Page 42 of Put a Rink on It

“Oh, yeah. Slip of the tongue.” I attempt a jovial chortle, but it seems to miss the mark when no one else laughs.

“When’s the wedding?” I can’t be certain who asks it.

“Will we be invited?” Rancourt wonders hopefully, a smile showing off his missing front tooth.

“End of the season. After the finals,” I quickly add, lest they think I’d want to cut the season short. It doesn’t matter I’ve just joined their team. No matter what team I’m playing for, I wouldn’t jinx a trip to the Finals with a wedding.

Even a pretend one.

Though I suppose there will be a real wedding. Real in the sense of a ceremony and an exchange of rings.

Or maybe we could do it at the courthouse. Quick and simple. In and out. We’d be legally wed but wouldn’t need an elaborate production.

This is why we should have talked more about all of this before now. Had a plan in place. Who knew burly hockey players would be so invested in my love life?

“Where?”

Shit. Will this ever end?

From the bench, my phone vibrates with a call, Marina’s name flashing on the screen.

Underwood leans over it. “Aah, answer it so we can all say hello.”

“And put it on speakerphone,” Kaplan announces.

Knowing this is going to backfire in my face, I swipe to answer the call, hitting the button for the speaker. “Hey, I’m still in the locker room with the team. Say hi.”

I mean it for Marina, but a chorus of “hey,” “hello,” and one “what’s going on,” resounds before she gets a word in.

“Hello, team. How was practice?”

A bit of the tension melts off at hearing her playing along. I shouldn’t have worried.

“We kicked ass.”

“We’re ready for Toronto tomorrow night.”

“Tiring as fuck. I’m getting too old for this.” That’s Singeglasov, the oldest guy on the team.

“More important question. Marina, right?” Underwood zeroes in on me as he asks her.

“Yes, Marina. And you are?”

That’s my girl.

“Duh. Underwood. Center. Number 34.”

“A name was all I needed,” she sasses, and I cover my laugh with my hand. “What’s your question?”

“Our friend Champion here calls you his wife, but today we learned you’re not actually married. What’s the deal?”

“Nero, honey. We’ve talked about this,” she states in a sweet tone, almost as if she’s placating me. “He thinks because he put a ring on my finger, I’m automatically his wife.” She sells it so convincingly, though it’s not the truth.

If I think of her as anything other than my best friend, the thoughts aren’t conscious. And that’s probably how and why I got into our current predicament.

“So when’s the wedding?” Schurbatski wanders in from the showers, a towel around his waist, jumping into the conversation as if he were involved from the start.

He hasn’t prodded too much into the details of our relationship, but he’s not one to get involved with other people’s personal lives or the drama some of the younger players bring. Whether it’s on the ice or off.