. So pearly,” she teases.
“For the record, I still have all mine. No dentures.”
Moving closer, the crook of her wiggling fingers tells me she’s up to something.
“How do you take your years? Pinches? Spankings?” Margo asks, referring to a custom that the guys do involving punches. Ted got me good.
I bite my lower lip and take a risk. “Actually, how about kisses?”
We start the day how we began, outside, only this time the stars are blinking above as the moon crests the sky. It’s open, spreading like a sheet dotted with possibility.
Gaze on mine, Margo says, “Kisses, huh? I can do that.”
The first one lands softly, sending a ripple through me.
She gets to five pecks on my right cheek then switches to the other side, counting each one, sending a thrill through me that’s no less exhilarating than the last. I want to slow down, but she still has more than double to go.
At ten, she pauses and her gaze hovers over mine as if she’s calculating something, not the number of kisses left, but something else.
She leans into my forehead, planting her lips there. “Eleven.”
My breath snags.
She dots a kiss on my nose. “Twelve.”
My eyes close.
“Thirteen.” My chin.
The world stands still as she meets my lips, pecking out the remaining kisses until she reaches twenty-eight.
This is no longer a silly birthday ritual. The atmosphere is charged. It’s as if the chemical makeup of the very air we breathe changes, recalibrates. My pulse jumps and then takes off at a sprint as she lingers on my lips for the last kiss.
Margo whispers against my mouth, “Twenty-nine.”
I’m determined to find out what her cheat code is. She mentioned her brother playing video games. There was a brief period when I was thirteen that I got heavily into Chel—the NHL video game. I’d never cheat. Not in hockey or my personal life. A cheat code in a video game is a combination of buttons that results in some kind of advantage for the player. Only, this isn’t about me. I want to figure out what to say or do that will make Margo realize how amazing she is.
Drawing away, she says, “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday to me,” I repeat, never before having experienced something so intensely intimate. Is that because it’s her? Us? Because we’re both one frayed thread away from letting go of the past and giving ourselves over to something more? Something bigger. Something that’s ours? Something real?
Walking backward, Margo moves toward the truck, but I’m not done. I’ve never felt this way about someone. Only something—hockey. And like the game, I know with absolute certainty that she’s my future.