Chapter 9 April
APRIL
I’m sitting on my couch, mainlining my evening coffee and minding my own business while scrolling through social media, when I lean back against one of the throw pillows, promptly reminding me of Clark’s bed covered in them, then hear a faint squeak.
I freeze.
That was not the normal sound a couch makes. That was the sound of a—squeak. Squeak.
“What in the world?”
I pull the cushion away and wedged into the back of my couch is a tiny rubber squeaky toy shaped like a hot dog.
FYI: Despite a deep yearning to have a dog, unfortunately, I do not and the boys rarely come here because my building has a strict no pets policy. This could only mean one thing.
Clark.
It had to be Clark.
It’s always Clark. Always will be.
A long-suffering sigh escapes, but I’m smiling because I’m not ready to say goodbye when he marries Pammy or Posh—the latter being his latest conquest. Regrettably, I did some emotional rubbernecking, seeing evidence of their date all over the internet.
I know better, but look anyway—snared by equal amounts of jealousy and hope.
I’m about to text him a very strongly worded message about boundaries and personal property when I remember that today is April first. April Fool’s Day. And Clark Culpepper thinks he’s hilarious.
I shake my head, fighting a smile. Fine. He got me.
He’ll always have me.
After finishing my coffee, I slip on my house shoes so I can grab the mail. With my first step, I hear another squeak.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I pull off the slipper and sure enough, a miniature squeaky hamburger is jammed in the toe.
“Clark!” I yell at my empty apartment, even though he’s not here to hear it.
I’m laughing now and have to wonder how many he hid? He must’ve done this the other day and I hadn’t noticed.
After grabbing the mail—I’m still waiting for some documents from the bank—I head to the bathroom to get ready and brush my hair before Heidi picks me up for the game.
When I yank open the drawer to grab my curling iron—some of my ringlets are being rather rambunctious—a chorus of squeaks erupts like a tiny rubber orchestra.
There are three more squeaky toys buried under my hairbrush, lotion, and makeup bag.
I pull them out one by one and find a tiny pizza slice, a miniature taco, a rubber donut, and a squeaky pickle.
My phone buzzes.
Clark: Hey. How’s it going? Haven’t heard from you today. Are you coming to the game?
Me: Oh, I’m coming to the game, alright.
I belatedly realize that sounded aggressive. I hope he doesn’t think I’m mad about all of the photos of him and Posh splashed around online. It’s not that I’m upset. Much. More like the achy little part of my heart needs some soothing.
Me: By the way, Happy April Fool’s Day to you too!
I send photographic evidence of his squeaky toy spree.
He replies with a trio of laughing emoji heads.
Clark: Did you find them all? There might be more. Consider it a treasure hunt.
Me: I’m going to hide dog toys in your goalie equipment. See how you like it when your glove squeaks during a game.
Clark: That would actually be pretty funny. The opposing team would be so confused.
Me: You’re impossible.
Clark: You love it.
I stare at the three words and wonder what it would be like if I changed just one. You love me. If only he knew.
The doorbell rings, saving me from sitting with feelings I can’t afford to have.
“Coming!” I grab my purse and leave the squeaky toys in a basket—I’ll deal with finding the rest later.
Heidi stands on my doorstep, effortlessly put together in her Knights merch and her caramel-colored hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. “Ready for the game?” she asks, then notices my expression. “What happened? You look flustered.”
“Clark happened. April Fool’s pranks. There are squeaky toys hidden all over my apartment.”
She laughs as we head to her car. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”
“It’s annoying,” I repeat because I can’t for a minute let myself think Clark is adorable. Not when I’ll likely attend the post-game party and have to watch him be mauled by Posh or whoever Whitaker set him up with today.
I’ve gleaned that it’s not enough to just play hockey. Whitaker wants to make him into a media magnet. Says it’s good press. I don’t want him to be a brand or a commodity. I want him to be Clark.
“It’s adorable,” she insists, starting the engine. “He literally spent time planning and executing a prank just for you. Do you know how much effort that takes?”
I buckle my seatbelt and try not to think about the fact that yes, Clark spent time thinking about me. Planning something to make me laugh. That’s just friend stuff, right? Friends do that.
“Speaking of Clark,” Heidi says in a tone that means she has a shovel and is ready to dig, “did you see the photos?”
My stomach drops. “Yeah,” I mumble.
The images were of Clark and Posh at a fancy restaurant with her practically in his lap—who sits on the same side of the table as their dinner date?
But Posh is gorgeous—tall, airbrushed, and wearing a fitted red dress that accentuated her assets.
Her smile is perfect. Her hair is perfect.
It’s like she came off the “NHL girlfriend” factory line just for him.
But Clark looked uncomfortable. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was sitting stiffly, like he’d rather have been anywhere else.
But he was there. On a date. With someone who wasn’t me.
I just have to accept it. I should be able to by now.
He’ll inevitably get serious with someone and I will slowly be cut out of his life.
I, for one, wouldn’t want my future husband to have a female best friend and that works both ways. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“April?” Heidi’s voice cuts through my garbage disposal thoughts.
“It’s okay.”
“Is it?” She’s not needling me. More like giving me a chance to talk.
I shouldn’t. I ought to stuff these feelings deep down.
Bury them at the bottom of a canyon. Stash them in the attic.
Return them to the vault. At least keep them out of sight.
But he’s dating and I have to face the future, the rapidly approaching reality that things between us will ultimately change.
“It’s just ... you saw her, right? Posh is beautiful and sophisticated and probably doesn’t own a single garment with dog hair on it.”
Heidi laughs.
“And I’m just ... me. The girl who walks Clark’s dogs and reminds him to pay his bills and wears sneakers with paw prints on them instead of the classic black and white checkers.” I gesture to my feet—a gift from him, but still. “I’m not NHL star girlfriend material.”
Heidi pulls into a parking spot at the Ice Palace and turns to face me fully. “Can I tell you something?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” She smiles. “You’ve been Clark’s person for ten years. You’re the first one he texts when something good happens. You’re the one he calls when he needs to talk. You’re the reason his life functions at all. If that’s not girlfriend material, I don’t know what is.”
“That’s friend material,” I correct quickly. “That’s exactly what friends do.”
She bunches up her lips and shakes her head. “Mmm. Keep telling yourself that.”
We head into the arena, and I try to shake off the image of Clark and Posh. Today is a big game—potentially playoffs-deciding. I need to be here for him, cheering him on, being the supportive best friend.
Even if it’s like walking on ice barefoot.
The Ice Palace is electric with energy. It’s April first, and someone has hung a banner that reads THE KNIGHTS ARE NO FOOLS! in silver and red.
I follow Heidi up to the VIP suite, where the other WAGs and family members are already gathering. Jess waves us over, and soon I’m surrounded by friendly faces and excited chatter.
Cara hugs me. “Did you hear? Howie’s here!”
“Howie?”
“The gnome!” Ella jumps in, practically bouncing. “Oh, this is your first time seeing him. Okay, so—”
“The first rule of Knights,” Jess interrupts in a dramatic whisper.
Leah finishes, “Is we don’t talk about the gnome.”
“But we’re going to talk about the gnome,” Whit adds with a mischievous smile.
Over the next few minutes, as we settle into our seats and the teams warm up on the ice, the girls tell me the saga of Howie the garden gnome.
It’s ridiculous and wonderful—something about Hudson’s twin brother Hunter stealing it from Coach Badaszek’s yard, years of pranks that tormented Leah, and eventually the gnome becoming the mascot for the Happy Hockey Days festival.
“Wait,” I say, trying to follow the timeline. “So, Coach Badaszek let them keep a stolen gnome?”
“His late wife would have wanted them to have it,” Margo explains softly. “It’s actually really sweet when you think about it.”
“And now Howie’s here?” I scan the arena and spot the ceramic hockey gnome perched proudly near the Knights’ bench, wearing a tiny jersey.
“It’s like a good luck charm,” Margo confirms.
Leah adds, “Though technically we’re not superstitious.”
I cannot help but laugh at the logic.
The game starts, and I forget about everything else—Posh, squeaky toys, my confused feelings. Right now, it’s just hockey.
And Clark.
He’s always good, but tonight he operates like a bulldozer. Every save is precise, powerful, almost aggressive. Denver crushed them days ago, but tonight the Knights are playing like they have something to prove.
Which they do—this win could seriously put them in contention for a playoff spot.
The first period ends with the Knights up by two. The second period is tighter—the Empire State Kings score once, but the Knights answer back with two more goals. By the third period, the crowd is deafening.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, gripping the edge of my seat.
With two minutes left, the Kings pull their goalie for an extra attacker. My heart is in my throat as the puck races up and down the ice.
However, it’s worth noting that Clark is an apex competitor and is locked in. He makes a save that has the entire arena on its feet. The puck rebounds to Mikey, who sends it flying down to the empty net.
Goal!
The buzzer sounds with the final score five to one, Knights. We’ve won.
The arena erupts. The girls and I are screaming, hugging, jumping up and down like we’ve lost our minds.
“We won!” Heidi shouts.
Whit adds, “We’re crushing the season!”
Someone opens the door to the suite and hollers, “Come on! We’re going down!”
“Down where?” I ask, but I’m already being swept along in the current of excited WAGs and family members rushing toward the ice.
We burst through the tunnel and onto the rink, and suddenly I’m standing on the ice in my sneakers (thankfully, they have good grip), surrounded by celebrating hockey players.
And then I see Clark skating away from the goal as if he finally accepted the win well after the buzzer sounded and the board lit up with the final score and felt comfortable leaving his post.
He removes his mask, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, but his face is lit up with pure, uninhibited joy. He’s grinning wider than I’ve seen in days.
Our eyes meet across the ice.
He approaches, and I’m reminded of all the reasons I fell for him in the first place. How strong and powerful he is. The way his whole face transforms when he smiles. How he could be looking for anyone in the arena, but it’s me.
Me? Me.