THIRTY-NINE
Colton
If I ever doubted I could feel more out of place in a suit than the first time I saw my reflection in the locker room after getting drafted, I was wrong. Monumentally, existentially, wrong. There’s a difference between this and the tuxedos you wear for team photo ops. Where everyone’s secretly hungover, and the photographer’s cracking “Blue Steel” jokes to keep you from knifing each other and the one you put on for your wedding.
Especially when the wedding is at Tribeca Rooftop, the skyline of Manhattan cutting a million-dollar horizon around you, and every surface has been scrubbed so clean you could eat caviar off of it, which you might be required to do later if my mom has her way. Even my dad keeps worrying he’s going to break something if he sneezes too loud. That’s how you know it’s a classy joint. But I wanted the best for my wife. Nothing but the best because she fucking deserves it.
I am not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony. And I start to believe that this is the most stupid ritual there ever was. She slept at Isla’s last night and there was no contact. I couldn’t even call her. But the fact that not sleeping in her armsfor just one day was so horrible proves again and again, that I am irrevocably in love with that woman.
My little Iron Lady is, I’m told, currently “sequestered” in the bridal suite with a phalanx of hair and makeup sorceresses. She is, apparently, not to be disturbed except in the event of a presidential assassination or if the florist somehow forgot the white roses. He didn’t. There are approximately two metric tons of them lining the aisles. I would like nothing more than to sneak upstairs and drag her back here for five minutes of privacy, but my mom takes tradition seriously. And that woman has survived two kidney operations. As if I could refuse her any request. I’m so happy she’s healthy now. And that Jenna is too. Like, honestly, there’s nothing more important than your family’s health.
So, instead, I’m hiding in the groom’s side staging area with my best men Riley and Jay.
“Are you gonna pass out?” Jay asks, not bothering to lower his voice, because nothing fazes him really. “You look a little… peaked.”
I just grunt.
“He’s fine,” Riley says, straightening my lapel for the twelfth time. “This is his ‘someone ate the last of his cereal’ face. Don’t read into it. Ignore him.”
I glare at Riley. “You know I can hear you, right?”
Riley grins, not even a little apologetic. He’s in the rare club of people I let get away with that. “It’s endearing, big guy. Don’t worry. You only have to read like four lines and kiss the girl.”
“I have to walk down that aisle without tripping. In these shoes.” I point at the patent leather monstrosities threatening to shear the skin off my toes. “Can’t feel my left foot.”
Jay’s mouth twitches. “I’m pretty sure your wife will have a more difficult time. And hey if you’re the one falling, it’ll go viral. But maybe in a heartwarming way, you know? Like, ‘pro hockeyplayer, just a big softie at his own wedding.’” He mimes dabbing his eyes. “They’ll eat it up.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I grumble.
A planner—one of three—pokes her head in. “Ten minutes,” she chirps, then vanishes before I can ask her name. I’m not convinced she isn’t a hologram.
Riley, whose hands have been fidgeting with a small velvet box for the past five minutes, clears his throat. “You sure about this?”
That actually gets a rise out of me. “What, you got an alternate plan? Want to kidnap me, take me to Vegas, get me a fake passport?”
Jay brightens, “Do I get to pick the name?”
“Shut up,” Riley and I say at the same time.
Riley sighs, glances down at the box, and—his voice drops— “I mean, just making sure. You good?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Sure,” I say, and I mean it. “Better than ever.”
Jay raises an eyebrow at Riley, who grins like he just got handed a brand-new puppy.
“Then let’s go get you hitched,” Riley says, clapping me on the shoulder.
The procession starts with a string quartet playing something classical but upbeat, it’s a song from Bridgerton. Jenna loved that show. While I wait for my bride, I glance at the rows of white chairs and man, they are packed—hockey teammates who clean up about as well as zoo animals, Jenna’s little family, and an alarming number of small children who I have never seen before. They must be from all my cousins that my parents flew in from Russia.
Livy spots me and waves so violently the crown tilts over her left ear. Her front teeth are missing, the new ones still coming in,and it gives her smile this wild, unfiltered power. I wink at her, and she gives me two thumbs up. We’re in this together.
The first few steps are weird, but then I settle into the rhythm. I can almost hear Jenna’s voice in my head: “Shoulders back, walk like you own the place, but don’t look like a serial killer.” I keep my eyes on the end of the aisle, where there’s a slightly elevated platform, an arch of more flowers, and the officiant—who looks exactly like the “after” picture for a teeth-whitening ad.
They make me stand at the front, hands clasped, as the music changes and the wedding planner gives a silent “go” sign to the flower girls. Livy is last in line, holding a tiny white pillow. She walks with slow, careful steps, like she’s balancing on ice, eyes fixed on me the whole way. When she gets to the front, she leans over, whispers “You look weird,” and hands me the pillow with the rings.
“Thanks, Liv,” I say, and she beams. “You look beautiful.”
She waits at my side because that’s where she belongs too. She’s part of all of it today.
