Page 16 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 5
Chelsea
Idon’t tell Maggie a thing about last night except how Ryan was the perfect big brother. This is her wedding weekend and she doesn’t need me whining about my confusion, about him being hot and cold and all-around disturbing to my . . . everything. She can’t possibly remember much besides being sick, but I’m afraid to ask. She keeps her sunglasses on while we sit with our feet in the side-by-side tubs for a pedicure. She groans when they ask if we want champagne.
“Coffee. Two strong black coffees.” I figure Maggie won’t be able to tolerate even the cream in her coffee. I made her eat toast before we left the inn and she barely held that down. She squeezes my hand now in approval.
“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t ever let me drink a margarita again.”
I laugh because Maggie isn’t a big drinker. Usually a beer or two at a hockey game and that’s it.
“You got it.”
“I wasn’t drunk enough not to notice the marauding women pawing after my brother though. Poor Ryan,” she says and I check to see that she’s serious.
“Poor Ryan? Since when have you ever felt sorry for Ryan?”
“Since I realized my mother is right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She explains her mother’s theory that Ryan can’t find someone special because all the women are out to get him. “For his money and fame or for a quickie—her words not mine—and he’s desperately lonely but he won’t admit it. After last night, seeing the frenzy, I think maybe Mom has a point.”
“You know he can stop going to bars, right? Maybe he can meet someone nice . . .” I frown as I think about where he’d meet someone nice and have no clue. It’s tough for all of us to meet someone nice after college. And it’s not like he can go on a dating app. It would be the virtual equivalent of going to a bar with its ensuing frenzy.
She gives me her usual withering look, albeit tempered by the pain from her headache, her forehead scrunching after a second.
“It doesn’t matter where he goes, does it? If it’s in public, he’s inundated. Partly it’s his fault because of all his friggin’ endorsements. I’ve lost count of his sponsors and all the ads I see.” She looks at me. “Seriously, he’s trying to rival the top QBs in the NFL, says it’s his duty to make hockey more popular—at least as popular as the NFL.”
Refusing to buy into thepoor Ryansentiment, I scoff, because no matter how sad he looked last night, he still has everything. No way am I feeling bad for Ryan O’Rourke. Besides, that kind of thinking only leads to tenderness that I can’t afford.
“Good luck with that,” I say. “But even if he can’t make the NHL the number-one sport, he’s well on his way to making himself the number one pinup boy.”
“Is there still such a thing as apinup?” she says. “Really? You’re such a dork sometimes.”
I slap her on the arm even though she’s right, but if I can’t be my unfiltered self with Maggie, who can I?Ryan O’Rourke, my subconscious answers.
“You know what I mean. He’s being considered forPeople’s Sexiest Man Alive list this year and that’s big.”
“That’s nothing,” Maggie leans over and whispers. “He told meSports Illustratedwants to do a layout. Something sexy, a male version to rival the swimsuit model issue, to bring in more female readers.”
“They’ll get eyes on it, but it’s a one-off strategy,” I say. Shit. He’d be great in that. “Hey, you don’t mind if I leak that piece of news in my rumors segment, do you?”
“I could care less, but you better clear it with Ryan first. I don’t want his deal compromised because of my big mouth.” She flashes me another pained grin.
“Do you need some Pepto?”
“I need a lobotomy.” She waves her hand. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll soldier through. We still have an hour before the luncheon.”
Laughing, I say, “You going dressed like that?”
“You have a point.” We’re both wearing workout clothes and mine are sweaty because I actually worked out in them this morning. I smell my armpit to make sure I’m not too ripe.
“Too late to check now,” Maggs says. “Yes, you do smell. But I love you so I don’t mind. Plus I’m used to it. Growing up with a houseful of male hockey players does that to a girl’s nose.”
“I hate to tell you this, but I could smell your house from my bedroom. Forget the birds, or the rising sun, it was the scent of hockey jerseys fresh from the early ice times that used to wake me up in the mornings.”
She laughs and reaches out a hand to grab mine. “I’m going to miss you being close by, Chels. Promise me you’ll visit.”
