Page 81 of Put a Rink on It

We’ve been busy with other things and haven’t discussed when the wedding will happen.

If there’s even a wedding. Maybe this ends before we get that far.

The notion doesn’t sit right with me, even though it’s the most plausible scenario.

“August, maybe,” Marina lies smoothly, not a trace of deception in her tone.

“Definitely the offseason.” I pause, intertwining my fingers with Marina’s, needing her to ground me. “Whenever she wants is fine with me. All’s I gotta do is show up, right?”

“Yep. I’ve already got your credit card to cover all the costs.”

She doesn’t say it to brag or even as a “stick it to you” comment. Again, it’s not something we’ve nailed down the details about, but I’m glad she knows I’m paying. Big or small, whatever she wants, money isn’t an object for the wedding of her dreams.

Lennon returns from the bathroom, her vision swinging between all the adults. With her hands on her hips, she mumbles, “So much for dinnertime,” garnering a laugh from us.

Marina lets her hand drop from mine to step up to Lennon, linking their hands. “Come on, Squirt. I want to make sure I get the seat on the other side of Nero.”

“So you can learn more about hockey, too?” Lennon questions.

“Something like that.”

Keeley family dinner is full of hockey talk until the chatter eventually turns to upcoming weddings. To her credit, Marina holds her own—it’s almost eerie how good she is at lying—and participates without qualms, even adding details about ours. I wish I had a notebook with me to take notes because there’s no way I’m going to remember a quarter of the things she said. I suppose if she doesn’t, we’ll say she changed her mind about certain things. Things change, probably more often than not.

My attention continues to return to Lennon and Aubrey, Tate’s daughter. They’re as different as night and day but seem to get along, boding well for the upcoming nuptials between their parents. A crackle of something I can’t explain infiltrates my chest a few times, and as if she can sense it, Marina smiles at me, squeezes my hand, or grazes my thigh with her fingers. It’s unsettling yet calming at the same time. Make it make sense.

“Mimi and I made cookies for dessert,” Aubrey singsongs after our meal finishes. “I think you’re gonna love ‘em.”

“Aubrey did most of the work. I merely supervised,” Millie states, beaming with pride for her soon-to-be granddaughter.

“And took them out of the oven, a job I’m not allowed to do.” She side-eyes her mother, the attitude comical for her mild disposition.

Walsh hides his amusement with a cough.

“That’s the least fun job,” Tate implies, effectively shutting down the conversation.

“Are we gonna only talk about the cookies or are we gonna eat them?” Lennon retorts.

“We’re gonna eat them. We made your favorites—s’mores.”

Lennon pats her belly and licks her lips. “I can already taste them.” She glances at me. “What are your favorite cookies, Nero?”

“Homemade peanut butter with chocolate chips, right out of the oven.”

My comment tarnishes Aubrey’s good mood. “We don’t have those.”

“He won’t turn down any cookies,” Marina supplies, boosting her spirits. “Unless you put olives in them.”

“Eww.”

“Gross.”

“Why would anyone put olives in a cookie?”

Lennon sticks out her tongue. “Yuck. I’m not eating cookies or anything else with olives in them.”

I face Marina with a smirk. “I have found my people.” Addressing the table, I hook a thumb toward her. “This one always makes fun of me for not liking olives. Seems like her opinion is the minority.”

Hunter raises his hand. “I’m an olive fan, though I’m not sure they’d be good in cookies. That’d be an acquired taste for sure.”