I get a little nervous at the idea of it–hoping they’ll like me after they get to know me. I’m not the bubbly, outgoing type as they are. I’m not quick to chat and share about myself. I’ve been groomed away from that, and in dance school, every girl you see is your competition. It makes it hard to make friends.
Me:She invited me.
Scottie:Good. The girls will take care of you. And maybe you’ll become a hockey fan.
Me:Don’t hold your breath, husband.
Even typing out the letters of “husband” makes me feel like I’m a poser. But I have to try. Because like he said, for better or worse, we’re in this together.
Scottie:We’ll see. They have a way of turning unsuspecting women into WAGs before they even know what’s happening.
I set my phone down, but the smile doesn’t leave my face.
I should be icing my feet and resting my body and mentally preparing for tomorrow’s round of rejections, but instead I’m thinking about wine and snacks and a loud living room full of women who seem ready and willing to pull me into their group.
And Scottie, on a sheet of ice hundreds of miles away,checking in to see how I’m doing as if we’re a real couple… one solid unit that moves together, not separately or independent of each other. It’s nice to feel anchored to someone. Like I’m no longer out here all alone, capable of being taken away with any powerful gust of wind.
Penelope’s house smells like butter and sugar and something baking in the oven that makes my eyes prickle with homesickness for a home I haven’t had since my mother passed.
The moment she opens the door, the noise hits me. A house full of women, laughter, overlapping voices, the distant murmur of pregame commentary from a giant TV somewhere deeper in the house.
“Katerina,” Peyton launches herself at me with the confidence of someone who’s decided we’ve been friends for years instead of days. “You made it!”
“I did,” I manage, trying not to wobble in my boots as she crushes me in a hug.
“Come in,” Penelope says, tugging me out of my coat with practiced hostess efficiency. “Toss your shoes off wherever and get comfy. Wine’s already poured, snacks are everywhere, and the men are on a screen where they can’t track mud through my kitchen.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
I hear the sound of thunder on the second story and look up at the ceiling.
“The kids,” Penelope says, waving it off. “It’s like a circus with all the Hawkeyes babies running around. They have snacks, movies, and a babysitter up there, probably getting them all ready with a game of green light, red light, but there’s no doubt they’ll come down to say hi at some point.”
The living room looks like a war room for sports wives. Blankets piled on couches, throw pillows everywhere, coffee table covered in chips, dips, charcuterie, something chocolate, something cheesy, and three different kinds of cookies.
Vivi waves a bottle. “Wine?”
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
She pours me a glass big enough to cause concern and hands it over as if this is perfectly normal.
I settle onto the couch between Isla and Peyton. Isla tucks her legs under her and leans into my side like we’ve been doing this for years.
“So,” Isla says, eyes sparkling, “how’s married life treating you?”
“Strange,” I admit.
“Strange good or strange bad?” Peyton asks, already grinning.
“Just… strange.” I swirl the wine in my glass. “He’s very… present.”
They all blink at me.
“Present?” Peyton echoes.
“He pays attention,” I clarify. “He remembers things. He asks questions. He notices when I’m tired or sore or… quiet. I wasn’t expecting that… I guess because it’s all…” I look around the room at the girls' eyes all on me, “...well, you know. Temporary.”
“Scottie was born and raised to be someone’s husband, I swear to God,” Cammy says, settling into the armchair with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.
