I had been leery about dating him at first. He worked in the same field as my late father who had been convicted of embezzlement, after stealing the life’s savings of several little old ladies and more. But my dating history until then had been a big, fat zero as I strove to find anyone not like Jonah Yates or someone else who shall not be named. Meeting Thad, eminently normal and, okay, a little boring, was the stable energy I didn’t know I needed.
Taking a surreptitious glance at him, I congratulated myself on his square jaw, soft brown eyes, and slight cowlick in his medium brown hair, the one minor oddity in a perfectly average appearance. Handsome, but not likely to have all the girls in a tizzy. Considerate, but not obsequious. Mostly, I didn’t feel like my heart would stop if he didn’t want to take our relationship further.
Some people might think that was a huge red flag, or maybe even a white one, signaling my surrender to the societal forces insisting a woman of a certain age needed to pin a guy down or risk being alone forever. But I had gone for flash and fireworks before, and it didn’t work out. I was a practical person, and practicalities meant that if I wanted to get on the marriage track, I needed to be less fussy.
For the last nine months, since that wake-up in Vegas, I have been working toward a new me—and an understanding boyfriend was top of my list. A man who put up with my travel schedule and career focus. A guy who listened and didn’t feel threatened by my job or the fact I spent a lot of time soothing the egos of mostly male professional athletes.
And now it was all at risk because of one stupid mistake.
While I contemplated my terrible life choices, Thad asked Hatch about his new sponsorship. My boyfriend often displayed undeniable puppy dog energy around the players, especially the Chicago Rebels. This was my world. My brother-in-law Gunnar Bond was a retired Rebels forward, I had grown up practicing with legends on the team and hanging with their kids, and I represented three of the players on the current roster.
“You guys heading to dinner?” Thad asked Hatch and Summer.
I stepped in. “If they are, they’re going alone. Give the kids their space, Thad.”
Summer spoke up, a beat too late. “Oh, we’d love you to join us.”
“Not at all. Hatchling, I’ll give you a call tomorrow about the contract. For now, you two go and feel each other up under a nice, candlelit table.”
Summer shot me a look of relief, and within sixty seconds they were gone.
Disappointment radiated off my boyfriend. “They wanted us to join them.”
“They really didn’t. Besides, I haven’t seen you in a few days. Wouldn’t you like to spend some quality time with your girlfriend?”
Like me, Thad traveled a lot for his work. He had clients all over the country and he was always on a plane, making deals to get them to buy shares and the like. I didn’t really understand much about how hedge funds worked. It all seemed sort of fake. Speculation, positions, Dow-this, S&P-that. I liked dealing in tangibles—sweat, hard work, wins and losses, results you could see that brought joy and heartbreak to millions.
He leaned in to kiss me softly. “Of course I want to see you. I’ve missed you so much.”
Good. This was what I needed to hear.
Yet all this time I’d known him, I was married to someone else. If he had told me this happened to him, how would I feel about it? Awful, for sure.
“Hey, grab that table over there,” I said, anxious to put some guilt-drenched space between us, if only for a moment. I would have to tell him. It wasn’t fair to keep him in the dark. “I’ll get you a drink. Scotch and soda?”
“Thanks. I’ll take your wine over.”
I would deal with this, remove the problem, and return to the status quo: a late-thirties woman, waiting for her real boyfriend to pop the question.
Chapter Five
Lauren
* * *
When I was a kid, I vowed that I would only play pro if it was in the NHL. Twelve-year-old me assumed that by the time my chance rolled around in eight or so years, the men’s league would include women. My child mind assumed we were equal to the task, that evolution and physical strength were stale concepts, so when dreams crashed into reality, I played for the Chicago Athenas in the nascent women’s league before it evolved into something better. I won every prize available to me: the Isobel Cup, best rookie, MVP three years running, and Olympic gold. Of course we were paid a pittance, played in substandard facilities, and never got the respect we deserved.
These days, the Professional Women’s Hockey League was all I could ever have dreamed of for my former profession. The league now sold out arenas, produced bona fide superstars, and actually paid their players a living wage plus bonuses. A little part of me was ticked off that I didn’t get to experience the new and improved version, that my bum knee took me out of contention. But I loved my current job. And when a client won the Cup—men or women’s league—it was a personal victory for me.
Today I was celebrating with one of my favorite people, Jason Isner. Not only was Jason a client, he was also one of my closest friends. We had known each other since Rebels Youth Hockey Camp where I skated circles around him. We even shared an apartment in our senior year in college when we both attended the University of Michigan and our respective college hockey programs. It had been fifteen years since we lived in the same city, and here we were, together again in Chicago, with our lives finally taking off.
My bestie had crammed a lifetime of experience into a year: moved back to Chicago, started with a new team, had a baby, fell in love, and won the Cup. Talk about overachieving. I adored the guy, but I kind of liked it better when we were both lovable losers, comfortably embedded in our singledom and happy to be defined by our careers.
Even his backyard with its newly painted swing set, multiple hockey players vying to be grill meister, and kids running around like they’d been hooked up to sugar solution IVs was a testament to how far my friend had come—and the stasis of my own life.
Thad came back from the bar, or rather the kitchen setup with adult beverages, and handed me a bottle of Corona.
“Thanks,” I said, giving him a peck.
