The Tendy (Dalvegan Dragons #4)

Chapter 1

Thayne

It’s not every day you see a woman wrapped in white fluff run out of the church like she’s a tendy being called to the bench for an extra forward during the last minute of regulation.

But here I am.

Hands in my suit pockets.

Watching the second worst view of the play – the first of course being the poor pylon beside me that truly thought she was “the one”.

In his defense…she did actually make it to the wedding unlike “the one” before her that didn’t bother showing up to the rehearsal dinner.

Or “the one” before that who never made it to their engagement party.

Or “the one” before that who said yes at the restaurant but changed it to no during their car ride home.

Bud’s such a fucking sieve when it comes to love.

Watches the player rather than the puck.

Always falls for the fake out.

The deke.

And it’d be so easy to throw shade at him for that shit if it weren’t the fact that at least he’s in the game.

Trying.

Given a chance to try.

Unlike me.

The fucking duster who can’t even seem to find a snipe that doesn’t chirp me for my taste in tuneskies and cold brews and suspenders.

Not to mention my cowboy hats.

And boots.

And fondness for mud.

But what kinda good ol’ country boy would I be if I didn’t like mud.

It’s my original snow.

Learning to catch rocks in a beat up ol’ mitt like they were pucks, and I was Henrik Lundqvist.

Although, truth be toldskies, I am a few inches taller than him.

Which Gramps – who helped raise me – just knew I was going to be.

He swore it from the beginning.

Even joked about it in the end.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.

Walton Westwood – my ivory skinned best friend, pro-hockey gear artist, and groom turned bachelor once more – releases a sigh heavy enough to shake the roof of the old church prior to hitting me with a defeated expression. “To Wally’s?”

I deliver a hard pat to his suit covered shoulder. “First rounds on me, bud.”

Polite condolences are awkwardly offered as much as they’re expected during our attempted exiting.

Dubs – which is what most of us who grew up with him have called him our whole lives – takes them in stride.

Per usual.

And like the tendy I am, I’m instinctively right by his side.

Blocking the snide remarks.

Catching the conversational strays.

Keeping points off the board until we successfully make it a couple blocks over to Wally’s Wild West, the best place to be in Middlebrook on a Saturday night.

Especially when you’re newly single.

Or in my case…always single.

Alright.

Not always.

But close.

We’re talkin’ horseshoes and hand grenades close.

We’re talkin’ spent significantly more periods on the ice than in the sheets close.

We’re talkin’ Hank Williams “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” close.

You might as well say “fuck it” and light a damn cigar close.

Getting into Wally’s is easy – regardless of its packed nature – however getting attention – any type of attention – feels fucking impossible despite the fact I tower over all the other patrons.

I’m six-five, two hundred twenty-nine pounds, and wearing a seafoam green suit for Fleury’s sake.

You can’t miss me even if you intend to.

“Aw, Dubs,” Sonali Vee, the deep cinnamon brown shaded female that I know has been in love with him since I was forehead high to a cow’s asshole, sympathetically coos at the same time she grasps both his hands with hers. “I’m sorry about what happened at the church.”

No, she’s not.

She never is.

Why should she be?

Not seeing the person you’re meant to be with marrying another person isn’t something to apologize for.

“Yeah,” Dubs’s slender shoulders slightly bounce, “guess it jus’ wasn’t meant to be.”

Of course, it wasn’t meant to be.

He’s meant to marry her – who he has been in love with since he was making chalk murals on the side of Gramps’s barn after Sunday dinner.

They’ve basically been a fucking Marvin Gaye duet our entire lives.

How or why, they don’t see being together is the play that I don’t understand.

Me still not speaking about it after all these years is only because of Grams’s constant reminder that you only state your own truths rather than dictating others.

“Troff,” she teasingly calls out my hometown nickname, “you do know you look like you were ripped off a can of really fuckin’ old green beans, right?”

“I’m jus’ the best man.” It’s impossible not to smirk. “Only wore what I was told.”

“We should dance, Dubs,” she sweetly suggests, floral dress covered frame nonchalantly tugging him towards the bustling area. “Let’s just dance your troubles away.”

“Worked for Archie,” I mirthfully mumble knowing neither will get the reference.

“Wilcox,” Dubs requests while letting himself get led elsewhere. “Top shelf.”

He’s barely out of sight when an unexpected voice inquires, “Like Archie Bell?”

There’s no stopping my head from snapping down to the golden toffee brown skinned, full-figured beauty bearing a long sleeve jean jersey dress that she’s got bunched up to her elbows.

My mouth lowers to answer, yet the instant her midnight chocolate gaze latches onto my hazel air somehow skates everywhere else except my lungs.

“Like…Archie Bell however, this time they have her head lolling back.

Curls swaying.

Full tits bouncing, begging to be in my mitts.

Mouth.

Luongohearmenow…this woman is meant to be mine.

We’re talkin’ “Hello Darlin’” Conway Twitty type of mine.

We’re talkin’ French press lavender infused cold brew on a hot summer day kind of mine.

We’re talkin’ willin’ to give up my chance at the fucking Cup to be with her instead level of mine.

Yup.

This is love.

And I don’t even know her name yet.

“Typically,” the bombshell beside me warmly begins again, “everyone else just does the ordering for me. Friends always assume that I’ll just have what they’re having.”

“And dates?”

My brazenness – gratefully – doesn’t get blocked. “Whatever the last woman they were with drank.”

“Trashy.”

“Not classy.”

“Sloppy.”

“Careless.”

“Which is…” my fingers fold together in front of me, “unfathomable to me that the person lucky enough to go out with you would fuck up their shot so…absentmindedly.” Tilting my head slightly to one side is done prior to me prodding, “Unless…you like other people makin’ decisions for you?”

The question instantly crinkles her forehead. “I don’t know that I like it.”

“But you don’t know that you don’t?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever thought much about it.” Her body casually angles itself to face me better. “I’ve always been more of a ‘go with the flow’ type of person.”

“Why?”

“Because it was easier.”

“Was it?” Lifting of my light brown eyebrows occurs between statements. “Or were you really jus’ afraid the world would reject you for bein’ whoever it is you really wanted to be?”

Her jaw instantly plummets to the scuffed-up floors.

“You pick the play,” I declare at the same time I drag over the drink specials menu, “and I’ll follow the call.”

Once more, she takes a nervous nibble of her bottom lip.

Wordlessly contemplates.

Scrambles to decide which angle she thinks my slapshot is coming from instead of simply believing in the point-blank clapper I’ve declared.

Sadly, there are too many people in the world out here pretending to be someone they’re not.

That’s never been me.

Never will be.

“Okay…” the hesitation lingering in her voice doesn’t have me rushing to make the decision like I would bet my lucky playoff season bowtie she’s hoping it will, “let’s order everything.”

“Everything it is.”