Chapter 1
Thayne
It’s not every day you see a woman wrapped in white fluff run out of the church like she’s a tendy being called to the bench for an extra forward during the last minute of regulation.
But here I am.
Hands in my suit pockets.
Watching thesecondworst view of the play – the first of course being the poor pylon beside me that truly thought she was “the one”.
In his defense…she did actually make ittothe wedding unlike “the one” before her that didn’t bother showing up to the rehearsal dinner.
Or “the one” before that who never made it to their engagement party.
Or “the one” before that who said yes at the restaurant but changed it to no during their car ride home.
Bud’s such a fucking sieve when it comes to love.
Watches theplayerrather than the puck.
Alwaysfalls for the fake out.
The deke.
And it’d be so easy to throw shade at him for that shit if it weren’t the fact that at least he’sinthe game.
Trying.
Given a chancetotry.
Unlike me.
The fucking duster who can’t even seem to find a snipe that doesn’t chirp me for my taste in tuneskies and cold brews and suspenders.
Not to mention my cowboy hats.
And boots.
And fondness for mud.
But what kinda good ol’ country boy would I be if I didn’t likemud.
It’s my original snow.
Learning to catch rocks in a beat up ol’ mitt like they were pucks, and I was Henrik Lundqvist.
Although, truth be toldskies, I am afewinches taller than him.
Which Gramps – who helped raise me – just knew I was going to be.
He swore it from the beginning.
Even joked about it in the end.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.
Walton Westwood – my ivory skinned best friend, pro-hockey gear artist, and groom turned bachelor once more – releases a sigh heavy enough to shake the roof of the old church prior to hitting me with a defeated expression. “To Wally’s?”
