A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 4

Eli

“Dude, where’s your head?” Van smacks the side of my helmet with his stick as he skates past me.

“Right here,” I grumble.

But it’s not. My head is nowhere near the Summit. It’s caught up in a worry vortex, cycloning around my uncertain future.

For days now, I’ve been trying to think of some kind of plan. Some way to skirt around immigration laws. To make it so I don’t have to leave these idiots and rip my mom away from the life she’s built here. Any alternative to moving back to Canada. Some kind of plan B or C or D or XYZ.

I am also pretending my half-hearted proposal attempt to Bailey, a woman I barely know, and the subsequent nonsensical explanation before I bolted, didn’t happen. What was I even thinking? I don’t have an answer for the temporary lapse in judgment that lead me to blurt out a half-cocked joke-proposal to the sweet, shy woman working at the animal shelter.

Based on her reaction—which was almost choking to death right in front of me—I think I can rule out the whole find-a-wife option.

And now, I’m too embarrassed to face her, which means not going to the shelter, which is not helping my mood. She may have joked about it, but the dogs really are my version of therapy. Maybe Bailey has a part in it too, something I only realize in hindsight now that I’ve wrecked things with her.

When I was little, Mom sometimes would pick a chapter book to read at night. Often I fell asleep only to wake up to find her still reading, silently then, and many chapters ahead. One book that stuck with me was about a boy who lived in a house with a doomsday clock in its walls. Kind of creepy reading, but I loved the thrill of fear, and Mom did a great job with the voices. Too good, maybe.

The story comes to mind now. That’s me—a man with a doomsday clock in my walls. And every day that I don’t do something, the deadline moves closer and my mood gets darker. I swear, I can almost hear the minutes ticking away.

Alec knocks into me, his bulk hefting me into the wall. For a moment, we’re locked in the hockey player’s version of a romantic embrace. If we didn’t have our helmets on, his face would be far too close for comfort.

I grunt and shove him off.

“We’re going to have to start calling you Speed Bump,” Alec says, skating away.

“Ha ha,” I say. I’d like to release a little of my current tension by wiping the smile off his face. Briefly, I imagine his grin with a few teeth missing, and I’m almost happy.

Tucker laughs, and I have a sinking feeling that I’ve just gotten a nickname to replace Hop. Great.

“I approve,” Tucker says, turning backward to shoot me the kind of grin that makes me want to chase him down and knock him into the wall. “Speed Bump suits you.”

I manage to ignore the guys’ ribbing, but when Coach calls me over, I can’t ignore him. He may not call me Speed Bump, but I’m sure he’s thinking it. I am useless on the ice today. If I keep this up, he’ll replace me with the overeager second stringer in Saturday’s game.

The idea further darkens my mood.

I expect a lecture, but Coach’s stern expression softens when I skate over. He puts a hand on my shoulder, his dark brown eyes meeting mine.

“I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, son,” he says. “But until you’re not here, be here.”

I try not to react to him calling me son. But every time Coach does it, something inside me expands, like a desperately needy part of me is preening under the idea of anyone at all claiming me as their son.

Stupid.

After I shake off that feeling, Coach’s other words sink in: until you’re not here.

Not if.

Until.

In other words, he already sees this as a done deal. Me leaving the team. Going back to Canada. Losing what I’ve built here.

Whatever expanded in my chest moments ago shrivels up and crumbles to a fine powder. The hidden clock inside me ticks away, picking up speed.

I swallow and nod, forcing a smile that feels like it doesn’t fit. Like it was designed for a completely different person, a totally different face.

“Hop?” Coach gives my shoulder another squeeze.

“Sure thing, Coach.”

“Malik said you might propose to your girlfriend?”

Malik has a big mouth. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, like that will make the words disappear. How long will the lifespan of my little lie be?

“Uh, maybe,” I hedge.

Coach grins. “My daughter’s getting married soon, you know.”

I do know. Coach passed out save the date cards a few months ago in the locker room. A black and white photo of a couple with mountains in the background. I vaguely remember sticking mine in a drawer somewhere in the kitchen. Probably need to find that and actually, you know, save the date.

That is, if I’m still here.

Coach’s expression now mirrors the one he wore when he passed out the cards—pure pride.

“We’re doing the whole big wedding thing,” Coach continues. “Some of you will be there, I hope. Anyway, what I wanted to say is that Millie—that’s my daughter, Amelia—said she’d happily marry Drew with or without the giant wedding. To be honest, I wish she would. It would save my money and my sanity.”

He chuckles lightly, lifting his baseball cap to rub the top of his balding head. Even though he’s making it sound like the wedding is a giant pain, he also looks like he could talk about his baby girl getting married forever. Meanwhile, I am officially done with this conversation and eager to get back to practice where I can hopefully find someone to knock into.

“I’ll bet.”

“Think about it.” Coach grins and gives me a hearty slap on the back. “When it’s love, you don’t need all the bells and whistles. Just each other.”

I get that. When it’s real, the relationship is what matters. Not the cake or the flowers or whatever else.

But you do need an actual woman to marry.

Despite having been useless at practice and not feeling remotely social, I join some of the guys at Felix’s loft for dinner. When someone offers to make you homemade lasagna, the answer is always yes. Especially when the someone is Felix and the recipe is his grandmother’s. He makes a few alterations so it’s less of a cheat meal for us. More protein, gluten-free noodles, and I happen to know he adds finely chopped spinach to the sauce for guys who hate vegetables—the same way moms sneak vegetables to picky toddlers.

Maybe ricotta will improve my mood. Ricotta therapy should totally be a thing. If I can’t face Bailey again after having embarrassed myself so badly the other day, ricotta will be my poor substitution for puppy therapy.

“You’ve lost your spark, Speed Bump,” Alec says as I set a plate down in front of him. The rest of the guys seem content to laze around while Felix finishes the food and I set the table.

Do none of the guys have mothers who worship Emily Post and her many, many manners?

I roll my eyes at the nickname, which unfortunately seems to be sticking. “I’m not a Twilight vampire,” I mutter.

“I said spark, not sparkle,” Alec says.

Van snorts. “I don’t think men spark either.”

He tugs at his V-neck, the only style of shirt he wears. Says the way his chest tattoos peek out makes women go crazy with curiosity and the need to see all of his tattoos.

It’s a solid strategy, I guess, and it works for him. Van isn’t often alone. Not unless he wants to be. And I’ve never known him to want to be.

He might be the only guy on the team as extroverted as me. I’m not even sure if, for him, it’s about having the company of women so much as … company. Period. But I’m not about to suggest that to him. Or say that even though he may not often be alone, I suspect he’s lonely.

With plates and silverware for everyone, I take my seat between Van and Logan, who passes me the breadbasket. A big bite of garlic bread is the best way to avoid contributing to the conversation so I jam a whole piece in my mouth before handing the basket to Van.

Logan kicks me in the calf under the table. Not hard. But hard enough to draw my attention. “For real—are you okay, man?”

I shrug and work to locate an acceptable response as I swallow down the last of my garlic bread. “Okay is a relative term.”

“That’s a no,” Felix says, bringing over the steaming pan of lasagna.

His oven mitts look like a gift from his girlfriend, Gracie, who’s a professional cellist. The relationship is fairly new, which means Felix has been smiling more. A lot more. He’s also held almost every team scoreless for the last few weeks with his save percentage up to .920, so none of us are going to mention the oven mitts.

They’re pink and have music notes all over them. His apron sticks to the theme, the stiff black fabric printed with the words Nothin’ but Treble.

“Does baby wanna talk about it?” Van asks in a tone like I’m a kid with a skinned knee, crying over a boo-boo. Or throwing a tantrum over not getting the biggest chocolate chip cookie.

The man who happens to be my best friend on the team treats almost everything like a joke. Even when he’s serious. It’s hard to know which he is right now. I’m not in the mood either way.

Someone tosses a piece of garlic bread at him. Van catches it and takes a bite, smiling around a wide grin. “Thanks.”

“No throwing food,” Felix says, slicing the lasagna. As the guys hand him their plates, he dishes up heaping squares. “But seriously, Hop—you okay?”

Van swings his gaze back to me, and he’s not the only one. They all look curious. Even Camden and Wyatt, two of the newer guys who joined us for the first time tonight, are listening intently. I definitely don’t want one of my first interactions with these guys off the ice to center around my stupid predicament.

From what I know, they’re decent guys. Camden is as quiet as he is fast. Wyatt rivals Nathan in surliness and Alec in the pretty-boy looks department, though Wyatt is the lighter version with dirty blond hair and pale gray eyes. Neither Camden nor Wyatt has said much tonight. Maybe because conversation keeps circling back to me and my mood.

If I were Nathan, no one would question me being grumpy. But everyone knows I’m the sunshine on the team, not the dark cloud.

Maybe I should have just gone home. But even aside from book club being at the house tonight, being around Mom when I’m keeping a secret leaves guilt hanging over me like a dense smog. I am the air above L.A. during rush hour. The longer I wait to tell her, the worse I feel.

But telling her makes it real. Until then, I can just handle breathing in my own smog.

And handle the guys pressing me for answers.

“Well?” Alec arches a brow. “What’s the tea?”

“Who said anything about tea?” Van’s lip curls. As though tea in any variety is akin to poison. In most cases, I’d agree with him.

“It’s an expression,” Logan says. “To spill the tea is to share gossip.”

“Well, aren’t you fancy with all the terms,” Van says, using quote fingers around terms.

Logan lifts a shoulder, the same side of his mouth titling up in a half grin. “Parker.”

Logan’s girlfriend, Parker, aka the Boss, is the team’s social media manager. As well as the slang and pop culture professor, it seems. For now, even though she’s not here, she also makes for a good distraction.

Not quite good enough.

“Forget I mentioned tea,” Alec says. “Why are you suddenly acting like an Oscar-the-Grouch-Eeyore hybrid who skates like he’s wearing cinder blocks on his feet?”

I pass my plate to Felix, and by the time it returns, my appetite has disappeared. Still, I slide my fork through the lasagna, cutting it into messy little squares oozing with cheese and sauce. If I can’t even enjoy this, I’m sunk.

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter, spearing a piece of lasagna. Normally, I’d have shoveled most of the plate into my mouth, not be basically playing with my food.

“It’s about a girl,” Van says, speaking around a huge bite of lasagna. A string of cheese is caught in the dark stubble on his chin, making him look ridiculous.

“Or lack thereof,” Alec says.

“Woman,” Felix corrects without even looking up from his plate. “Not girl.”

“Okay, a lack of women,” Alec says.

“It’s not that,” I say, but the turn in conversation has me thinking about Bailey.

How round her eyes got when I mentioned marriage. The way her cheeks flamed red. The surprising warmth of her skin under my fingertips.

Bailey is cute. Pretty, even. It’s not like I didn’t notice before, but it was more a detached observation.

Fact: Bailey is pretty.

But the other day, I noticed her with a whole different set of senses. In the swoop of my stomach as I crouched in front of her, rubbing her back. In the sharp need to lean closer, the tug right in the center of my chest, the buzz of my fingertips.

Feeling: Bailey is pretty.

It was … disconcerting. Especially considering the way I was already falling all over myself with words. Add in the sudden visceral awareness of her, and it’s a wonder I could form any coherent syllables at all.

Not that it matters. I don’t need to be noticing Bailey. Or anyone. How poorly that conversation went only makes me less enthused to discuss any of it now.

“Your face says it’s a woman problem,” Logan points out unhelpfully.

I take a bite of lasagna, just to keep from having to answer. The taste of garlic and fresh basil and whatever other kinds of magic Felix baked into it almost makes this whole line of questioning tolerable. Almost.

“If you don’t tell us, we can’t help fix it,” Felix says.

“This isn’t fixable.”

The words come out harsh, and I’m never harsh. It surprises even me, and I set down my fork and wipe my mouth, ready to get up. But Logan sets a hand on my arm with just enough pressure to give me pause.

I could fight him off, but I stay where I am. It feels like defeat, waving my own threadbare white flag. More like a pair of dirty white socks run up a flagpole in a rainstorm.

“You don’t know that,” Logan says.

“I do.”

“Let us help. Eight heads are better than one.” Nathan is the one who says this, and I’m pretty sure that’s more than he’s said all day. He runs a hand over his hair, tied in a bun as usual, then goes right back to eating like him speaking up isn’t unusual.

Someone drops a fork, and Felix coughs violently, needing Camden to pound on his back.

“The oracle has spoken,” Logan whispers next to me, quiet so only I can hear. Halfway between reverent and sarcastic.

I choke back a laugh.

“Dude,” Van says, somehow less shocked than the rest of us at Nathan’s sudden desire to take part in conversation. “The saying is two heads are better than one.”

Nathan shrugs but doesn’t offer any explanation. I think he’s built with a shutoff valve inside him that activates when he talks too much. Clearly, it’s been tripped.

“But seriously,” Van says, pointing his knife my way. “Are you going to tell us or not?”

Maybe Nathan is right. Though I don’t think the guys around this table could possibly know more than the lawyers or even Malik or Coach, it would be nice not to feel so alone in this.

I glance around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. “You have to promise not to talk about this with anyone else. Swear it.”

I’m not sure why I’m insisting. When I get sent back to Canada, they’re all going to know. Or whenever Coach or Malik or someone on the Appies staff lets it spill. But it still feels shameful, like the kind of secret you hope stays in a dark closet somewhere. Plus, if I decide to talk about the marriage part of it, I’ll need this promise. Not that I’m going to do it. I’m not. But still.

Logan holds up his pinky and arches a brow. “You want us to pinky promise?”

I snort. “No. A vow of silence, maybe?”

“A vow of violence.”

That’s Wyatt, and for a moment, no one responds. I think we’re all a little stunned that the new guy spoke at all. Much less suggested something.

Alec breaks the silence with a laugh. “I like alliteration. And violence.” Then leans over and kicks Van under the table.

Van groans and doubles over, dramatically rubbing his shin. “The hell, dude?”

Alec crosses his arms over his chest. “I knew I liked you, Wyatt. Vow of violence. Who’s in?”

“So, we’re kicking each other under the table and—what? Promising not to talk about whatever’s making Eli a grumpy Gus?” Van asks.

When I realize they’re all looking at me, I nod. “I guess.”

The next minute or so is a whole lot of violence and kicking under the table. It honestly makes me feel better. Strangely normal. That is, until the guys stop kicking each other and turn toward me, waiting to hear why they just agreed to a vow of violence.

“I’m being deported.”

Not exactly true. I mean, if I don’t leave on my own, sure. But using that term seems like the best and quickest way to catch everyone up to speed real quick.

It works. The room goes silent. The kind of silence that’s somehow painfully loud. An intense lack of noise.

I already regret saying anything, but now that I’ve started, why stop?

“The only way to potentially stop it from happening is if I get married in the next three weeks.”

This is met with laughter, not silence. Uproarious. The kind punctuated with guys banging on the table or slapping each other on the back. I think Van is crying. The only two not laughing are Logan and Felix, who are clearly the only sharp tools in this shed.

I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. “And you wondered why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Wait. Wait, wait—you’re serious?” Alec wipes his eyes, then peers around Logan at me.

“About being deported or getting married?” Van asks, laughter still in his voice.

“Why doesn’t everyone shut up and let Eli talk?” Logan suggests, though the tone of his voice sounds more threat than request.

So, I do. I explain about how P-1 visas work, something I know more about now after late-night googling. About limits, renewal, needing to go back to Canada, blah blah blah. The unknown timeframe and the possibility I could get traded considering how long these things sometimes take.

“What about your mom?” Felix asks.

This makes the table fall silent again. All the guys—even Cam and Wyatt—know how close I am with my mom. Kind of hard to miss when the woman bakes game day cookies for everyone. She’s even convinced Parker to sneak her into the Summit to decorate lockers. Mom always picks a random person, and I’m trying not to take it personally that she hasn’t picked me yet.

I twirl my knife on the table, seeing my own distorted reflection spin and spin. “I haven’t told her. But I don’t think she’d stay here alone.”

Twice now, I’ve almost picked up the phone to ask one of Mom’s book club friends if they could take her in or help drive her to appointments while I’m gone. Be her support. But what stops me is the fact that I can’t tell someone else before telling Mom. It’s also a lot to ask of someone, and I know I’d be a wreck worrying if she’s okay.

I also think she’d say no. She would talk about missing Canada—she doesn’t—and missing Annie—okay, that she does—and how we stick together. Look. I’m very aware for some, maybe even most guys, living with their mom from age eighteen to twenty-eight would be laughable. Unhealthy. Bring on the mama’s boy jokes.

But Mom and I have always been close. And even before her diagnosis, when she first started having health issues, I made myself a promise I’d take care of her. For her part, I know she feels the same sense of loyalty to me.

Van shifts in his chair, counting on his fingers as he speaks. “You’re hot. You’ve got money. You play hockey. It’s like a trifecta of marriage material. How hard could it be to find a wife in a few weeks?”

I picture Bailey, red-faced and choking. “About as hard as you think. Multiplied by a lot. Plus, I don’t want to get married like this.”

“We can’t let this happen,” Van says, like he has any say in the matter. I appreciate his naive declaration of support, which sounds like it belongs in a war room, not at Felix’s dining table. “Unacceptable.”

“We’re in it together,” Felix says, his voice subdued but firm as he repeats what Alec always has us say before a game. “Family.”

“Family,” the guys repeat. I say nothing because there’s a tickle in my throat and a stinging in my nose I need to push down.

Before I do something dumb like cry at the dinner table.

Alec pulls out his phone, shoving his empty plate out of the way. “Doc or spreadsheet?”

“Come again?” I say.

“For the list of potential wives,” he says.

“We’re not making a⁠—”

“Spreadsheet,” Logan says. He shrugs when I glare. “More efficient for adding data.”

“Spreadsheet it is,” Alec says. “Do we have any women to put on the list? Anyone you’ve dated recently or thought about dating?”

I don’t say Bailey’s name, but I do think it. “No.”

“We could start with characteristics you’re looking for and work backward,” Felix suggests.

Van’s grin is sly. “I’m happy to help with the list of characteristics.”

“Your ‘characteristics’ would only be physical attributes,” Logan says wryly.

Van shrugs, still grinning. “And?”

“It takes more than looks to make a marriage work,” Wyatt says from the end of the table. He speaks like he knows, which makes a dozen questions sprout up in my mind.

“Is there really no woman who comes to mind?” Alec asks.

Only one. A quiet, unassuming woman who’s pretty in the kind of way that sneaks up on a person. One whose smiles and blushes I count, who makes me happy.

I like Bailey. Legitimately. She’s a sweet woman. Shy. Kind. Thoughtful. She treats me like a normal guy. Didn’t even know who I was or that I play hockey, which means points for her.

“A woman willing to be my fake wife? No,” I say firmly.

“She’d need to be your real wife,” Logan points out. “Legally speaking.”

“Then, definitely no.” I’m not about to drag sweet, shy Bailey into my problems. Especially not like this. Not when it includes fraud.

“That’s okay.” Alec’s brows draw together as he taps on his phone. “Spreadsheet to the rescue.”

“A spreadsheet won’t save me,” I say, wishing it could. I stand, grabbing my plate. “I need to head out. Can we help with dishes?”

Felix catches my eye, hesitating for a moment like he’s trying to read me. And I think he must sense my need to escape because he gives a quick nod and picks up his dishes. “As much as I’d like to help with this endeavor,” he says. “I’ve got to kick y’all out. Don’t worry about the dishes. Just carry them to the sink. Gracie’s coming over.”

Camden arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to have your girlfriend do our dishes?”

Felix blanches, as though just now realizing how his words sounded. “No. I’ll do them. I just want the place clean and you guys gone before she gets here. Now get out.”

He does everything but sweep us out of his loft with a broom, then slams the loft’s metal rolling door shut.

Van grabs me by the shoulder before I can escape down the stairs. “Night’s young. We’re going out.”

“Nope.”

“Let me rephrase,” Van says, squeezing my shoulder harder. “You need to come out.”

“You’re not going to find a wife by staying home, Speed Bump,” Alec says.

“He’s not going to find a wife in a bar,” Logan points out.

“Shut up. Come on.” Alec grabs me by the back of my shirt, steering me toward the stairs, and I decide not to fight.

The alternative is heading home, where I have to pretend everything is fine in front of Mom. At some point I’m going to crack and spill everything, and I’m not ready. Yet.

‘Fine,’ I say, tucking Felix’s book against my chest. ‘But don’t push this whole finding a wife thing. I’m just going out to go out.’

‘Of course,’ Alec says easily. Too easily.

Van doesn’t even pretend. Pumping a fist in the air, he shouts, “Let the great wife hunt commence!”

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