“Because I didnottake it.”
All right. Fine. I took it. But it was for the team. We were on a hot streak, and for some reason—I still don’t know why—“22” became our locker-room anthem. And because I had a superstition about needing to listen to my Walkman before puck drop, I stole Izzy’s CD so I could get pumped for games.
I’d do it all over again too. We won the Cup that year, and it was—and still is—worth her bitching.
“Whatever you say, kid,” Dad says with a knowing smirk.
I look away because if I don’t, I’ll laugh, and then he’ll really know I’m guilty. My attention goes straight to Odette, just as it has all night.
She doesn’t know, though. She’s too busy regaling my mother, hers, and Izzy with a tale about how she got into the movies free with a no-cost upgrade on her popcorn two weeks ago by flirting with the ticket attendant.
I want to tell her I saw him give Ms. Barlowe—who is about fifteen years older than me—free tickets, popcorn,anda drink, but I don’t bother. I let her have her moment.
Besides, she needs all the wins she can get lately, with how her business is nose-diving.
As much as I dislike weddings and all things lovey-dovey, I feel bad for Odette. She doesn’t deserve it, and I know I shouldn’t have ignored her these last two days.
I couldn’t help it, though. It was easier to keep her away from the farm than to have her around, even if it was nice to have a helping hand.
She was a distraction, and I don’t just mean because of her panties.
No, it was in the little things, like the soft grunts she made when she was lifting, the extra mayo she put on my sandwich because she knows that’s how I like it, and how—even though it ended in disaster—I was the one she called for help.
It’s silly that it delighted me as much as it did, but it’s been a long time since I was anyone’s hero.
Chelsea used to ask me to do all kinds of little things for her, like kill spiders or open jars. Then, one day, she stopped. Instead of asking me, she asked everyone else, then blamed me for always being gone.
She was right. I was gone a lot. But she knew that when she agreed to marry me. And instead of rolling with the punches and hectic life of a hockey player, she tried to change me and get me to quit the game I loved so much.
Worse? When I finally did retire—not for her, but for me—it still wasn’t enough.
Iwasn’t enough.
No wonder we were divorced less than six months later.
So, yeah, even though I was the only option to help get rid of the spider, I was still an option, and I hate how much that meant to me.
“All right,” my dad announces, holding up the tray of burgers and brats. “Dinner is served, ladies!”
They all clap, and he eats up the attention.
We move to the long table already set for dinner and pass around the food, filling our plates to the brim. Meat, potato salad, grilled corn on the cob, and green bean casserole go around and around.
We fall into easy conversation, which isn’t surprising since we’ve been doing this for years. I missed many dinners when I was playing, but when I came back to Washington, it felt like I was never gone at all.
“I think you should do fairy lights all over the barn. Think of how pretty that will be at night.”
Of course the conversation has turned to the wedding. That’s how every dinner has gone since Izzy got engaged.
“Oh yes! I think it would be incredible. So romantic looking. What do you think, Odette?”
All eyes swing to her, and I can instantly tell she’s nervous to be put on the spot. Her shoulders go rigid, her lips parting like she’s lost her breath.
That’s new. She’s never been cagey about discussing weddings and details before. Part of me wonders if it’s just nerves because of how her last few weddings have gone and her needing to save her business, or if it’s because it’s Izzy’s wedding, and she wants it to be perfect.
I can’t tell which.
“We can do whatever you want, Iz.”
