Most people think of stores at the mall when they go shopping for jewelry, but there are so many more possibilities. Years ago, I began scouring thrift stores, estate sales, and pawnshops to feed my own desire for pretty, shiny things and quickly realized what I craved wasn’t out there. I became determined to create the things I saw in my head, and taught myself how to not only design jewelry but physically make it. What started with copper graduated to silver, and eventually gold, before really taking off. What started out as a hobby making pieces for myself quickly became a passion, and now I have a social media following that snaps up my redesigned heritage pieces, asks for custom designs, and comments on my work.
While I do all sorts of jewelry designs, the majority of my commission work is engagement rings, and they’re what bring me themost joy. They’re more than a promise to marry. They’re an expression of love. They don’t have to be expensive or flashy—unless that’s what the couple wants. They just need to be from the heart, and that’s what I do. Make people’s hearts visible as works of art they can wear every day.
“I’m glad you love it. It’s my new favorite piece too,” I confide, acting like it’s a secret confession, when the truth is, each piece is my favorite until I create another, and then that one becomes my favorite. “And when you’re ready, we can design the wedding band for it together.”
Hearts virtually pop out of Elaina’s eyes. And then she turns to Lance, looking at him like he hung not only the sun but the moon, stars, and probably the planets as well. “Did you hear that, babe? We get to design the wedding band with Penny too.”
He nods, pushing a lock of hair behind Elaina’s ear in an intimate move that only highlights how excruciatingly deep their love is. “We’ll make sure it’s perfect,” he vows.
“Aww, so sweet,” someone says.
They are. And I’m happy for them. Truly, and not only because it means another paycheck for me but because everyone deserves love. But what’s that saying? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride? How about always the ring designer, never even a bridesmaid? Or hell, a girlfriend.
Because as someone whose bread and butter is engagements, it’s rare for me to get a guy to commit to taking me on more than a first date. It’s not like my standards are ridiculously high either. The bar’s low—like on the floor—but even so, after a few dates, most guys simply quit texting or calling, poofing into thin air like ghosts of dates past.
I don’t know why. Best guess? It’s probably that weird thing again. Or maybe that most guys hear “ring designer” and think “ready to get hitched,” which I’m not. I’m way too busy focusing on my business, and I don’t have the time or inclination to be desperately wedding-marching through my days. But once PLDesigns is where I want it to be, I’ll put real effort into my dating life, and then hopefully I’ll meet someone who sweeps me off my feet intentionally, not trips me like the stupid rock I stumble over as I start back down the hill.
Chapter 2
Griffin
“Fuck yeah!” Brody booms across the locker room, ecstatic. His name’s not actually Brody; it’s Jordan, which isn’t much better, but he’s quite the bro type, and in hockey, that’s all it takes to get a nickname. Brody flexes and roars out his overhyped excitement before holding up his hands for high fives from everyone around him.
When he gets to me, I reluctantly concede. “I know it’s the orgasmic climax of your mind’s daily highlight reel, but don’tcha think you’re overdoing it for a good practice?”
Because that’s all it was—practice. It’s not like we won a big game or even nailed an important play.
“Good?That was epic, bruh,” he argues, sounding more like a caricature of a California surfer than the upper-crust Upstate New Yorker he is. “And you said ‘orgasm.’” He guffaws, screwing up his face like he’s in pain as he makes a jerking motion near his crotch, which is a visual I do not want.
I’d call him a literal child, but he’s twenty-four. He’s also a pro athlete, and unfortunately, the stereotype that we all stop maturing around age sixteen exists for a reason—it’s true more often than not. Thankfully, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I don’t fit the stereotype ... usually. Or I try not to.
I don’t answer, not wanting to engage with a young pup who wouldn’t knowepicif it snuck up and kneed him in the balls. Turning to face my locker, I go about the business of shedding my gear. With every movement, I evaluate my body for any tightness or strain that’ll need to be addressed before tomorrow’s game with a trainer, the massage therapist, or in the cold plunge tub. I’m in the prime of my career, playing better than I ever have, but there’s no resting on my laurels when I’m the muscle of the team, so every twinge deserves attention.
Every time I skate onto the ice, I do so knowing it might be my last, because my role, beyond being a defender, is that of an enforcer. If there’s a brawl—and there’s always a brawl—it’ll be me mixing it up, throwing punches and trying to avoid the other team’s hothead or, worse,theirenforcer. The fans love it when enforcers go after each other. The enforcers, not so much. Well, most of them. Me? I don’t mind it. The mano a mano physicality of it releases some darker feelings I’d rather handle with violence than something woo-woo like talk therapy.
Out of nowhere, a hand slams onto my shoulder with a meaty thud. I tense, every muscle instantly poised for action and my right hand already curling into a fist despite being among teammates, until I hear the voice that goes along with the hand. “Don’t be so rough on Brody. He’s just excited he made that shot on Howe.”
I frown at my best friend and teammate, Dominic. His nickname is Dom, not because it’s short for his actual name but because he dominates on the ice as the Ice Hawks’ left defenseman. “By ‘excited,’” I deadpan, making sure my voice is loud enough to carry over to Brody; he’s completed his victory lap of high fives and is now shedding his gear in some shitty makeshift version of aMagic Mikeshow, as if any of us want to see that, “you mean he’s like an ADHD-riddled puppy that’s jacked on espresso and booger sugar, right?”
I intend for it to be a cutting insult about the youngster, who can’t control his dick, his hockey stick, or his mouth, but Dom snorts out a laugh, which is agreement enough because he knows I’m right.
Half dressed and with his dick hanging out the leg hole of his tighty-whities, Brody holds a palm up to Vernon Howe, our goalie. Maybe Brody took one to the melon? He must’ve if he thinks Howe is going to congratulate him for slipping one between his legs, and I’m not talking about his dick. Pigs have a greater chance of growing wings and taking flight than Brody does of getting a high five from the gruff goalie.
Fuck, Howe likes me, and though he has raised a hand at me, it sure as shit wasn’t for a high five. He once smacked me because I let an opposing forward distract me and sneak a puck through my skates with some fancy footwork. The rebuff was deserved, and I learned a valuable lesson. Hopefully, Brody does the same and chills on the over-celebratory moves that are bordering on rubbing Howe’s nose in his slipup.
“Come on, man. You gotta admit that move was slick. Almost as slick as your mom last night,” Brody taunts Howe, even sticking his tongue out in what I fear is his approximation of eating pussy. If that’s the case, he’s never pleased a woman once in his short life, which I swear he wants to end after that comment.
The three closest guys to them take noticeable steps away, getting out of the danger zone. Someone mutters under their breath, sounding exactly like that kid fromThe Simpsons, “I’m in danger!”
Deciding to stay out of their impending and inevitable tussle, I ask Dom, “What’s the plan?”
We don’t always hang out after practice, but more often than not, we’ll at least grab food before going our separate ways. To be honest, he’s not only my best (and only) friend, he’s more like a brother, and we spend a good chunk of time together. It’s been like that since we were rookies on our last team, hoping to make a name for ourselves. We did, as a unified team of two on the right side of the ice, and as friends who no one and nothing could break apart.
There’s one thing that could tear your friendship to shreds in the blink of an eye.
I swallow hard, forcing that thought back into the lockbox it’s supposed to stay in, safe and secure and far away from Dominic, who would very likely murder me with his bare hands if he had any idea why I don’t date beyond the occasional casual fuck. Or not exactlywhy... butwho.
“You wanna grab protein bowls?” It’s one of our usual pregame dinner options, so I’m already nodding, which makes it too late to say no when he adds, “I just want to swing by Penny’s first.”
