Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Thursday morning, I wake up with a sense of dread. It’s not because of work. More like play. As in a playdate.
Sophia Snodgrass Schuster texted a couple of times about setting something up to get the kids together. When I replied vaguely, she called, and I made the mistake of answering because I thought it was one of my figure skating students’ numbers.
It’s not that I don’t want Bunny to socialize. We go to a playgroup on Monday mornings, my mom brings her on Wednesday, and we go to the park on Fridays, weather and schedule permitting. Plus, we regularly walk around the neighborhood and run into other families. Not to mention, a few of my mother’s friends have grandkids and they all get together periodically to brag.
It’s just that I know Sophia and whereas we were once friends, it shifted into a strange competition. I don’t have the energy to field her questions and dodge her arrows wrapped in slippery-tongued silk .
You’ll see what I mean.
But because I’m a woman of my word, Bunny and I go to their house. It’s a McMansion on Cornflower Cul-de-sac. Sure enough, there is a picket fence.
A familiar Silverado sits in a driveway on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Arguably, it’s a nicer, grander home than the Schuster’s place, but there’s no way it’s Grady’s. Must be a popular truck model and color. Plus, I cannot imagine Grady living here. His dwelling is probably more like a rundown frat house with red cups, old tires, and a soggy couch littering the lawn.
This also reminds me that I still need to tell him I decline the offer to help with his Knight’s social media homework. More time together risks more kissing. The kiss we shared the other night is probably illegal in some jurisdictions. My cheeks are still pink and the butterflies haven’t so much as rested their fluttery wings.
Sophia greets us at the door, decorated with an elaborate Welcome Spring vertical sign with Easter eggs and flowers. If it weren’t for my mother, Bunny wouldn’t know what season it is. Not being able to keep up with “all the things” feels like a point against me in the mom-Olympics.
Dad did recently mention he wants to revive the backyard Easter egg hunt for Bunny since this year she can walk and will enjoy scavenging for the eggs. This is in addition to the Cobbiton event, though I hear the CAC has been having funding issues, so who knows if they’ll do it this year.
Sophia flounces with a flip of her hair in greeting. She wears a dusty pink T-shirt printed with gold letters that say Wine Mom . I cringe for her.
Harried and wearing an apron, Mr. Sophia scuttles around the kitchen. “Ladies, I made you fresh lemonade and some snacks whenever you’d like them. ”
I wave in greeting and thank him. I cannot imagine my brother taking on this role when he and Deborah start their family. Obviously, my brother is helpful. Before Bunny learned to use the potty, he changed her diapers. He snuggles and reads to her before she goes to sleep and is an outstanding uncle with lots of playing, silliness, and nature walks. However, Mr. Sophia seems afraid that if he doesn’t do the right thing, his wife will send him to the doghouse.
They have a massive playroom, because of course they do. I pray Bunny doesn’t decide that today is going to be the day she decides to bite another child. She’s never displayed that kind of behavior, but McAyla McKenzie, Sophia’s daughter who is just over two years old, keeps grabbing things out of Bunny’s hands and tossing them on the floor.
Sophia says, “So, we call my sweet baby girl MC. Short for McAyla McKenzie.”
I sense she wants to know why I named my kid Bunny. It’s a common curiosity when I introduce her but most people dance around asking directly.
She points to the infant in the sleep seat. “And this is McNeil McKean.”
“Also MC?”
Sophia’s lips ripple as if she only just now realized that. “And tell me about your daughter’s name. Bunny?”
“Her name is Beatrix Briar. Beatrix as in Beatrix Potter, the author.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
I frown. “She wrote Peter Rabbit .”
Sophia shakes her head faintly as if neither name rings a bell.
“My mother thought Beatrix was a more mature name and Briar sounded too prickly for a baby, so she started calling her Bunny.” I leave out the part about how she’d sleep in a little ball and her rump looked like a bunny’s with a little cotton tail. It was so cute it made my mama-heart want to explode, so I let Mom carry on with the nickname.
“So unique,” Sophia says as if she just took a sip of bad kombucha.
“It kind of stuck. If she wants, she can go by Beatrix, Bea, or BB when she’s older. For now, she’s our little Bunny, snuggle muffin.”
“Mama, look! A unee-corn!” She shows me a unicorn that we also have at home. I lasso her into my arms and give her a kiss and a quick cuddle.
McAyla McKenzie looks at us like one of her toys just sprouted an extra head. Then she grabs the unicorn figure out of Bunny’s hands and throws it on the floor.
“No hurt the unee-corn!” Bunny says as if it was just accosted by a goblin.
Anticipating Sophia’s intervention, I blink a few times when it doesn’t come. I pick up the toy and return it to my daughter, telling her, “We don’t grab or throw toys.”
Bunny nods and smiles at me and resumes her play.
Sophia’s lips curl and she drums her fingers on her chair. “So the name Bunny? Ironic, all things considered.”
And here we go. I knew this was coming. She wants to talk to me about my ex.
“Ironic? I just explained the nickname.”
“But you were a puck bunny .”
When you move back to Hockey Town, it becomes your life even if you want to escape it. I get daily reminders of where I went wrong and don’t want to share that with Sophia, who is on a first-name basis with Mrs. Gormely, the town gossip. Granted, my mother is as well, but that’s just to fact-check before the gossip about our family goes out .
Clearing my throat, I say, “Puck bunnies are just female fans of hockey . . .” players. I leave out the last part.
Reliably, Sophia fills in the gap, “And hockey players.”
“I was also the social media manager and in-game entertainment liaison for the Los Angeles Lions.”
“Didn’t you take a trip to Las Vegas after they won the playoffs?”
This is where I stop the conversation in its tracks. I don’t want to leave too much room for her to speculate, nor am I going to gossip about myself.
“Sophia, I know where this is going. I’m not interested in having this conversation about my personal life. If you’d like to swap birth stories, teething struggles, or anything other than Bunny’s father and me, I’m game.”
Affronted, her cheeks take on a slightly red hue for two seconds before she smiles. “In that case, how about you make cupcakes for the Cobbiton Kid Corral? It’s a new weekly meetup where I open the playroom to other families and we moms hang out up there.” She points to a loft overhead I didn’t notice.
And risk her daughter breaking Bunny’s hand? Maybe she does need Derek to teach her how to throw a punch, after all.
“Cupcakes,” I repeat, neither agreeing nor declining.
Sophia’s expression turns lethal. “So you’re back in town along with Whitney Reid. Remember her? She had that whole angry, emo farm girl thing going on when we were at Clarkson.”
I tap the air, recalling my mother mentioning her cookie food truck. “She runs Milk Mustache, right?” I ask, preferring to detour this conversation toward something positive rather than gossip, which would be picking up where Sophia and I left off back in high school.
“Yeah. She lives in her grandparents’ old shack.”
“Funny, I drove by there not long ago and the farmhouse looked lovely like they renovated. In fact, I recall my brother mentioning he did the landscaping and is under contract for hardscaping in the back for a pool deck.”
Sophia flips her hair. “Also, Margo failed to make it in New York City. Had to move back too.” Sophia snorts a laugh as if Margo Cabot had that coming to her.
“I haven’t seen her yet.”
“She thinks she’s so great because she married one of the Knights—they had a St. Patrick’s Day wedding. Can you imagine that?”
“Sounds fun.”
“Whit married one of the hockey players too. We’ll see how long that lasts.” Sophia rolls her eyes as if their husbands’ occupations as professional NHL players are beneath her.
“And what is it Mr. Sophia does?” I ask, unable to suppress my irritation. It’s not like I want to defend hockey players. Far from it. But unlike my minute-long marriage, I want to see their marriages flourish and don’t wish anyone ill.
Before Sophia answers my question about her husband’s line of work, he pops into the room and announces that it’s morning quiet time. I take that as my cue to leave. I thank them and say goodbye, muttering to Bunny about how we use our manners because the older MC won’t stop screaming at the top of her lungs.
So much for quiet time.
I buckle my daughter into her car seat, glad we have the rest of the day to spend together. This afternoon will be perfect for a trip to the park.
Sophia hollers out the door, “I’ll text you about the Cobbiton Kid Corral.”
I reply with a limp wave.
By the way, can I just not be the mom who volunteers for everything? I don’t enjoy making cupcakes and using hot glue. I’d be happy to help in other ways though—teaching them to ice skate, playing games, reading, and that kind of thing. That’s like the kids’ version of what I did for the Lions.
Since I’m thinking about activities direction and Grady, of course, his truck is leaving the driveway at the exact moment I’m loading us into the car.
Through the truck’s windshield, I make out his carved features. My thoughts drift to the drive home and what happened afterward, leaving my lips tingling all night. The ghost of his touch still lingers. I shiver even though the spring sun is high overhead.
“Mama cold?” Bunny asks.
I give her a little hug in case she is.
As Grady approaches, I tell myself everything that happened between us was a dream. A figment of my imagination.
However, by the way that my stomach swoops and my pulse accelerates, it’s a dream I want to dive back into. I’m afraid I’m developing . . . never mind. No way.
Lying to myself about this is the easiest and most dangerous thing I could do to avoid the truth.
Grady stops on the street where I’d parked the 4Runner. In his lifted truck, he strikes an imposing figure.
His rough hands cupped my jaw so gently. Gaze heavy, his eyelashes brushed his cheeks before our lips met . . .
“Fancy seeing you here.” His voice is gravelly like I’m the first person he’s spoken to since waking up.
I startle from my thoughts even though I knew he was going to greet us.
“Fancy neighborhood,” I counter.
He looks around and with what sounds like relief in his voice, he says, “Yeah. I take it you two had a playdate with the Snoots.”
My lips crack with a smile. “You mean the Schusters?”
“They’re faux snooty. I remember Sophia from high school.”
“And that she and I were best friends.”
“Vaguely. She was a flirt, especially with other girls’ boyfriends.”
“Also that. For the record, I regret playing for the wrong team.”
His eyebrows lift. “So you’re going to help me with the Knights stuff?”
“I meant the mean team.” I glance over my shoulder.
Sophia waves to us from the upper window of the house, watching and probably gathering gossip like a wasp to bring back to the hive. The house next door is for sale and although fences make great neighbors, I would love to move in next to her, if only to knock her off her snooty tower.
The drop is long, I would know. And it’s not like I wish her harm. Just humility.
I say, “Sophia is awful. But I was too.”
“And now?”
“Some people shoot for the moon. Others break through glass ceilings. I’m focused on the floor—doing the minimum to get through the day, the baseline. Because sometimes that needs to be enough.” I blink rapidly, not sure why I revealed that to Grady and how sometimes single motherhood is Struggle Town.
Wearing the sweetest, most unexpectedly genuine smile, he asks, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I tell myself not to notice how his toned forearm rests on the truck’s door window ledge. Or the way his green eyes twinkle. Or his full lips and how they play with words .
Bunny calls to me from the car, slapping me out of this moment of temporary insanity. I must be tired.
Grady waves to her and she lights up. It’s strange, but it’s like the two of them have a connection. Maybe it’s because Grady is best friends with her uncle and Derek gave him cooties.
But he’s also so not a brother because I’d never kiss mine like that. Or think about his lips on mine. Or replay the kiss as I fall asleep.
Heidi, it was a silly dream.
I shoo the butterflies away—the ones in my belly and not the Red Admirals and Monarchs that’ve been swarming my mother’s forsythia bush. She says it’s blooming early this year.
While I know that it’s important to build a solid group of people for Bunny who she knows she can count on, especially since her father turned out to be a dud, I still don’t trust my judge of character.
“If you ever need a helping hand or want to hang out . . .” Grady starts.
“We’re going to the park this afternoon and could use a catcher.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I blame the butterflies!
Grady’s clean, soapy, masculine scent wafts my way.
“Like baseball? Wrong sport. I play hockey.”
A thin smile rises to my lips. “I’m keenly aware. I meant at the bottom of the slide. There’s a long one that Bunny loves. I have to go to the top with her, but it’s too narrow for us to ride together. Plus, she’s at the age where she wants to do everything herself. It’s a fast, slippery slide, and I can’t get to the bottom to catch her in time, so if you wanted to?—?”
“Sounds fun.”
“Hanging out with me and an almost two-year-old sounds fun? Said no hockey player ever. ”
“This one just did. The other night, at Derek’s, we built a fort out of the couch cushions and then were jumping off?—”
I hold up my hand. “Say no more. My mama-nerves can’t handle it.” I cannot fathom having a son with all the horsing around.
We make plans for when to meet later. After I buckle my seatbelt and check the rearview mirror, I notice the giant smile on my face. I try to wipe it away, but like the bratty little rebel it is, that only encourages it to grow. The butterflies aren’t helping either.
I don’t know what possessed me to invite Grady to the park, but I convince myself that it’s so I can tell him that while I appreciate his offer to pay me to help him with social media, it’s a pass.
Granted, I need the money and it would be doing something I enjoy and am good at . . . however, it’ll be a hot day in an ice rink before I let myself get involved with hockey players again.
Bunny and I have lunch and then she takes a nap. She’s down to about forty-five minutes and always wakes up singing to herself. It’s the sweetest thing.
Meanwhile, I continue to talk myself out of assisting Grady with his comeback campaign. It would be too much work. I check him out on social media. There are plenty of images and videos captured and posted by others of a tall, burly man with a smile that tells me everything I need to know about him. Grady is charismatic, capable, and confident. But can I trust him?
A dark thought enters my mind. Is my heart that valuable? After what happened with Trey, I should protect it at all costs. Put it behind a fence like conservation land and never share it with anyone again. But maybe none of it matters. Who cares what happens to my heart?
Then, thinking about my daughter's future which will come way too soon, her heart is priceless, and no doubt my mom feels the same about mine.
I let out a long breath.
While kissing Grady is amazing and being lonely is not, am I just tricking myself?
The answer is yes, of course. Being Mrs. Dillard for two weeks taught me that lesson.
But Grady is handsome with his thick brown hair, green eyes that spark, and that wonky tooth is cute. If you’re okay with uniqueness and tiny imperfections that make a person who at first glance is flawless—like they were forged of bronze among the Spartans—more human.
He doesn’t seem to care about my wonky tooth because if I’ve learned anything in the last two years it’s that I’m fully human. Childbirth will do that to a gal who was a little too haughty for her own good. In other words, it was humbling in the best of ways.
However, he doesn’t have much of a personal social media presence which is odd, considering he was one of the hottest defensemen in the league until his suspension. I can’t find reporting on that no matter how much I snoop. It’s like he just disappeared. Fans speculated a ton with Where’s Waldo -type posts, mentioning sightings and wondering why he vanished. I’d reach out to some of the women I knew from the Lions, but suffice it to say, I let my brat flag fly after Trey dumped me. My mother said it likely had something to do with the hormones.
. . . And my husband breaking up with me and his kid.
Let’s just say the fallout from that resulted in me burning some bridges. It was not my finest hour.
With Grady, it would be starting from scratch.
However, it would be for the Knights overall, which would send my father and Derek over the moon. They’d become Knights by proxy. I chuckle .
I engage in this back and forth with myself until Bunny and I arrive at the park after her nap. Grady is in his truck, staring at his phone like he’s from the tenth century and can’t figure out what kind of dark magic he discovered.
He could use my help ...
But he’s my brother’s best friend and a hockey player.
… And I can’t find a third strike against him.
Bunny runs to him when she sees him and the two reunite as if they’ve been separated by continents.
“BB!” he says.
“GG,” she replies.
And they have nicknames for each other? What’s next? Inside jokes?
The next hour passes with the three of us on the play structure, feeding the ducks, and playing chase, which almost cancels out those strikes.
Then again, this isn’t baseball or bowling. However, that does give me a social media video series idea.
Letting out a breath, I tell myself to be strong.
“Something on your mind?” Grady asks while Bunny pets Mr. and Mrs. Nelson’s chocolate lab, Bear. They explain that Bear is a dog and not a bear. I’ll have to tell her what to do if she ever sees a bear.
“Something on my mind? Always. I didn’t know my brain could contain so much at once.” Or my heart. “There’s juggling work, child care, laundry. My family is helpful and I’m thankful, it’s just—” Letting out a sigh, I regret not keeping my mouth clamped shut. Except when we’ve kissed. I’ve definitely thought about it—probably more often than I should—but we haven’t spoken of it.
I add, “Thanks for meeting us today. It’s been fun and Bunny adores you. ”
He pokes me in the side. “I think you could use more of that.”
“Fun? Grady, I?—”
He nods. “I know, things aren’t the same as they used to be. You’ve been hurt and are still recovering while momaging.”
“Did you just say momaging?”
“Yeah, like managing and momming.”
I laugh despite myself. “Is that a verb?”
He shrugs. “The world is constantly providing us with choices. Have you been down any aisles in the grocery store ever? There are so many types of beans, peanut butter, cereal.”
“You know that saying about variety being the spice of life?”
“Even buying the truck presented me with so many options it was almost overwhelming.”
“We’re pretty blessed if you think about it.”
“We are in so many ways. But I didn’t always see it that way. When I was a kid, sometimes there wasn’t a choice. Unless your brother and I raided your mom’s pantry.” His eyes spark with mischief.
“You guys always housed the fruit snacks.”
“We were growing boys.”
But I gather that if it weren’t for my parents, Grady would’ve been hungry. I cannot imagine that for Bunny or any child. It breaks my heart.
“You’re incredibly strong, Heidi. But I know sometimes things are hard for you, doing this on your own?—”
My eyes fill with tears, threatening to overflow. I stuff them back in to finish the thought he started to share. “Everything you said is true, but the part that no one says or seems to understand is that although I’m strong and I have help, it’s not quite the same . . . ”
This time he ends the sentence. “Not quite the same as it would be if Trey were involved in your lives.”
I nod, fighting the lump in my throat.
Grady pulls me toward his chest and I melt, letting the tears drop, making his shirt damp. As steady as one of the sycamores surrounding us, he holds me close.
Bunny’s babbling draws my attention off my own problems and I pull away.
Grady’s expression is soft and understanding. “All I’m saying is just keep making the right choices, doing the best you can, and from time to time choose fun.”
I poke him in the side this time. “I thought all hockey players were big, dumb, oafs.”
“Just Trey. Well, and a few others,” he says.
“How’d you get so smart?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think the last few months. All I’m saying is to make time for trips to the park with hockey players who learned the fine art of Buckaroo.”
I cover my eyes with my hand. “Not you too.”
“Derek taught me how to do it.”
“Be careful,” I say, voice shaky, but mostly it’s like I’m warning myself.
There’s no real trick to Buckaroo other than watching out for furniture and avoiding hardwood floors—Bunny’s head and the guy on hands and knees, respectively. It’s a silly bouncing game my brother invented that just about gives me a heart attack but makes Bunny giggle endlessly. If she stays on, Derek—and now Grady—roll over onto his back, throw her in the air, and catch her. For the kid, it’s a win-win. She gets to ride on his back and fly like a bird.
He says, “It’s not that much different than when you were the flyer for the cheerleading squad.”
“We’re talking about my kid.”
“She’s super sweet. You’re lucky, Heidi.”
I tuck my chin. “I am? I mean, I am. I just didn’t think I’d be flying solo, as it were.”
“Trey is the one missing out.”
I nod, knowing this is the truth, and it’s also better revenge than my brother trying to beat him to a pulp.
We chat for a few more minutes, with me stealthily avoiding the social media management proposal, when my phone beeps with a text.
I check it. “Ugh. Uncle Stan needs me to cover someone who went home with a migraine. It’s karaoke night. Things get rowdy.”
It takes a full five minutes to pull Bunny away from the dog and then Grady, but we hightail it home so I can get a change of clothes. My parents don’t have plans this evening and are all too happy to look after Bunny.
“After playing with Grady at the park, who matches her energy in his ability to run around for what felt like hours, she’ll be exhausted later,” I tell them.
“It’s bubble bath night,” my mom says, who also has a childlike fascination with bubbles.
I guess some things never get old.
Mom says, “And if I remember correctly, it’s karaoke night at the Fish Bowl. You should sing ABBA’s ‘Take a Chance On Me.’”
My parents harmonize for the chorus. It was their wedding song because Dad poached a line from it to ask her out, not realizing that she’d recognize the lyrics and call him out. But now they sing it together all the time and it’s pretty sweet.
Bunny tries belting it out with them even though she doesn’t know the words.
“Ooh. Dance party!” Mom adds, bopping with Bunny.
Where do these people get this energy? Derek used to call me the Bratty Energizer Bunny, but now I can hardly keep up. Then I look at my little girl and realize we’re all powered by love for her.
I grunt. Well, not Grady. Hockey players are incapable of loving.
Bunny copies me like she’d done when Derek made that sound, though hers is more like a snort and we all start making piggy noises. Soon we’re laughing and I feel lighter.
Dad says, “Go on. Have some fun tonight.”
“It’s work, Dad.”
“Who said that can’t be fun?”
This brings to mind the social media management role that I used to have. In all honesty, that job was a blast.
I could help Grady out, dip my toes back in the water, and be able to add it to my resume if I want to return to that field later. If it doesn’t work out, Uncle Stan is always looking for help at the Fish Bowl. The turnover is high because not everyone can handle the rowdy hockey crowd.
Thankfully, I can.
But not Grady. Not when all I think about on the drive over to the pub are the two times we kissed. The first time was like a test. The second one started with deep desire and unmet longing, then turned wild.
And wouldn’t you know, no sooner do I don my apron, he and some other Knights sit down at a table by the pinball machines.
It’s just my luck that I get their table. Aleeyah only works days, and it’s a different group of servers tonight.
After giving them the Fish Bowl spiel about corn and potatoes, I take their drink orders. When I reach Grady, his lips quirk.
Time stops because all I can focus on is how he kissed me—like how gentle he was with his hands on my skin, the sound of his inhales and exhales, and his lips on mine. My surroundings fade. My thoughts recede. It’s just us in the driveway, in the rain, in the cool spring night.
My skin flushes as his gaze climbs from my lips to my eyes.
He stutters, “Uh, I’ll have a?—”
But I don’t hear it because the activity in the dining room comes back to full volume.
The guys at the table are quiet as I stand there awkwardly before snapping to.
“Soda,” he stammers at the same time as I mumble, “Um, can I get you anything to start?”
They’re gracious and thank me. But as I walk away, there are snickers and what’s sure to be a bit of elbowing in Grady’s direction.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Maybe the waitress at the Fish Bowl has a crush on him. That’s the problem with living in Hockey Town. You can’t walk a yard without bumping into someone with the hots for a hockey player.
This would be way better if I weren’t distracted by something in my pant leg just above my knee. I’m guessing it got stuck there in the laundry, but it’s busy and I don’t have a chance to check if it’s a sock or worse, a pair of underwear.
What’s with the wardrobe malfunctions when Grady is here?
When karaoke starts, I finally have a moment to breathe, which mostly involves me inhaling a soda and making sure my eye makeup isn’t making me look like a scary raccoon.
“You’re lucky that you got table twelve,” Leah says. She’s one of my coworkers and also chugs a soda.
“How’s that?” I ask, belatedly realizing the way she’s batting her eyelashes.
“Because that’s like half the Knights team.”
They’re all behemoths with athletic builds and each represents men’s hair lengths and facial hair styles, ranging from short to long and beards to freshly shaved. What’s with hockey players and hair?
“Don’t date hockey players.” Again, this warning is mostly for me.
She says, “But they’re so attractive in a masculine, brawny way.”
Grady and my conversation about not judging books by their covers comes to mind. “If I were to be looking for someone, and I’m not, I’d want someone with a big heart, caring, and loyal. Who’ll unfailingly do what’s right . . . and keep all the creeper customers in line.” I scowl at table six who’s been camping out all night with free popcorn and soda refills, ogling us girls.
“Sounds like you’re describing a cinnamon roll,” Leah says.
I almost spit out my sip of soda. “You can’t date a cinnamon roll.”
“Sure you can. Well, not the pastry. But someone like that. Maybe on the outside, they have a bit of a rough edge. Crisp. With a good bite.” She demonstrates this by taking an imaginary taste of something tough with the side of her mouth.
Gleaning what she means, I nod. “But on the inside, they’re soft and sweet.”
“Yup, but not around the middle.” Leah pats her belly.
“You don’t have to worry about that with hockey players.”
Does this make Grady a cinnamon roll?
She asks, “So who’s the new guy? It looks like you know him.”
How she was able to notice that while the rest of us were running around is confounding. My mother and I speculated about who’ll someday take Mrs. Gormely’s place as the town busybody. Maybe Sophia has competition.
Answering Leah’s question, I say, “Uh, yeah. He’s one of my brother’s best friends.” I should correct myself and add, Derek’s only best friend now that Trey is on ice.
Leah continues, “Is he single?”
Emerson, who I’ve worked with a few times, says, “Heidi doesn’t date hockey players.”
“Why? They’re so hot. It should be called Hotkey.”
Emerson laughs.
I do not. Okay, maybe a little inside.
“If you’re looking for someone who is emotionally literate, never mind available, caring, and kind, skip the hockey players,” I say as my gaze lands on Grady.
His head slides in my direction as if he senses I’m looking at him. Like an idiot, I offer a little wave.
“But they’re also tough and confident,” Leah says.
“And big and dumb.”
“How old are you again?” Leah asks with a laugh.
“Ha ha,” I say dryly. “Twenty-six.”
“I’m going to list twenty-six reasons why hockey players are hot.”
“That’s different than being datable.”
“I’m talking about having a fun time, not marrying one,” Leah says.
What’s with everyone talking about fun? I’m starting to think it’s overrated. Then her comment about marriage catches up with me.
I swat a cluster of plastic Easter eggs hanging at eye level out of the way as two women caterwaul a Prince song from the karaoke stage.
Emerson says, “Don’t look now, but one of them is coming our way.”
I don’t turn around to see who it is. “He probably just wants the check.”
Emerson says, “Nope. His sights are set on you. ”
I whirl around at the same time Grady stops a pace away.
“I’ll get your check,” I blurt.
He shakes his head. “Nope. Micah’s treat.” He points to a guy with chin-length blond hair who looks like he came here from Viking Central Casting.
Emerson and Leah exchange a look and then return to their front-row view of whatever is about to happen.
“I want you—” Grady starts, echoing what Leah said.
“Me?” I choke out.
“To sing karaoke with me. The guys and I had a bet. I won.”
Then why does this feel like a loss . . . of the space between us as Grady takes my hand and drags me toward the front of the room, sending a shockwave through me and directly to my belly where those pesky butterflies take flight.
Emerson grabs the lace of my server apron and lassoes it into her hands.
I only hope the sock or whatever is in my pant leg doesn’t fall out.