Page 14 of Slapshot Bride

I flip the phone face down so fast I almost knock the coffee cup over.

When I look up, Riley is watching me. Her expression has not changed, exactly, but something behind her eyes has. She doesn't say anything but just watches me for one beat longer than is comfortable and then looks back down at her coffee.

I pick the phone up and pocket it without checking. The buzz happens again against my thigh. I ignore it.

“My mom,” I say, which is true, because there is also a text from my mother waiting underneath the other one. I open hers.

Mom:

Good morning, sweetheart. How are you holding up after that practice schedule? Tell Coach Brennan he's a tyrant for me.

I type back.

Me:

Tyrant confirmed. I'm fine, mom. I will call you on Sunday.

A reply comes within ten seconds.

Mom:

I love you. Get some real food in you. I know you skip breakfast.

I send back a heart. She sends one back, and then, because she can't help herself, the prayer-hands emoji she has been using since 2015.

I look up. Riley is still watching me.

“Mom?”

“Yeah.”

A sad expression crosses her face, and I can tell she’s thinking about her family. And it’s my cue to change the topic.

“So… when do we begin? Today? Tomorrow or whenever you’re ready to leave the house?”

She stares at me blankly.

“To get your essentials.”

“Oh… that…”

She slides off the couch, pads barefoot across the floor in my hoodie and my shorts pulled tight at the waist, and I make a point of looking at the espresso machine, because the sight of her approaching…

No. We’re not doing that. Not today, not ever.

“We could do today. I mean, if you’re free, and you don’t mind spending half your day chauffeuring a runaway bride around Los Angeles while she attempts to rebuild her life from scratch and...”

“Today is perfect.” I cut her off because she’s already spiraling.

This woman would shoot herself in the foot before thinking of inconveniencing a stranger. All of sixteen hours, and this is what I’ve learned about Riley Brooks.

Well, except for the moment she got into my car. But in her defense, desperate times require desperate measures.

“Great!”

It’s late morning when we finally head out. Riley has forced breakfast of pancakes and eggs down my throat because in her words, starting the day with food makes it better.

The boutique she lets me drive her to is one I picked because it's small and tucked off a side street in West Hollywood, with parking around the back and the kind of owner who has been discreet about every athlete and B-list actor in this city for twenty years. I have used her exactly once, two seasons ago, for a teammate’s sister who was in a bind.