Page 43 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
She throws her hands into the air. “Hell if I know, but my best friend better not be broken-hearted when I get back from my honeymoon.” She moves aside and I go back to my room with a bucket of ice, a confused heart and angry disappointment my only companions.
Before long I realize I need clothes because there’s no fucking way I’m wearing the wedding tux to the brunch, so I take an Uber back to the house. I manage to sneak in the sliders to my bedroom without anyone hearing or seeing me, but Gramps is having coffee in the kitchen. I can smell it. After I grab my overnight bag and throw some clothes in it, thinking I’ll come back for the rest later in the day, I venture out of my room quietly into the silent hallway and to the kitchen to find him.
When I get there, Gramps is waiting for me.
“Thank god for Keurig,” he says. “I’d keel over from boredom waiting for someone to get up and brew me some coffee.”
I almost laugh and put my finger up to my mouth to shush him.
He looks at my bag pointedly. “Why are you sneaking around in the early morning?” His voice is hardly quiet and his eyes are more amused than accusing. I shrug.
“You know how it is, Gramps. I stayed over at the hotel.”
“Not alone.”
I pause, not sure what to say, but I can’t lie, so I shake my head.
“That’s what I thought.” He pats my back, more in consolation than congratulations. “Better get going then.”
I leave through the kitchen door and hop back into the waiting Uber.
“Hey—I googled you,” the driver says. “You’re that hockey player.”
“Yeah. Can we get going?” I don’t smile and he gives me a look in the rearview like I’m an asshole. Because I am and I shouldn’t be. Have no right to be.
Taking a deep breath of the sea air, I figure I owe him a big tip. Bigger than usual. He pulls up in front of the hotel and I lean over the seat.
“Sorry I’m not at my best this morning. Thank you for your discretion.” I hand him a hundred-dollar bill. He does a wide-eyed look of surprise and nods, but doesn’t smile. Now he thinks I’m a self-important asshole who throws money around to cover up being an asshole. Maybe he’s right.
Maybe my conscience is right.
* * *
The brunch is a buffet,small and quiet compared to the wedding. Thank God. I’m not even sure my brothers will be here. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking and God doesn’t owe me any favors so I don’t bother praying. Not that I’m the praying type, but I am feeling a little religion this morning. If there was a confessional in the vicinity, I’d hop right in there and be done with it because my conscience is killing me. Guess old habits die hard. I had the religion thing drilled into me as a kid good and hard, then double that at St. John’s Prep where I went to high school to play hockey for the elite program there.
Now I’m left with a pagan heart and a guilty soul.
Sipping on my second coffee, I’m early and nod at Levi’s parents and the few others from the bridal party getting coffee quietly as if we’re in church. But it’s the lack of sleep and the hangovers keeping people wrapped up this morning. Wish my nerves got the memo to chill because I’m all hopped up waiting for Chelsea to arrive. Maybe I should be drinking decaf.
I have no idea what I’m expecting, but when Chelsea walks in looking bright and pure and tense as hell, clutching Allie Pink’s arm as if she’s a lifeline, my heart goes into overdrive and not in a good way. So that’s where she went this morning. To Allie’s room.
Which means Allie knows she spent the night with me. Now I wonder how long it’ll take for everyone to know. For everyone to hate me. Except maybe Gramps because he gets it, gets me almost as much as Levi—more so these days since Levi is understandably distracted by small life-changing matters like getting married, buying a house, and moving.
I stare at Chelsea until she turns her head, taking her time, to look my way. She smiles, and even though it’s a tight smile with more regret than a man on death row might have, I take it, part relieved, part devastated. She finds a small table in a corner with Allie, far away from me. Shit. I stand and, in spite of my shaky hand, I take my mug with me and walk over.
No subtlety, because I’m big and the place is sparsely populated yet. When I land at her table I clear my throat, turning myself into a cartoon. She looks up and I can read thego awayin them, but it doesn’t hide the damage underneath, like slapping bad makeup over a bruise.
“Can we talk?”
“I don’t think she wants to—” Allie starts to say, but I stare her down, not caring if I scare her or hurt her feelings. But she doesn’t back down because she’s scared. I see it on her face. It’s pity. My mean stare is pitiful. I’m pitiful.
“Why?” Chelsea says. Tough question.
“Humor me.” Best I can do.
My brothers walk in then with Gramps, my parents, and Mrs. Wilde. Because being a spectacle is natural gift of mine, they all look straight at me and it doesn’t take more than two blinks for my brothers to figure things out. Maybe Gramps gave them a hint, or maybe I’m a pitiful transparent sucker.
“Come with me for a minute,” I say, turning back to her, trying to ignore the scowls boring into my back.
