Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With my family busy helping Junie open shop and an intense game schedule, the first half of November flies by when I remember I said I’d handle the music and DJ for Erica and Shane’s wedding.
After begging my brothers, Joey agrees to be the DJ for the reception, but that doesn’t solve the problem of needing a three-piece band for the ceremony. While the Cruzes are entertaining, we didn’t inherit the mariachi genes from Pop’s side of the family.
I spot Margo outside the locker room at the Ice Palace and call, “Just the woman I was hoping to see.”
Beau appears out of nowhere, expression sharp.
I pump my hands. “For her wedding planning services. Junie and I are—”
Margo perks up, her eyebrows rising quickly and sharply.
“Planning Shane and Erica’s big day,” I clarify.
“Oh, right.”
But this does remind me of the idea I had when I asked about her availability a while back. However, I’ll make sure I invite Beau along when I’m ready to talk to her about it so he doesn’t break my face.
It’s a handsome face and I think Junie would like it to stay that way.
“What do you need?” Margo asks.
“Music, preferably of the small ensemble variety, for the ceremony and cocktail hour.”
She taps on her phone, swipes a few times, and says, “I’ll text you two vetted options.”
“Wow. That was easy. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Juniper had me help her with the florist. Is there anything else you guys need?”
I count off on my fingers. “We were in charge of the caterer, cake, flowers, music, and favors. Haven’t figured out the last one yet.”
“It’s an autumn wedding, Thanksgiving-themed. You could do pumpkin spice scented something ... I suggested Candlegram to Juniper.”
An idea springs to mind. I clap my hands together. “You’re a genius.” I hurry off, eager to go to the salon and tell Junie.
When I get there, she finishes with a client. I fidget in the waiting area. Mrs. Popovik is in the back, presumably washing towels, given the trilling beep from the machine, indicating the load is done.
Junie says goodbye, “Thank you, Mrs. Gormely. I hope you have a wonderful weekend with the grandkids.”
Once the door closes with a whoosh of cool, crisp air, I turn to her, but her head is tilted at an angle that suggests she’s deep in thought or is going to give me an earful about ... something. I don’t have the foggiest.
“You can’t come in here every single day.”
I frown. “I haven’t come in here—”
“Every single day since we opened,” she counters.
I take a moment to consider this and realize she’s almost right. “I’m on a nine-day winning streak—and game streak with only seventy-two hours off, but I couldn’t make it when we had away games.”
Now she crosses her arms in front of her chest. “How do you figure you’re on a winning streak then?”
“Because I get to see your beautiful face.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile tells me she appreciates the compliment.
“It’s true. I also had an idea for the party favors.”
“But did you hire musicians?”
“Yep.”
“Not your brothers.”
“Joey is going to be the DJ and I have a couple of leads for an ensemble.” I pull out my phone and quickly fire off text messages to both of the contacts Margo gave me. “Status pending.”
She laughs. “So, your wedding favors idea?”
“Matches.”
She winces. “Do those even still exist?”
“Personalized matches with, wait for it ...” I open my hands like I’m presenting a grand prize. “Shane and Erica’s names, their wedding date, and the words, ‘A Perfect Match.’”
“Actually, that’s not a terrible idea.”
“Margo mentioned a candle company.”
Her brown eyes brighten. “We could gift pumpkin spice candles and the matches.”
I click my tongue. “See? We’re the perfect pear ... like the fruit, get it?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think pear-scented candles would go over well at our wedding.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Our wedding.”
Her cheeks blush rosy pink. “If we’re going to have these favors in time, we’d better get cracking.”
Mrs. Popovik appears, sits down on the stool at the reception desk, and her fingers fly over the computer’s keyboard. She says, “I’m on it.”
“Pumpkin scented candles, not pear, Mama,” Junie says.
Mrs. Popovik winks at me and I can’t help but wonder if I’m not alone thinking about our wedding.
I’m swamped with away games and loads of training. Badaszek still hasn’t spoken to me.
If I were in jail, I’d be using hash marks to count the days of silence.
It’s not that I feel isolated, but it is a bit like solitary confinement.
Vohn gives me some cues and instructions for ways to improve my puck protection techniques and we work on a nifty little variation of a backchecking drill, but the head coach is oddly silent.
I’ve heard the other guys’ stories about encounters with Badaszek, including Pierre being called into his office every day for a month straight.
Being hollered at above the sound of the Zamboni—Redd.
Beau mentioned they once had what amounted to a father-son heart-to-heart, even though they’re not related.
I figured they both had ice in their chests instead of anything living or beating.
But at this point, I’ll take anything other than silence.
To be honest, it’s unsettling, but I’m performing well—fans continue to call me the “Stick Sniper,” so I must be doing something right.
Except when it comes to Badaszek and Junie, to a lesser degree.
She refuses to give me a haircut and my mother says if I go elsewhere, I’m being disloyal, especially since the Cruz crew did the remodel.
But I should get it trimmed for Shane’s sake. He befriended a gentleman, not a Sasquatch. I’d fit right in on the Saskatchewan AHL team.
Though it’ll be sad to say goodbye to my breakup hair, especially when, as the days pass, I’m starting to have my doubts about us getting back together.
Where’d my mojo go?
I give my head a shake because I hear an echo. Only, it’s not in my noggin.
It’s Hayden talking to me. He knocks on my helmet. “You okay, dude?”
I give my head a shake and watch the puck ricochet off the boards.
It’s only practice, but still, I never miss a pass.
I’ll admit I’ve been a little off, zoned out, in my head.
I’m not having sympathy jitters for Shane.
More like him getting married and Junie’s involvement in the planning only reminds me of how close we came.
“It’s about a girl.” Beau grunts.
The guys all glide over, sticks raised and I brace myself for a beating. But it doesn’t come.
Grady asks, “The hater?”
“It’s always about her,” I mutter.
Hayden asks, “Did the flowers, chocolates, or fruit basket work?”
I shrug. “I didn’t find them in the dumpster or returned to sender, meaning in my locker or something equally devious. So I don’t think they hurt the situation.”
“Heard you got egged,” Hayden says.
“Junie’s salon did on mischief night.”
“Cabbage night,” Redd corrects.
“Hooligans,” Beau says.
Redd interjects, “Mrs. Gormely said she thinks there’s a War of the Roses situation going on.”
“Wasn’t that a civil war in England several centuries ago?” I ask.
He clicks his tongue in confirmation. “Two rival factions over territory and power.”
I hold up my non-stick hand in surrender. “That sounds a lot like Junie and me. But I’ve been entirely peaceful. In fact, things have been good, so good. I thought we’d moved toward resolution.”
“Maybe the war isn’t about you,” Redd says.
“I’ve had some cuckoo fans. Maybe there’s a puck bunny who’s jealous of Juniper,” Pierre says.
Redd adds, “Maybe you and Juniper are caught in someone else’s crossfire.”
At that, Hayden flings the puck at me and we resume practice.
Their comments follow me for the next few days. There hasn’t been any activity on the security cameras, which is a relief. Perhaps someone was trying to run Junie out of town, but she wasn’t intimidated, and they backed down or got spooked by the Cruz crew.
Thankfully, I have a two-day game gap for Shane and Erica’s wedding. They both arrived in town yesterday, but so did I after a closeout against the Carolina Storm, thanks to Beau.
The rehearsal dinner is my first chance to see the bride and groom-to-be since we were in Manhattan.
Thankfully, Shane’s parents planned the wedding day eve dinner at their property, which abuts a corn field—fitting that the theme is corn and brisket with a rowdy game of corn hole promised for later.
They have heat lamps set up and lights strung across the back patio for a cozy glow after sundown.
After chatting with Shane and Erica, they thank me profusely for helping get everything arranged—I give Margo some credit. Then, with the sun setting at her back, Junie crosses the lawn, wearing a lacy, fitted top and flared skirt. Whatever I was saying sputters and dies on my tongue.
Shane elbows me. “Dude,” he whispers.
Erica rushes up to her and they hug. “Thank you for not murdering Mikey.”
Junie glances at me and winks. “The night is still young.”
“Oh, stop. You love me.”
Her cheeks pink up.
At the same time, comes a chorus of beeps from our phones—it’s the security app.
Junie blanches.
I’m quick and assess to see what triggered the alarm. “Looks like, um, a squirrel?”
“Everything okay?” Shane asks.
“Yeah. We just had some trouble at the salon, so I installed some cameras.”
Erica raises her eyebrows. “So you’ve been working together?”
“You could call it that,” Junie starts.
I lift one shoulder. “We’ll be sure to thank you for reuniting us on our wedding day,” I say because I cannot resist.
Junie presses her lips together, whether to suppress a smile or a scolding, I’m not sure.
Erica lets out a little happy shriek and says, “Where’s Margo?”
Junie shakes her head and huffs.
“Do you two think you can give a toast tonight?” Shane asks.
I do not recall that on the checklist of tasks. Junie, eyes wide as if she also doesn’t remember this item, looks up at me.
“Of course. Actually, I, um, was going to do a slide show, but the projector thingy—”
“My parents have one,” Shane supplies.
“brB.” Junie grabs my hand and marches me away. At least she doesn’t slap me for forgetting this. Not going to lie, I love it when we hold hands. Always have. Always will. When we’re out of earshot, her hand flies to her forehead. “I totally forgot.”
“Good, because I didn’t even know.”
“How is that good? We have to come up with something. Fast. We can consult Margo. She’ll know what to do.”
But Margo and Erica are deep in conversation, likely about us.
Junie paces, frantic.
Seizing her shoulders, I say, “It’s you and me. We got this. We both know them well. We’ll sing their praises and say what a great couple they make.”
“Okay. You’re right. We can do that. But I thought the parents usually gave the toast.”
“For some reason, they chose us for the job.” I shrug.
“They’re really living on the edge,” she mutters.
I kiss her forehead and say, “For some reason, I think they’ve known what they’re doing all along.”
Junie’s shoulders relax and her breath evens out. She lifts her chin and a slow smile spreads across her full lips and the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Maybe you’re right about that.”
When the guests take their seats, to my relief, Shane’s father says a few words, thanking everyone for joining them to celebrate his son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law, only he changes the word law to love.
Beside me, Junie fidgets.
Assuming she’s nervous even though she gave a rousing speech at the salon opening, in the lowest voice possible, I say, “Trust me, we can do this.”
When we raise our glasses, she continues to shift her dress around.
I find her pinky and squeeze.
When she still keeps fussing with her dress, I’m worried there’s a bug or spider and she’s trying to be polite while Shane’s dad concludes about the importance of sticking together through thick and thin.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m wearing shapewear,” she hisses.
“What?” I ask, not following.
“Think of it as a modern-day corset.”
“Why would you wear that?” I whisper, glancing at her curves and admiring how bomb she looks.
“So I look good in this dress, obviously.”
“You don’t need shapewear to look good. Whether in leggings and a sweatshirt or a gown, you’re perfect.”
At that, she goes still, peeks up at me, and thrusts her shoulders back. “Oh.”
Shane’s mom gushes about how grateful they are that their son found someone so special.
“They’re stealing our thunder,” Junie whispers to me.
“Maybe we’re off the hook.”
No such luck. Shane’s mother taps her fork on her glass, indicating it’s our turn.
Junie and I get to our feet. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder. A united front. There are only about twenty-five people here in addition to us and the soon-to-be newlyweds.
I squeeze her pinky and whisper, “We got this.”
She squeezes back.
Louder, I say, “First, I want to say, it’s an honor to be part of Shane and Erica’s special weekend as they embark on their lives as husband and wife.”
Junie taps in, “They’re an amazing example of what love, commitment, and happiness look like.”
“From the moment Shane told me about meeting a cute nursing student while doing rounds at the teaching hospital, I knew she’d be the one.”
“Despite the exhausting schedule, Erica would meet me for coffee with a big smile on her face. I knew something was up.”
“Now, here we are—” A pair of phones beeping interrupts me.
Junie elbows me.
The sound comes again, more insistent.
“Why didn’t you turn off your phone?” she hisses.
“I thought I did.”
She continues, “To see their relationship bloom has been such a joy.”
The beep comes again and I realize the security system alerts have a different setting to mute them than the main volume button.
“It’s the salon,” I whisper.
Junie stiffens beside me.
I raise my glass. “Shane, Erica, may your lives together be filled with happiness, adventure, and cherished memories ... and no cell phone interrupts. Cheers! Excuse us.”
Everyone erupts into applause. Although I’m much faster on skates, I grab my phone from the table and rush toward my car as I scan the security footage. Only, it’s a false alarm. Or, I should say a squirrel alarm. Slowing my pace, Junie catches up to me.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just that squirrel again.”
“Phew. But we almost ruined their toast.”
“At least we weren’t bickering.”
“Not much.” She swipes her bangs across her forehead.
Her thick eyelashes fringe her dark eyes and her full eyebrows smooth. If I were a Renaissance painter, she’d be a masterpiece. As it is, Junie is my muse.
I mouth, You’re my one and only.
She smiles and says, “I’ve been telling myself every day for over fourteen months that I’m not still in love with you.”
Before I can add more, our phones beep again. It better be the squirrel.