Cary pushed an empty glass toward her. “Just half, please. I’m driving.”
She gestured to the husbands. “It’s light beer.”
Cary glanced at the TV. “What’s happening here?”
“It’s tied 3–3.”
“Goal!” Marnie raised her arms over her head.
Mark stood from his seat and pointed at the screen. “That was offside by a mile!”
“What a bullshit goal.” Hank slammed his hand on the table, causing his beer to spill. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“His skate was on the line,” Tyler said, smiling at Cary. “They’re saying he crossed the blue line before the puck.” She thought it was a stupid rule and hoped they’d change it in the off-season. She had a list of suggestions to give the commissioner if she ever got to talk to him.
Hank blew out a breath. “They’re reviewing it. Can you pass the—holy shit!” He stared at Cary, stunned, and grabbed Mark’s arm.
“What the fuck?” Mark rubbed his eyes aggressively.
“This is Cary,” Tyler said, her voice even. “Cary, this is Marnie, Heather, Mark, and Hank.”
“Nice meeting you,” Cary said, shaking hands with the husbands and waving at Marnie and Heather across the table.
Her friends giggled like schoolgirls while the husbands went mute. Had they suddenly taken a vow of silence? If so, good.
“We’re pregnant,” Marnie said, arching her back.
Cary nodded politely as it was self-evident.
“They’re calling it back.” Heather sighed, disappointed.
“Yes!” Mark fist-pumped the air.
“Shit,” Tyler said while a sad trombone played in her head.
“What are you doing here?” Marnie asked Cary pointedly. “In town, I mean.”
“I came to see her.” He winked at Tyler, squeezing her hand. “I’m heading to Brandon to spend Christmas with my family.”
“That’s so nice,” Heather said, sweet like a mom-to-be.
“We’re having frigging beers with Cary Kingston,” Hank said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Fangirl.” Mark punched him in the arm a little harder than necessary.
“I hardly ever drink beer,” Cary said. “I’m a wine guy.”
The husbands howled with laughter, even though it wasn’t funny.
“I know this is super uncool, but can I have your autograph, man?” Hank’s voice came out almost sheepishly.
“No problem,” Cary said, not making a big deal out of it.
“Hat trick!” Tyler pointed at the TV and the Jets fans cheered. She turned to Cary. “It’s when the same player scores three goals. Not to be confused with a Gordie Howe hat trick: a goal, an assist, and a fight.”
Moments later, Hank went to the bar and returned with a Sharpie. “Can you sign my jersey, please?” he asked politely.
“Mine too.” Mark flattened a spot on his chest.
