Hewitt shrugs. “I told you my wife liked to shop. She musta seen yours and liked it.”
Now, I could swear he wasn’t wearing that earlier. But the whole team is here, so maybe I just didn’t notice. I take another sip of my Manhattan and feel the burn as the alcohol goes down my throat. My gaze travels around the room, taking in the players’ faces lit up by candlelight and the excellent food and drink. The thing is, my dad would love this dinner. He really would. And if he weren’t such an asshole, he could probably be here right now.
His loss, as I said before. And it really is.
The sommelier enters with four different bottles of red under his arm. “Nobody chose a white, is that right?” he asks.
“Fuck no,” I say too loudly. But it’s my party. “Even your local homosexual needs a hearty red with his steak.”
The wine guy looks taken aback, but my teammates all laugh like they’re going to piss themselves.
Eriksson raises his hand. “But I ordered the fish.”
“That’s your own fault,” someone says, and then Eriksson is pelted with wadded-up cocktail napkins.
Just another night with Toronto’s finest.
Eriksson stands up. “I’ll go order something from the bar, then.” He strides out of the room.
Jamie is talking defensive strategy with Lemming, and I sure don’t want to interrupt the conversation. Maybe Lemming can get over his discomfort with the gay thing so long as he’s speaking to another D-man. So I take the empty beer bottle out of Jamie’s hand and trade it for a glass of red.
“Okay, I’ll get a husband too if they put drinks in your hand,” Forsberg quips.
“And that’s exactly why he’s marrying me,” I say with an obnoxious wink.
Midsentence, Jamie reaches over to give my head a playful shove and then finishes his thought about the neutral zone trap.
“So,” Hewitt asks, looking smashing in my shirt. “How do two dudes get married, anyway? Like…who walks down the aisle?”
Jamie and I exchange a freaked-out glance. Because we haven’t had this conversation. This will all be left to Jess. “Uh,” I say. “Canning? Thoughts?”
He gives a shrug. “Who needs an aisle? I think we’ll just have a judge or something, and do this on my parents’ deck. And then we’re going to eat a whole lot of ribs. My mom is a genius with the smoker.”
Hewitt’s eyes open slightly wider. I can almost see thelightbulb go off over his head. “So, if it’s men getting married, the food is better than at an ordinary wedding.”
“And the beer,” someone adds.
“There still has to be cake,” Blake argues. “I think it’s not legal without cake. I read that somewhere.”
That’s when Eriksson returns to the room. Without a drink. But he’s wearing—wait for it—the shirt. The bright green “gay” shirt.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” I say slowly. I poke Jamie to get his attention. “Babe, do youseethis shit? I’m being pranked.”
He turns his handsome face. Eriksson is standing at the end of the table flexing like a bodybuilder directing traffic.
“Oh my fucking God!” Jamie cackles. “I need a picture.” He pulls out his phone. “Get over there. All three of you.”
Jamie gets his picture. But a few minutes later Blake slips out of the room and returns wearing the shirt in size twenty or whatever that beast wears. And it dawns on me that my teammates dropped a couple hundred plus express shipping—each—to pull this off. Is it stupid that I’m really touched by this madness?
Hell. I’m turning into a sap.
“Blake,” I croak. “How the hell did you pull this off?”
He takes a slug of wine. “Used my key. Searched your apartment so I could figure out who makes the damn thing. Took me a half hour to find it because I had to dig. Dude—you should learn to unpack your suitcase.”
Jamie punches me on the biceps. “See?”
“…got the brand and started Googling. Piece of cake, really.”
