Whit says, “Locals and out of towners alike are going to come to the Busy Bee just to see the woman who married Lane Sheridan Junior in Vegas. The other half is going to come hoping to catch a glimpse of him when he visits.”
“If he visits,” I mutter.
“Oh, he’ll visit,” Gracie says with the confidence of someone who believes in winning over hockey’s most hardened hearts.
I want to argue, but something about the way Lane sounded on the phone—careful but not dismissive, practical but not cold—makes a little ember of hope flare inside, but that’s foolish.
“Speaking of LSJ,” Jess says, her voice taking on a strange tone.
The girls exchange a glance.
Bree says, “Do you know who his father is?”
“His father?”
“Lane Sheridan Senior,” Jess supplies.
Whit says, “The Utah Mustangs ex-captain. Coach now. One of the greatest centers of all time.”
I set down my mug and, like trying to see through puffs of flour in a messy kitchen, the name is familiar. I should know the significance, but it eludes me.
“Jess had a big fat crush on him.” Cara cackles.
“On Lane?” I ask, suddenly worried that this is now even more complicated. Then again, Jess is happily married to Liam, so what would it matter?
“I had a silly crush on his father, Lane Sheridan Senior, back in high school.” She waves her hand dismissively.
Whit arches an eyebrow. “By then, he was already thirty.”
Flustered, Jess says, “It was completely ridiculous, but he was a hotshot player and I thought he was so dreamy with the ‘stache and flow.’”
“Ah, the hair and the mustache. I get it.” Whit tries to suppress a smile, likely thinking about her husband James Reddford, who is renowned for his various hairstyles both on his head and his face.
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Gracie says.
“Nothing wrong with an age gap,” Jess says.
Whit mutters, “That one wasn’t just wide, it was illegal.”
Jess rolls her eyes. “Obviously, nothing happened. I never even met the man in real life. Just a silly little crush.”
Bree waggles her eyebrows. “Both Senior and Junior look remarkably alike. Just saying.”
There’s no question that Lane Sheridan Junior is an attractive man.
But he’s not my man.
Just my husband.
For now.
However, I’m not really listening anymore. Because the nameSheridanset off an alarm bell in my head, and not for the reasons Jess might think, as a vague memory slowly comes into focus.
Lane Sheridan Senior isn’t just any legendary NHL player. He’s one of the players Papa used to talk about—with a mixture of respect and wariness. The kind of player who had talent and success but also a reputation for being difficult, demanding, and never satisfied with anything less than perfection.
The kind of player Papa worried I might fall for, because they seem larger than life until you realize that hockey is all they have to offer.
The kind who had a reputation for not just being a player on the ice, but in real life, in relationships.
