Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Walking into the Fish Bowl wearing my favorite Empire State Kings jersey is like entering a lion’s den—not to be confused with the LA Lions, another hockey team.
The Kings are playing the Knights tonight, so it makes sense for me to root for my home team. Except, I’m in enemy territory and it looks like rival numero uno is sitting nearby with a bunch of other hockey players.
Nice to see they’re just chilling and carb-loading before a big game, which means they’ll lose.
I’ll admit, seeing them smiling and laughing genuinely makes me feel like the bad guy, er, gal, for talking, er, thinking negatively—especially since Miguel and I declared a truce. Yet if I don’t, I’ll forget my plan to no longer be in love with him.
My Miguel-cott is a losing battle.
Gracie and Leah—she works here, but it’s her day off—lead the way to a table and I follow, feeling eyes on me, namely Miguel’s, tracing my every step.
“We could’ve gone somewhere else,” I say, trying to shift out of the rowdy table’s line of sight. About sixty seconds ago, they were all looking at me with varying degrees of curiosity ... or something.
Miguel is the type to kiss and tell, so I wouldn’t expect him to keep our past to himself.
I keep my laser beam death stare fixed on the back of his head.
Leah says, “I don’t mind coming here on my days off.”
“Home away from home?” Gracie asks.
Leah bats her eyelashes. “No, I just figure the greater frequency with which I’m in the presence of hockey players, the greater chances I’ll meet one and fall in love.”
“Trust me, it’s overrated,” I mutter.
Gracie’s smile wavers.
Leah smirks like she has a secret.
“I’m sure assistant coaches are great, Gracie,” I add, covering my blunder, given her husband’s proximity to the sport.
We sit down at a table and chat about the upcoming game. Margo said she’s going to meet us, but the complimentary popcorn in the fishbowl is mostly gone because I’m stress eating it. The struggle is real.
Miguel repeatedly flashes me his smile.
It doesn’t make me feel warm all over.
He winks at me when someone asks him and the others to sign something.
I’m over him. Totally and completely.
I ignore how charismatic he is.
He’s just another handsome face. That’s all.
“So, have you picked a grand opening date for the salon?” Gracie asks.
Thankful for the distraction, I say, “Never mind that, I still need a name. Nothing feels right.” I tell them the ones I’ve crossed off the list.
Leah suggests, “Posh and Glam.”
“Small Town Trims?” Gracie says.
“Snip, Clip, Drip Hair Designs,” Alleyah, our server, suggests. She’s also part of the ladies of hockey crew.
Kian’s suggestion for “Hockey Hair” springs to mind and I cut it off at the root. Or try to.
“We’re still waiting on the building permit, but, um, Mr. Cruz, my contractor, said the county assured him it would be ready by the end of the week.”
“Isn’t the Knights’ new starter a Cruz? Don’t tell me he moonlights as a building contractor?” Leah says.
“I’d like to say ‘No relation,’ but yeah, it’s his dad.”
Gracie clears her throat. “Margo said you two used to be together.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Ancient history.”
“But you’re also planning a wedding together,” Leah adds and she blushes. “I mean, that’s what I heard, anyway. Shane Finch’s mom is friends with Mrs. Gormely.”
Gracie lifts her hands, palms facing the ceiling, and shrugs. “Small towns, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I mutter, wondering what else they’ve heard.
The scent of floral perfume reaches us before Margo as she hustles across the dining room toward our table with two other women in tow—one has curly blonde hair and the other wears a T-shirt with a glass of milk that has a mustache.
A couple of the guys from the nearby table scramble to get to their feet as if they didn’t get the notice royalty was arriving at their local lunch spot.
The two women stop in the middle of the room as if not sure which party to go to first. Before I can stop what’s happening, tables are being pushed together and half the hockey team and we ladies are sitting together.
Miguel winks at me.
Lips in a flat line, I shake my head slowly in response.
“Not to pick on the new girl, but your jersey is all wrong,” says James Reddford, the Knights’ right winger and helper that first day at the salon.
Hayden Savage cups his hands around the sides of his mouth and makes a long, “Boo.”
“Hey, she can like what she likes,” Margo says in my defense.
“Not in Hockey Town,” Pierre Arsenault says.
“Variety is the spice of life,” Gracie counters.
“Not when the team stinks.” Grady Federer pinches his nose.
A player I don’t recognize waggles his eyebrows. “I think she looks good in it.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to glance at Miguel to see how he responds.
Jaw tight.
Nostrils flared.
A fist formed under the table, no doubt.
Liam Ellis glances at Miguel. “As a gallant Knight and team captain, milady, we recognize that you’re acquainted with the WAGs. As such, we kindly request that you support our team this evening.”
From the other end of the table, the woman with the curly hair says, “We haven’t met yet. I’m Delaney. It’s so good to meet you.”
“My wife,” Hayden says.
“And I’m Whit.” The other woman who came with Margo offers a friendly wave.
“My wife,” Redd echoes.
“I’m not anyone’s wife, just saying.” Leah wears a pageant queen smile, then adds, “Not yet.”
The other player, whom I don’t recognize, is about to say something, but Margo cuts across him.
“Obviously, Beau and I are together, but you knew that.”
The grumpy goalie’s eyes soften in his wife’s presence.
This would be Miguel’s cue to say something stupid about us being ex-fiancés.
Instead, I do—say something stupid that is. “I’m happily single.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mystery Player says.
“Grimaldi,” Redd grinds out.
Miguel looks like he’s about to flip the table.
“Juniper, ignore them. You can wear what you want to the game tonight,” Margo says. “Moving on. We need to discuss my fantasy hockey league standing.”
I have to give myself a pat on the back. A year ago, the woman didn’t know the difference between a hockey stick and a puck, but she’s fully invested in the sport ... and her marriage, thanks to me.
“They can’t share insider info.” A large figure hulks over the table.
Gracie bounces to her feet and pecks Vohn on the cheek.
He says, “Boys, Nat isn’t going to approve of this off-plan meal.”
“What did hockey players do before they had nutritionists?” Pierre asks.
Vohn tips his head from side to side. “Arsenault, Cara is waiting for you at the Ice Palace.”
“You came here to deliver me that message?” he asks.
“No, I came to have lunch with my wife.”
“So, Cara isn’t waiting for me? She said she had meetings all afternoon.”
“You’ll find her in the galley.”
“I think you just want me to eat something healthy. Technically, potatoes grow in the ground,” Pierre says, like he’s trying to talk his dad into letting him eat dessert for breakfast.
This brings to mind the cake-eating spree Miguel and I went on the other day and the way he looked at me when I licked my fork clean. My cheeks heat.
Vohn counters, “French fries don’t grow in the ground, and if a certain French Canadian doesn’t get on top of his macros, he’s not getting ice time.”
Just then, the waitresses bring out our meals. Because of the game of musical chairs earlier, they’re not sure what plates go where.
In the end, I have a spicy chicken sandwich and Miguel has my cheeseburger.
“That’s mine,” I say, gesturing for him to pass me my plate.
“Come and get it.”
I huff. “Do you have to be difficult?”
“No. But you like it, so consider it a good deed.”
I squint. “You’re obnoxious.”
“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“Did you wear your helmet to your last practice?”
“Are you suggesting I got hit in the head?”
I shrug and realize all eyes are on us, bobbing back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match.
Picking up Miguel’s chicken sandwich, I say, “Looks good. Guess I’ll eat it.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right here when you want your cheeseburger.”
“You can have it. I don’t want your germs.”
“You already do, sweetheart.”
I’m not sure what I expected, but everyone dissolves into laughter and one of the guys says, “Never mind the fantasy league, I’m placing my bets on these two.”
“If they don’t kill each other first,” another replies.
I’m not sure who’s talking because my gaze is fixed on Miguel, who winks at me again.
I glare and shake my head.
He leans in and says, “We can continue to do this the hard way.”
“Or the easy way, right? And what would that be?” I ask.
“You know.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Give in.”
“And let you win?”
“No, end the battle, stop fighting, and admit you still love me.”
The chatter and laughter die.
I open and close my mouth, feeling very much like a goldfish in a fishbowl.
Margo leans in and whispers, “Uh, do you guys need a minute?”
Hayden says, “No way am I letting my food get cold.”
“They can take it outside,” Redd adds.
“And risk having to peel our center off the sidewalk?” Pierre asks.
“Your call,” Miguel says to me.
I get to my feet, but instead of leaving, which is exactly what I want to do—or hide in the bathroom forever, also an appealing option—I take the plate with the chicken sandwich and trade it for my cheeseburger, even though he already ate half of it.
I’m not sure what kind of statement I’m trying to make, but he’s right. We can’t keep fighting like this. There’s no point, but if I don’t use my mouth to fire verbal bullets his way, I’m afraid of what I’ll do with it instead—what I want, and that might lead to having my heart broken ... again.