“What’s my alter ego up to these days?”
“Mason Listener is quite the ladies’ man. He’s having an affair with the team owner, who has a side hustle as a dominatrix.”
“Definitely not me then. No one would ever accuse me of being a sub.”
She shuddered. “TMI.”
“Speaking of gossip?—”
“Uh, fictional gossip.”
I rolled my eyes. “I heard a rumor that Nazarov might be trading into the Rebels.” Word on the ice was that he was ready to move.
“Yeah, I heard that, too.” Her eyebrows drew together. “But it might not happen. People like to spout utter nonsense.”
Bit of an overreaction, especially considering Lo loved to gossip about trades. She looked over my shoulder toward the bar entrance.
“So where’s your guy?”
“He’ll be here. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”
“With this man you found on an experimental dating app and who you’ve refused to introduce to me? Nah.”
She shook my shoulders. “Damn your big brother energy around people I date. I’m three months older than you!”
“Well, Lo, you’ve gone for some doozies. The dickhead poet?—”
“He was very romantic. In iambic pentameter.”
And never picked up a check. “The volleyball player. What was his deal again?”
She sighed. “He kept shouting ‘spike!’ when he came.”
Still cracked me up to hear it. “Maybe shoot for someone a little less odd?”
She considered my excellently vague advice. “I wish. That’s the thing with women, they’re either trying desperately to find a guy exactly like their dad or the opposite of him. I’ve spent most of my dating life avoiding guys who give off Jonah Yates vibes.” Lauren’s ex-con dad had certainly modeled a blueprint no daughter would want to follow for a boyfriend. “It hasn’t really worked, so this time, I’m going for a normal guy with a normal job who looks good in a suit.”
“Like a hockey player?”
“No sportsball people! Too much conflict of interest. But someone in banking who might defraud a bunch of investors? I could do that.” Her expression turned dreamy. “He’s a nice guy. I think you’ll like him.”
We would see. It might seem odd to be protective of a woman who could crush the balls of any guy I knew, on the ice or in a boardroom, but it had been that way since she had first checked me—against the rules, mind you—on a practice ice rink over twenty years ago.
Lauren thumped my arm. “Never mind my love life. Have you told your family yet?”
No need to ask about what.
“I’ve told Sean, but not my mom or Theo. We’re giving it a little time until we’re completely out of the woods.” Franky was at seventeen weeks and was healthy as a horse (her words), yet we were still keeping it mostly to ourselves. As soon as it was out in the wild, we would lose control of the narrative. “Also, love life isn’t relevant here.”
A skeptical eyebrow arch was my reward.
“Franky and I are friends. We’re committed to the welfare of our kid, and neither of us wants to mess with that.”
My friend’s scandal antenna went on high alert. “Mess with it? Because—ooh, you’ve already messed with it, haven’t you? You’ve got super messy and you want to get messy again!”
“It’s complicated.” My stock answer for everything Franky-related.
“How did you think it wouldn’t be? So you might not seem like the likeliest pair?—”
