Chapter 2
OBJECTION
Dev
Generally speaking, I possess pretty impressive reaction times.
Being a goalie and all, it’s kind of our thing.
But instead of dealing with the nagging voice that’s not even in the back of my head—it’s at the motherfucking front—I’m standing stupidly in a suit, hanging in the foyer of the church as part of my usher duties, peeking around the doorway at the rows of endless guests, wondering if anyone objects at weddings anymore.
I’d like to object on account of the groom being a douchebag, as I learned last night.
Why am I holding my peace then? At the bachelor party, he sang along with “Single Ladies” like it was his personal anthem then hit on the waitress with a Hey, babe, give me one last kiss before I get hitched.
Even though the waitress laughed him off and then he laughed it off, that comment isn’t sitting right with me today. Bet it wouldn’t sit right with Garrett if he’d been at the table when it’d happened. He was outside the bar, saying goodnight to his twins at the time.
Jaw ticking, I drag a hand through my getting-longer-by-the-day hair, working through the best way to tell Garrett how I feel in, oh, say, the next ten minutes before the wedding march starts, when my buddy Ledger clears his throat from behind me.
“I know it’s hard to count that high, but by my estimates there are about ten more guests coming.
One hundred ninety plus ten still equals two hundred. ”
Rolling my eyes, I turn his way, meeting his steely blue gaze. “Thanks. I was confused by how math works.”
“Happy to help.” He hooks his thumb toward the double front doors. “Let’s go wait outside to round up the last of the stragglers. Fucking hate tardiness.”
“You hate everything.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have to if most things didn’t suck,” he says evenly, like that’s just the way of the world.
“It’s hard being a millionaire athlete, isn’t it,” I retort, pulling my focus away from how-to-handle-a-dickhead-groom etiquette to rib my buddy.
Ledger McBride’s a forward for the San Francisco Sea Dogs; I’m the goalie for the recently renamed Golden State Foxes.
Technically, that makes us rivals since we play in the same city, but we’re friends not enemies.
“Pot. Kettle,” Ledger says.
“That’s me,” I say with more bravado than I feel. My ex liked to say it was hard dating a pro athlete, it was hard being in the limelight, it was hard with me being on the road. Yes, everything about seeing me was too hard for her. But that’s why Eva’s the ex.
Maybe I’m just sour on romance and seeing Aiden through the black-colored glasses I’ve been wearing lately. I really need to find those rose-colored ones again.
I smooth a hand down my suit jacket, nodding to the front door.
Ledger leads the way. “Let’s do this.”
Those three words echo loudly. Should Aubrey really do this? Should I say something? I heave a deep sigh as we go, still lost in my head.
“Save the thinking for another time. We need to help G,” Ledger says. Garrett asked the two guys he trusts most in the world to be ushers. To handle anything he needed on this important day.
Helping him would also include telling him the truth about the guy his little sister’s about to marry, right?
Except something keeps stopping me, a deep-seated worry I barely want to admit. Is Aiden’s behavior last night gnawing at me because it was a real problem? Or because I’ve never thought he was good enough for Aubrey? But I’ve never thought anyone was good enough for her.
I huff out an annoyed breath. It’s time to call in reinforcements.
I take my post by the door, then say to my friend, “Ledge, what do you think of Aiden? Like, really think of him?”
My longtime hockey friend meets my gaze with an intensely serious one. “You’re asking now?”
“Yeah. I’m asking now. Did you see him last night at the bar?”
Ledger scratches his jaw, like that will help him recall the party. “Aiden got shitfaced, but that’s what some dudes do.” His derision makes it clear he’s not one of those some.
“You were a choir boy at your bachelor party?” I ask the recently divorced guy.
He sneers. “No, I didn’t have one. Bachelor parties are dumb. Guys who want bachelor parties shouldn’t get married in the first place.”
He’s…not wrong.
Sure, I like grabbing a pizza and beer with the guys, but I get more than enough of that on the road with the team.
Well, low-fat, cauliflower crust pizza since I want to play hockey forever, so I need to treat my body like a high-performance sports car.
But last night wasn’t a hang-with-the-bros night out.
It felt more like a how-to-cheat-on-my-new-wife tutorial.
“But what’s really bugging you? Aiden getting wasted before his wedding? Or something else?” Ledger asks, cutting to the chase.
Outside the church entrance, on a perfect summer day in California, as the last few cars pull into the lot, I weigh the cost of telling…
anyone. I don’t want to come across like I’ve been thinking too hard about Aubrey, or like I’ve ever looked at her as more than my best bud’s sister.
Garrett’s my agent, too, and crushing on his sister is just asking for trouble.
I don’t need to make my neat, orderly, firing-on-all-cylinders hockey life messy in any way whatsoever.
But that guy Aubrey’s marrying makes my skin crawl, and he has since I met him last year. He reeked of too friendly then too. “He was hitting on the waitress last night,” I hiss.
His lips twist in a cruel frown. “Guys like him…”
I scrub a hand across my beard. “But is it my place to say something to G or to Aubs?”
Ledger’s older and wiser, a mentor to both Garrett and me, a role he’s played since his dad coached all of us back when we were younger.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, quiet for a stretch, mulling this over.
“Probably should,” he finally says with authority, but before I can hunt down Garrett, the side door to the church swings open, and a blur of lavender and denim sprints down the steps.
I squint. “Wait. Is that…?” The dude races across the parking lot to a little pink truck with polka dots and the words Peter’s Pies stenciled on the side. In no time, he’s backing up and peeling out of the lot. “What the hell is the groom doing taking off less than five minutes before the wedding?”
“I don’t think he’s delivering a last-minute pie order,” he says heavily.
Seconds later, the distinctive sound of footsteps slapping on tile grows louder, and Garrett comes racing out that same side door, swinging his gaze from left to right, then landing on us. He runs over, determination etched on his face.
Pointing at the building behind him, he speaks in his low, always-in-control, I’m-your-agent-and-this-is-what-you-must-do voice. “You need to get my sister out of there, stat. That asshole just left her at the altar, and I have to handle the guests. You guys take care of Aubrey.”
And sometimes, fate steps in for you and you don’t have to say I object.
When Garrett hands me the key fob to the convertible, I don’t think. I do. As he trots back around to the front of the church, I spin to face Ledger, tossing him the key. “Drive,” I tell Ledger, pointing to the just married convertible. “I’ll get the bride.”
With a crisp nod, he palms the keys.
Powered by this new game plan, I hightail it to the side of the church, rush down the hall, and push open the door to the bridal room.
Aubrey’s standing by the window in the corner, staring out the glass.
She turns in slow-motion, her hand clutching a tissue and a tiny purse.
Big, soft red curls frame her face, which is ashen with shock and maybe even shame.
Her mascara’s a little smudged, her cheeks a little red.
But there’s something like a gleam in her big brown eyes.
Something I can’t quite read. Now’s not the time to figure it out though.
“Hey,” I say softly. She’s got to be hurting. “We’re here to help.”
“He just wants to be…buddies,” she says, east of deadpan, just south of dry, as she sketches air quotes.
Ah, fuck.
“He never deserved you.” I should have said something last night. She’s still in shock, but I do something now. I scoop her into my arms, stealing her out of the church in time to spare her all the embarrassment, racing to the waiting convertible where Ledger has his foot on the gas.
“We’ve got you,” I tell the bride as I set her down in the passenger seat. I hand her my own sunglasses from inside my jacket pocket and jump into the back seat.
“Step on it,” I tell Ledger.
“Done.” He floors the accelerator and the car races off.
We’re out of there.