Epilogue-one year later
FARRAH
I’m at George’s Bar again, but this time I’m not sad, or overwhelmed, or trying to forget. No…I want to remember all of this—my wedding reception.
Bruce and I are on the makeshift dance floor, swaying to our first dance song that he picked out. Bruce is wearing a white tux with a black tie, and I’m in a simple but lovely white, lace gown with delicate straps, and we’re surrounded by only our closest friends and family. Only the people who matter.
I said if I ever got married again, I wanted my groom to look at me like I was his entire world, and I am have no doubt that’s how Bruce is eyeing me right now. His icy blue eyes are glued to mine, as he softly sings the words to “La Vie En Rose” to me.
My vision blurs with happy tears, and he leans in and kisses my forehead, then continues singing. He has a surprisingly good voice, deep and soothing.
Our song comes to an end sooner than I want it to. The DJ makes a chaotic shift from our slow, tender love song to Macho Man by Village People. I cringe at the song change, but not my husband. The man starts breaking it down like an expert. I laugh as I watch him; Bruce doesn’t skip a beat and does the robot with surprising skill.
“Come on!” He yells, grinning at me.
I wince at the blister my shoes are creating. “I’m giving my feet a rest! And getting more cake!” I yell back.
All I can think about is taking these shoes off and devouring another slice of white cake with champagne frosting.
“Okay, but you’re mine for the next dance!” He winks and continues dancing.
Felicity, however, loves Village People, and she and Harvey join Bruce on the dance floor. I watch for a moment as Bruce, Felicity, and Harvey boogie without any embarrassment whatsoever. I laugh and shake my head. I knew Felicity and Bruce were kindred spirits; she played this song during her wedding reception as well as Y.M.C.A.
I sit in a wooden chair and give my feet a break. Jackson is in the chair next to me, his shoulders moving with the song.
“You and your mom should get out there!” I say.
His mother, who is working hard to get her parental rights back, chuckles from his other side. Today is one of her visitation days with Jackson today. “Come on, Jackson! Let’s go!” she says, standing and tugging him along with her.
He grins at her, and they’re off to join Bruce and my sister on the dance floor. I take advantage of the extra chairs and put my feet up. The strappy, silver heels are gorgeous, but not made for dancing the night away. I think it’s time to go barefoot.
Mel walks over toward me, her little baby girl cradled in a sling carrier on her chest and she’s holding a slice of cake in one hand. She sits beside me and hands me the cake. “Need this?”
“God bless you,” I tell her, taking the cake and forking a bite into my mouth, then closing my eyes to savor it. I’ve outdone myself with this champagne cake.
She chuckles. “We’ve gotta head out soon and get this one home and put to bed.”
West comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. “Tell your husband I said goodbye; he’s a little busy right now.”
The three of us look at the dance floor where Bruce is on the dirty bar floor doing the worm. “Oh boy. I’ll let him know.”
We laugh and I stand to hug them before they leave.
After a few more songs, all our friends and family start to say goodbye. Jackson and his mom head out, and our parents left a few songs ago along with Remy and Amber and a reluctant Nella—she wanted to stay for more dancing and cake. Now the only ones left are Felicity and Harvey, and the rest of Bruce’s teammates and their wives. Everyone is on the dance floor, but they’re slowing down as the night comes to a close. Andie smiles at me from where she’s swaying with Mitch a few feet away.
Bruce pulls me close during our final slow dance, picking me up off the floor and giving my feet a nice reprieve.
“I want to take you home, Mrs. McBride,” he whispers against my ear.
“Then take me home, Mr. McBride.”
He pulls back, a handsome smirk on his face. “First, there’s something we need to do.”
I arch a brow, and he puts me back down on the ground, raising a hand to get George the bartenders’ attention. “George, can you get us an old fashioned and a Long Island iced tea?”
George nods, and Bruce turns back to me. “For old times sake.” He winks.
brUCE
“It’s nice to carry you like this when you’re not in immense pain,” I tell my bride as I carry her over the threshold of our new home, one in the same cul-de-sac as my teammates.
She giggles, a little tipsy from her Long Island Iced Tea. Her rosy cheeks and giggly spirit take me back to two and a half years ago when we met and drunkenly made out in a corner booth at George’s. Which is why George’s was the only place that felt right for our reception.
Even if we hadn’t just won the Stanley Cup last week—for the second time in a row—I would feel like the luckiest man on earth. No Stanley Cup could compare with having Farrah as my wife.
Ma femme.
My wife.
A low growl makes its way up my throat, bringing another giggle from my wife.
“Okay we’re inside; put me down so I can see how the oven fits!” she says, wiggling to get down.
I pause, not really wanting to let her go, but knowing she’ll be distracted until she sees that her beloved La Cornue is safe and sound.
She runs across the wood floors, the rooms still mostly empty even though I’ve lived here for several months. It’s still missing that cozy, homey touch that I know Farrah will bring with her. We need rugs and throw pillows and art, all the stuff I suck at, but she’ll add effortlessly.
Farrah comes to a halt in front of the kitchen, her simple lace wedding gown fluttering around her bare feet and her strappy heels in her hands. “Oh, Bruce. It looks perfect.”
I come to stand beside her. “Yes, it does.” But I’m not looking at the oven…I’m looking at her.
She slowly glances up at me and crosses her arms. “You didn’t even look at it, did you?”
I bring my hand to her chin, angling her head where I want it. “I’m not interested in kitchen appliances at the moment.”
Farrah opens her mouth to speak but I kiss her instead, swallowing her words. She can tell me whatever it was later. She leans into the kiss, clearly forgetting whatever she wanted to say. Her tongue sweeps in along mine for a moment before she pulls back.
She rests an index finger on my chest, right between my pecs. “Wait right here.”
With a smile, she runs upstairs, and I don’t move a muscle.
When Farrah appears again at the bottom of the stairs, her updo has been taken down, allowing her long, dark hair to flow freely around her shoulders. And she’s wearing nothing but a crimson red McBride jersey.
I swallow, unable to do anything else. I’m in a caveman state of mind. My brain sees her in my jersey, and it tells me to throw her over my shoulder and have my way with her. I told myself I wouldn’t go caveman on her until she wanted me to, and it sure looks like she wants me to.
My bride stalks toward me slowly, and I watch wordlessly as her hips sway.
She stops right in front of me, bringing her hands to my black bow tie and undoing it, then unbuttoning my white dress shirt. When the shirt is open, she rests her hands on my pecs, and slowly trails them down my torso. I close my eyes and savor the way she’s touching me.
She moves up to her toes and presses her lips to my neck. I feel her tongue peek out to lick the sensitive area, and then she kisses it again. Her perfect mouth takes a path to my collar bones, then the top of my chest.
“You can touch me, too, you know,” she whispers.
I blink. I was so lost in her caress I’d almost forgotten I had hands there for a second. I’ve always been grateful for my hands, as they allow me to do what I love. They made me an NHL goalie—a two-time Stanley Cup winning goalie—but I’ve never been more grateful for these hands than right this damn minute, when they rest on my wife’s thighs and move their way up her body, removing the jersey at the same time.
Hands are a very, very cool thing indeed , is my last coherent thought as I make love to my wife on the kitchen counter, right beside the oven she loves so much.
Thank you for reading Secret or Shutout!