CHAPTER 17
TYLER
The same day in Winnipeg, Tyler was making plans with Marnie and Heather, and by default, their husbands, to meet at the King’s Head Pub.
They always made time to catch up when they were home for the holidays.
But this year it would be different since Marnie and Heather were both five months pregnant.
They’d scheduled their due dates down to the last minute.
As usual Tyler was the first to arrive. She scanned the room, recognizing a few guys from her high school’s football team—once athletic, now anything but.
“Sorry we’re late,” Marnie said, stomping the snow from her boots. “I’m not used to driving in this weather.”
“No worries. It’s a blizzard out there.” Tyler hugged her friend, the baby bump protruding from her jacket. It was the size of a honeydew melon and hard to the touch.
Heather popped off her knitted hat by its pom-pom, dark curls bouncing at her shoulders. “It’s great to see you!”
“Likewise.” Tyler hugged her other friend. “I can’t believe it’s been a year!”
“It feels like a millennium.” Marnie cradled her bump. “I can’t wait to get this baby out.”
“We had to bring Hank and Mark with us. They need constant supervision.” Heather turned to the clean-cut men beside them.
“Hi,” Tyler said. “How are you guys?”
It was easy to remember that the Ms and Hs were spouses, and she called them the “husbands” collectively.
“I’m putting on sympathy pounds,” Mark said, rubbing his belly over his coat.
“Same,” Hank agreed.
After the hostess showed them to their table, everyone hung their coats on the rack and positioned their chairs to face the TV.
Hockey Night in Canada was a big deal to most people in the country, including them.
The Winnipeg Jets were playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, which meant war—blood, if necessary.
Tyler winked at Marnie and Heather for wearing their Jets jerseys, but her smile vanished when she realized the husbands had worn theirs, too.
They were from Toronto, home of the Bay Street Bullies—better known as the Leafs—and she hated them almost as much as Vancouver’s team.
But make no mistake, if those two ever met in the finals, she’d grit her teeth and cheer, “Go Leafs Go!” in a heartbeat.
“Tell me everything,” Tyler said, holding Marnie’s hand. “The last time we spoke, you were finding out the sex.”
Marnie shook her head and tightened her lips. “We found out this week.”
“She’s having a boy, and I’m having a girl,” Heather interjected, finishing Marnie’s sentence, but there wasn’t a smile to be found between them.
“What’s the problem?” Tyler narrowed her gaze. “One of each sounds perfect. Ideal, even.”
Marnie parted her honey-blond curtain bangs with her fingers. “We wanted to have the same thing so our kids could be best friends.”
“They can still be best friends,” Tyler said. “Even better, they might get married one day.” What the fuck was she saying? “Not that they couldn’t get married if they were the same sex, is what I meant.”
“Oh my god, that is better,” Marnie said while the husbands shook their heads, clearly annoyed with their spouses.
“I need a drink,” Tyler said to no one in particular. On the taxi ride over she’d thought about staying sober in solidarity with her friends, but it had been a fleeting consideration at best.
“On it.” Mark whistled, waving down a server.
“What’s new and exciting in the music business?” Heather asked, ever the optimist. But nothing was exciting about babysitting grown-ass men with Peter Pan syndrome.
“Same old.” Tyler shrugged. “Same old.”
A lanky teen appeared out of nowhere—like a Phil Collins drum solo—clutching a golf pencil and a beat-up notepad. “You guys know what you want?”
“Beer,” Hank said curtly.
Mark raised his brow in Tyler’s direction. “Are you in for a pitcher?”
“Have you met me?” she asked, not realizing it was a rhetorical question.
“We’ll have a pitcher, please.” Mark tapped on his gut. “Something light.”
The server jotted down their order. “And for the ladies?”
“We’ll have two Diet Cokes, please. We’re pregnant and I’m driving.” Marnie always had a knack for oversharing. “And nachos with everything.”
“Can you bring a bunch of small plates, please?” Heather added.
“If you could turn up the volume on the TV, that would be great.” Mark pointed to the screen. “The game’s about to start.”
The server scowled at Mark’s jersey and stormed off in a huff.
Tyler could hardly blame him. Wearing that jersey in public was asking for trouble.
Marnie rested her palm on her chin. “Tyler, are you still not dating anyone?” Her tone made it seem like it had been a million years but it had only been two, now closer to three.
“Anyone special you’ve got your eye on?” Heather rubbed her hands together, eyes as big as her head.
What was she supposed to say? I’ve been talking to Cary Kingston? You couldn’t go around telling people, especially not in Winnipeg. On the other hand, she didn’t want to lie to her oldest friends, so she shrugged and took a sip of water.
“What does that mean?” Fuck. Marnie didn’t miss a thing.
Tyler chewed on the inside of her cheek, debating what to say.
“So there is someone.” Heather gave her a wink. “What does he do for a living?”
Tyler ignored her question.
“Is he a musician?” Marnie asked, her voice judgmental.
Tyler looked at the menu. “I guess.”
There wasn’t any world in which Cary wasn’t a musician. She should have said yes.
“Tyler!” Marnie crossed her arms over her belly. “I thought you wanted a family?”
I do, Marnie.
“Leave her alone,” Heather scolded. “Let her be happy.”
No. Marnie was right. What in the living fuck was she thinking? She’d been so caught up with his texts and FaceTimes that she’d lost sight of his single guy status. What was she going to do? Marry Cary Kingston?
Not in this lifetime.
It was the second period of the hockey game and the Leafs were up 3–2. Tyler and the husbands had polished off two pitchers of beer and were debating a third when her phone vibrated. It was Cary on text.
Are you still at the bar? he asked.
Earlier that day, she’d mentioned meeting her friends at the King’s Head Pub. He’d said he knew it well—he used to play there back when he was starting out.
She replied, Yes. Jets are losing :(
Cary didn’t text back. He probably had another fan encounter, someone asking for a selfie or an autograph.
A few seconds later the Jets scored on the power play.
“Goal!” Tyler yelled as the hockey fans in the room, minus the husbands, cheered loudly.
Their server was nowhere in sight, so she went to the bar to order another pitcher. Not surprisingly her buzz had worn off from the light beer.
She waved at the bartender. “Another one, please.” It made her think about DJ Khaled and how he didn’t go down on his wife. “The light one.”
A man’s voice behind her asked, “Come here often?”
It can’t be.
She spun around and cracked a smile. “Cary!” He wore a parka like Nanook of the North, but with faux fur, naturally. “What are you doing here?”
“I flew into Winnipeg,” he said. “I’m driving to Brandon later.”
She snapped into work mode. Oh no! What a terrible routing. Did Kim fuck it up? Cary could have taken a direct flight from Toronto to Brandon and saved two hours of driving. Three, in this weather.
She adjusted the elastic on her topknot. “Why did you fly into Winnipeg?”
“I wanted to see you, babe.”
Babe Robertson.
“I wanted to see you too,” she replied.
He gave her a big parka hug, and she buried her face in his collar. The stubble on his cheek scratched her neck, but she didn’t care. It had been too long. Six weeks apart had felt like an eternity—like she’d been moving through life in slow motion.
When she was with Dave she could have gone six weeks without seeing him while standing on her head and not blinking.
“Are you sure I can’t convince you to come home with me?” he asked with puppy dog eyes.
“I can’t.” She rubbed the arm of his coat. “I told you, we’re spending tomorrow at my sister’s. Joe’s family will be there, and I hardly ever get to see them.”
“Cash or charge?” the bartender asked, sliding a pitcher of beer toward them.
She mimicked a scribble. “Put it on our tab, please and thank you.”
Back at the table Tyler waved to her friends, but they were too focused on the screen to notice him, so she waited for a TV timeout.
“Come, sit next to me.” She grabbed the pitcher by its handle. “It’s not exactly Penfolds Grange, but may I pour you one?”
Cary pushed an empty glass toward her. “Just half, please. I’m driving.”
She gestured to the husbands. “It’s light beer.”
Cary glanced at the TV. “What’s happening here?”
“It’s tied 3–3.”
“Goal!” Marnie raised her arms over her head.
Mark stood from his seat and pointed at the screen. “That was offside by a mile!”
“What a bullshit goal.” Hank slammed his hand on the table, causing his beer to spill. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“His skate was on the line,” Tyler said, smiling at Cary. “They’re saying he crossed the blue line before the puck.” She thought it was a stupid rule and hoped they’d change it in the off-season. She had a list of suggestions to give the commissioner if she ever got to talk to him.
Hank blew out a breath. “They’re reviewing it. Can you pass the—holy shit!” He stared at Cary, stunned, and grabbed Mark’s arm.
“What the fuck?” Mark rubbed his eyes aggressively.
“This is Cary,” Tyler said, her voice even. “Cary, this is Marnie, Heather, Mark, and Hank.”
“Nice meeting you,” Cary said, shaking hands with the husbands and waving at Marnie and Heather across the table.
Her friends giggled like schoolgirls while the husbands went mute. Had they suddenly taken a vow of silence? If so, good.
“We’re pregnant,” Marnie said, arching her back.
Cary nodded politely as it was self-evident.
“They’re calling it back.” Heather sighed, disappointed.
“Yes!” Mark fist-pumped the air.
“Shit,” Tyler said while a sad trombone played in her head.
“What are you doing here?” Marnie asked Cary pointedly. “In town, I mean.”
“I came to see her.” He winked at Tyler, squeezing her hand. “I’m heading to Brandon to spend Christmas with my family.”
“That’s so nice,” Heather said, sweet like a mom-to-be.
“We’re having frigging beers with Cary Kingston,” Hank said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Fangirl.” Mark punched him in the arm a little harder than necessary.
“I hardly ever drink beer,” Cary said. “I’m a wine guy.”
The husbands howled with laughter, even though it wasn’t funny.
“I know this is super uncool, but can I have your autograph, man?” Hank’s voice came out almost sheepishly.
“No problem,” Cary said, not making a big deal out of it.
“Hat trick!” Tyler pointed at the TV and the Jets fans cheered. She turned to Cary. “It’s when the same player scores three goals. Not to be confused with a Gordie Howe hat trick: a goal, an assist, and a fight.”
Moments later, Hank went to the bar and returned with a Sharpie. “Can you sign my jersey, please?” he asked politely.
“Mine too.” Mark flattened a spot on his chest.
“Fangirl,” Hank ribbed him back.
“Sorry, I can’t sign a Leafs jersey.” Cary shot Tyler a closed-lip grin. “She’d kill me in my sleep.”
I’ d kill you wide awake.
“He’s a keeper,” Heather said, dimples digging into her cheeks.
Cary nudged Tyler’s arm. “See? I’m a keeper.”
But she couldn’t let go of her dream of having a family. It was sweet that he’d flown to Winnipeg to see her and met her friends, but before this went any further, they needed to have a serious conversation.
“Will you sign our jerseys, please?” Heather asked politely.
“Absolutely.” Cary uncapped the marker and personalized their sweaters.
Mark poured another beer. “Do chicks ever ask you to sign their boobs, man?”
Tyler’s heart screeched to a halt. “Do they?”
She’d seen plenty of boob-signing with their legacy acts—older women spilling out of their crop tops, Sharpies all ready. But Cary’s fans weren’t like that.
Or were they?
Cary chuckled. “No, not very often, but I’ve got a one-hand rule.” The husbands leaned in, ears perked. “I never use the other hand for support.” He mimed weighing an apple in his palm, his expression deadpan.
“Awesome!” Mark said.
Marnie pushed back from the table. “I have to pee every five minutes.”
“Same,” Heather said, getting up too.
Tyler followed them toward the restroom and as the door clicked shut behind them, Marnie spun around. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
Tyler groaned and smacked her forehead. “I know, I know. He’s a musician.”
“He’s not some broke-ass guy in a punk band,” Heather piped up. “He’s Cary Kingston.”
“You’re right.” Tyler nodded at Marnie. “He’s thirty-eight and still single. I mean, he’s had tons of girlfriends, but nothing’s lasted.”
“At least he’s not thirty-eight years old and never kissed a girl.” Heather sang the Tragically Hip song poorly.
“How’s the sex?” Marnie raised an eyebrow. “You can at least tell us that.”
I wish I knew.
Tyler shrugged. “He’s been on tour, and we haven’t—”
“See?” Heather said. “He’s serious about you. Otherwise he would’ve slept with you. And he came all this way to see you, don’t forget.”
“A heads-up would’ve been nice,” Marnie added.
“Are you kidding?” Heather shot back, all sarcasm. “We got to meet Cary Kingston. In the flesh.”
Marnie rolled her eyes and looked toward the mirror, where Tyler was tightening her topknot. “Tyler?”
“He was supposed to fly into Brandon,” Tyler said. “I didn’t know he was coming here. I swear.”
Marnie frowned. “So let me get this straight—he skipped a direct flight home and now he’s driving to Brandon? In a blizzard?”
Tyler shrugged. “I guess?”
Heather tilted her head. “Okay, but real question—fame aside, do you actually like him?”
Tyler hesitated. “I like him despite it.”