“Sure you can, bro.” Gage laughed. “Just tell her the ring she’d be getting with her beer is from the Westwood vault. Your family is like royalty in this town. Any chick would say yes.”
I bent over to lace up my skates. “Any chick who would say yes just because the ring might or might not come from that vault isn’t a chick I want standing at the altar with me.”
“Spoken like a true rich boy,” he joked, but I was pretty sure he was also being serious. “Are you ready? The kids are going to start winding down soon and we’d better warm up or we’ll snap our ankles.”
I sighed and nodded, muscles twitching with the old rush of knowing a game was starting soon. As I stood, I caught a glimpse of a boy who was slicing through defenders like they were cones, an absolute blur on his skates.
“Check out that little dude.” I let out a low whistle. “He’d go pro if he had a better coach.”
“That’s Brody, andthiscoach would help him go pro if I could.” Gage laughed. “He’s a beast on the ice. Reckless. Wild. Unstoppable. Actually, now that I think about it, he kind of reminds me a little of you, but he doesn’t have the discipline.”
I squinted at the kid. His dark hair was tousled like he’d just wrestled the wind, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “How reckless can he really be? He’s tiny. Maybe the discipline will come.”
Gage snorted. “Trust me, for a seven-year-old, he’s pretty damn reckless.”
“Seven, huh?” In that case, he seemed tall for his age. Not tiny at all. “He’s good. You’ve got to give credit where it’s due. Reckless and wild or not, he’s talented.”
“Yeah, he is good. He’s also a bit of a problem child on and off the ice, which is where the trouble lies, but hey, his mom is really hot, so there’s that.”
Our game was called and the ice cleared, Brody leading the charge. Gage clapped me on the back. “Are you ready to remind those old dudes who’s boss?”
I smiled, lacing my fingers tight around my stick. “Wearethe old dudes, but sure. Let’s go show theotherold dudes that we’ve still got it.”
Putting the kid out of my mind, I made my way to the ice and warmed up with Gage while the rest of our team joined us one after another. Most came from their day jobs or dropping their kids off at extracurriculars. We did a few laps to get our blood pumping while we waited for the visiting team to gear up, andthen we were off. As always, the game started fast, our rival team all bark and little bite, but at least a few of their players kept things interesting.
Even though this was just a beer league, I felt that old rhythm kick in as we played. The rush of adrenaline when I chased the puck, the snap of my skates against the ice, and the sharp edge of the stick in my hands still got under my skin. Ice rinks, football fields, wrestling mats, golf courses—any place where sports were played, really—were in my blood.
This was where I was most in my element, and despite always having known that a pro career wasn’t in the cards for me, I could still hold my own. Gage and I traded jokes and digs as we tore up the ice, and by the third period, my muscles were burning, but I was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.
Our weekly game was my break from the chaos in my world and the constant pressure from my family’s expectations. Playing made me feel free. And I didn’t have to be a star anymore to love this game—and pretty much any other.
After the final buzzer went off, beers and burgers at a loud, crowded bar nearby were practically mandatory. I clung to even this tradition like a lifeline, loving the camaraderie of all the guys who talked hockey and life like they were the same thing. Once we had burgers in front of us, Gage looked over at me, beer in hand and that knowing grin on his face.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Are you going to keep fishing in that weird community paper or move on to the big leagues?”
“Depends,” I said. “What’s your definition ofthebig leagues?”
“Dating apps.”
I snorted. “No way. I might not be drowning in replies from my ad, but at least I’m not wasting my time on people who are either only looking for hookups or who would recognize meimmediately. I’m telling you, I’m not getting hitched to some social-climber, gold-digger, or both.”
“Is this really the time to be picky?”
“Wearetalking about marriage,” I said pointedly. “Generally, when it’s about who you’re going to be spending the rest of your life with, you’re entitled to be picky.”
When I’d placed that ad, I’d told myself that at least it was a fishing line in the water. A line which, as I realized when I got back to my sleek apartment downtown, finally had a bite.
Exhausted but restless, I powered up my laptop after I got home, my fingers hovering over the email I’d set up specifically for the ad. Eventually though, I clicked on it and blinked hard when I saw the message waiting in my inbox.
My heart galloped and my eyes were glued to the screen. Right there in front of me was a reply that, from the looks of it, had been written and sent by anactualwoman.
My future wife possibly.
For a long beat, I just sat there and stared at the words she’d written. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just an idea or a future problem.
Somewhere out there was a woman who had seen my ad and who had liked it enough to respond. That, in and of itself, was a fucking miracle. She was either crazy or she was perfect. My future wife, or my next bad decision.
Or, worst case scenario, the message had come from a middle-aged man who exclusively wore elastic waistband sweatpants, had permanent stains on his fingers from all the Cheetos he ate, and lived in a studio apartment that smelled like instant ramen and his own sweat.
