Page 2 of Slapshot Bride

“Glovebox.”

She opens it. Pulls out a warm bottle of Smart Water that’s been rolling around in there for approximately two months. Drinks half of it in one go. I watch a single bead of it run down her chin and disappear into the neckline of what is, objectively, a very expensive dress.

“You’re staring,” she says, not looking at me.

“You’re a bride.”

“Astute.”

“In my car.”

“Also astute.”

“There’s a…” I gesture vaguely at her hair. “You have a flower situation.”

She reaches up, finds the baby's breath, plucks it out, examines it, and then tosses it out the window.

“Littering,” I observe.

She rolls her eyes.

“Sue me, but if you’d please just watch the road? I’m escaping from my wedding, and seeing the Lord isn't exactly in my plans for today.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

“Fair point.”

Her words stay in my head for a minute longer. Escaping from my wedding. The moment she demanded I drive, I knew what it was, but hearing her say it is a different thing. Fully confirms it’s actually happening. I’m the getaway driver for a runaway bride. Classic LA.

She fully looks at me for the first time, and I get the full hit of her face—green eyes, freckles across her nose like someone flicked a paintbrush at her, mouth still parted from running. Whatever she sees on my face makes her laugh. It’s a short, surprised sound, like she didn’t mean to.

“You look like you’re being forced to commit a crime.”

“You’re a bride! A runaway bride, and you somehow chose me to be your getaway driver. I can only hope the cops are not coming for our heads.”

She winces. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Past who?”

She’s quiet. Then glances at the back seat.

“Hockey?”

“What?”

“You’re huge. And the gym bag in the back has a stick poking out of it. Call me Sherlock.” She flashes her brows, and I shake my head.

She’s deflecting.

Fine. Two can play that game. “Seriously, I need to know if I’d be in jail.”

She goes quiet again, and with every passing minute, my curiosity grows, but I let her have the silence.

The jokes are interesting, though. Whatever she’s running from, she still has enough fight in her to give me shit.

That has to count for something.

I look at her hands. They’re shaking. A lot.