A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 5

Eli

Mistake. Coming to Mulligans with the guys was a mistake. Telling the guys about the whole marriage idea too. Especially that.

For the last hour, Van has been parading women in front of me like I’m ABC’s newest Bachelor while Alec taps furiously into his phone, presumably updating his spreadsheet. What kinds of notes he’s making, I shudder to think.

Nathan, who might have scared off women with his glare, went home when we left Felix’s. I was counting on Logan to put a stop to the foolishness—maybe because of Parker’s invisible good influence on him. But he’s been watching the whole display with unbridled amusement, smirking around a bottle of beer. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Camden and Wyatt, but they walked in and went right for the pool table like it was some kind of billiard siren.

Which leaves me at the mercy of Van and Alec.

The two usually don’t get along all that well, but apparently finding me wife candidates is the perfect bonding experience. Glad I could be of service.

While I know the guys took the visa stuff seriously, especially after Felix asked about my mom, everyone seems to think this wife hunt is all good fun.

“Dude,” Alec says. “No way you’re going to snag even a girlfriend like this. Much less a wife.”

“I told you I’m not interested in looking for a woman to marry. At least, not in a bar.”

“This is about your future. At least look alive, man. It’s like you body-swapped with Nathan.”

I wish. Then I wouldn’t be here.

But Alec is not wrong. I can feel the heaviness bearing down on me, a weighted blanket of discontent. I stare down at my shoes, a new pair of Vans. I have a thing for skater shoes. Maybe because growing up, we never could afford them. My kid self would lose it if he knew how many pairs I own now. A small consolation at the moment.

Being moody doesn’t suit me. It’s like wearing a jersey ten sizes too small. But I’m not able to shake the doom and gloom tonight. It’s even worse than before lasagna, which means ricotta therapy was a fail. Or maybe it was simply offset by this whole fiasco.

“I can’t be sunshine all the time,” I say, taking a sip of my beer, wondering if I should just head home.

Except … book club. We left Felix’s early since Gracie was coming over. It’s only eight o’clock, and Mom’s book ladies have been known to linger.

Van walks up with a woman on each arm and the kind of look I want to smack right off his face. Both blonds—one with straight hair, one curly. But their faces are indistinct to me, probably because I’m not interested. It’s not them. It’s me.

I shift in my chair, looking across the room longingly at Wyatt as he lines up a shot at the pool table, laughing at something Cam says. I suck at pool. But I’d much rather have a cue stick in my hand and be losing to the new guys than have an overeager Van thrusting two blonds my way.

As though invited—to be clear, they were not—the women drop onto my lap, one on each knee.

I glare at Van between their shoulders. Despite my sport of choice, I’ve never been in a fight. Not even on the ice. Van says this makes me a unicorn of hockey. I think it just means I’m measured and even-tempered, easy to forgive.

But now?

Now, I’d like to throw my first punch. At my teammate. In a bar. Where he’s trying to “help.”

“Our boy Eli seems to have lost his smile,” Van says to the women, who giggle as though he waved a magic giggle wand. “See what you can do about that, hmm?”

Both women nod enthusiastically. I’d put money on the fact that they would say yes to any guy who wears an Appies jersey. Or any kind of jersey. I start to get up, but Van comes around behind my chair, resting his hands a little too firmly on my shoulders as he leans close to my ear.

“Remember: you’re doing this for your country. This country, not Canada.” He hums the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner” before slapping me on the back and loosening his grip.

The women settle in and lean in close, their arms snaking around my shoulders as the mix of their perfume makes me sneeze. I glare at Van, but he only grins and heads back out. Probably to find more potential victims.

I sigh, giving the women pressing in on either side a cursory glance. I want to be polite but don’t want to encourage conversation.

Or anything else.

“I’m Eli.” Nice and neutral. No hint of flirtation. Nothing to give off any hope. “And could you actually … use chairs?”

When they stare blankly, like my request for them to vacate my personal space is outlandish, I reach to the side, grabbing chairs. Then I gently but firmly urge the women off my lap.

“Hockey’s hard on the knees,” I say, which is actually true. Even if that’s not why I don’t want them sitting on mine.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t stop them from draping themselves over me. Fabulous.

“I’m Brenda,” purrs the one with the straight hair, dragging a fingertip up my forearm.

“Kellie,” the other woman says in the same kind of voice. They sound like throaty babies. Like two-year olds with head colds. “Kellie with an -ie not a -y. In case you want to put it in your phone.”

I definitely do not.

Alec grins as he taps on his, probably entering Kellie with an -ie into the spreadsheet I hope I never have to see.

“Brenda and Kellie,” Alec says. “Like the original 90210.”

The women stare blankly, and I shake my head.

Alec sets his phone on the table for the first time since we got to Mulligans. “Beverly Hills, 90210? Am I the only one who streams nineties TV shows? Never mind. I’m getting a beer.”

Which leaves me shifting uncomfortably as I try to decide how to politely extricate myself as the women press closer, making me the middle of an unwanted Eli sandwich.

“Eli?”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Don’t let that be⁠—

I glance up and wish I had done more to extricate myself from the women on either side of me. Where’s a TARDIS when you need one?

Because a few feet away, Bailey stares. A baby deer, wide-eyed and blinking in undisguised shock. Her eyes dart from my face to the women petting me like a zoo animal. I don’t miss the way her expression falls. Her surprise morphs into disappointment.

Not that I can blame her. This looks … bad.

I’m a caricature of a professional athlete. The kind of man who treats relationships—and women—like paper plates.

Though it’s a stereotype for a reason, there are also plenty of athletes who don’t fall into that category. Me being one. I’ve dated, but always with a more serious intent in mind. Never casually. Always hoping I’ve found someone who could be more.

Except, that’s not how this looks. It’s not how I look.

Two women rather than just one? No biggie—just a typical night at the bar!

And it matters to me. Deeply.

“Hey, Bailey. I, uh … ” There’s nothing more I can say while I still have Brenda and Kellie on either side of me like twin Barbie gargoyles.

If my mom were here, the disapproving look she’d give would be enough to burn a hole through my shirt.

Bailey’s cheeks flush, reminding me with a slice of regret how easily I can make her blush with a teasing word.

Happy blushing. This is most definitely unhappy blushing.

She’s already starting to back away. In a long overdue move, I hop to my feet, dislodging the two women as politely yet firmly as I can. Brushing past them, I ignore their twin huffs of annoyance and step into Bailey’s space.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” Her lips tilt up, then quickly drop, her smile landing somewhere near her shoes.

“So, what’s up?” I wave, then drop my hand because, really, that’s the conversation starter I’m going with? “You’re here … in a bar.”

From somewhere behind me, I hear Alec, who returned with a beer just in time to witness this, snort. I ignore him. But I agree with the sentiment. It’s like my brain has been transported back to middle school when I tried and failed to make conversation with my cute lab partner in science.

So, dissections, huh? How about that dead squid?

“You’re also in a bar,” Bailey points out, her smile widening.

“Yeah, but you’re …” I don’t know where that sentence is going, but probably nowhere that’s going to do me any favors. I clamp my mouth shut.

I’m fidgeting, suddenly full of energy that feels like it’s erupting out of me. Probably leftover embarrassment from Bailey catching me at the exact moment she did. Or from the fact that in our last conversation, I halfway proposed.

I shove my hands in my pockets, then feel awkward and pull them back out, crossing them over my chest. But I saw something on TikTok recently on body language, and the guy said crossing your arms over your chest looks hostile. Or like you’re trying to show off your muscles.

Unfolding my arms, I drop my hands to my sides where they hang like anchors.

Why am I suddenly so aware of my hands? How is it that they feel huge and clumsy, like I’m standing here in street clothes but wearing my hockey gloves? What do I do with my hands normally, and why can’t I just do that now?

Bailey laughs softly. “Tell me the truth, Eli—did you think I lived at the shelter?”

I laugh too, pleased that she’s teasing me. Or … flirting? Is this the Bailey version of flirting? The way the pink in her cheeks deepens to red tells me maybe it is.

Somehow, this dispels my nervous energy. I grin. “Do you live at the shelter?”

“If I don’t return at midnight, I’ll turn into a pumpkin.”

“Noted.” There’s a tiny pause, and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry about … that.” I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until a lock of hair falls into my eyes. I brush it away. “It really wasn’t what it looked like.”

“It wasn’t you with two women practically sitting in your lap?” Her smile is wry. One brow arches, and I chuckle.

But I’m also seriously glad Bailey didn’t walk by a minute sooner to see the women actually on my lap.

“You’re messing with me. Yes—it was that. But it just happened and⁠—”

“It was me.” A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, one attached to Van. “I’m a very bad influence. Are you looking for a bad influence in your life?”

“No,” I say. The word comes out somewhere between a growl and a groan. “She’s definitely not.”

Bailey laughs. “No, thank you.”

“This is Bailey,” I tell Van, debating on whether I should give him some context or if doing so would make the whole thing worse. Or give him the wrong idea.

Too late. Van looks pointedly between us. I can almost hear the gears in his head grinding to a stop. He turns fully to Bailey with a smile.

“I’m Van. I play hockey with this fool.”

I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. Or smiling at her. Or standing so close to her.

“Nice to meet you.”

Bailey’s voice is muted, soft enough to make me want to lean closer so I don’t miss a word. Or so Van’s not closer to her than I am. She reaches forward, her small hand disappearing in his palm. When Van lifts it to his lips, his eyes are on mine, daring me to react. I don’t take the bait.

Even though I’d like to rip her away from him, yank Van by the back of his shirt collar, and drag him right out of Mulligans.

The flush in Bailey’s cheeks spreads, reaching the tips of her ears and even her neck. A swell of protectiveness rises in my throat.

I crowd closer, nudging him away with my shoulder. “Dude, she doesn’t want your germs. Sorry,” I tell Bailey. “He’s incorrigible.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Van says, looking pleased with himself. “What’s incorrigible mean?”

“Google it,” I tell him.

This earns me a laugh from Bailey, even though she still looks hesitant, like she’s not quite sure how to respond to any of this. Shy Bailey is back, it seems. She takes the tiniest step closer to me, like I make her feel safer.

Good. I like that.

With no warning, Van curls an arm around my neck and starts to ruffle my hair. “Dude. Get off!”

We scuffle, and I shoot Bailey an apologetic look from under Van’s armpit, which is not a location I ever want to be. She watches, her toffee eyes wide.

“So,” Van grunts, his mouth way too close to my ear. I’m used to having the guys invade my space, but usually it’s on the ice. The feeling of Van’s beard on my neck in this bar is too close. “Is she the next hopeful Mrs. Eli Hopkins?”

Now I’m the one with him in a chokehold, breathing hard and speaking right into his ear where he’s not possibly able to misunderstand me. “Shut up about that. Okay? She’s a … friend.”

The last thing I’m ever going to bring up again around Bailey is the whole marriage thing. It was a disaster, even if I didn’t intend to even tell her. I picture her on the shelter floor, eyes glistening and cheeks red from coughing. No—definitely not doing that again.

It took me months to get her to feel comfortable enough to talk to me. I’m lucky she’s still talking to me now after even joking about my situation.

“Right. Because guy and girl friendships work soooo well,” Van says on a laugh.

“Yeah, like you’d know. Have you ever tried to be friends with a girl?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to because Van lives firmly in the men-and-women-can’t-be-friends camp and cannot be convinced otherwise.

I let him go, shoving him a few feet away, but he comes right back. Like a virus you can’t shake. Or gum stuck to your shoe.

“Sorry about that,” I say, brushing my hair out of my eyes and straightening my shirt. I realize one of the pockets of my jeans is inside out, and I tuck the lining back in with my fingertips.

“It’s fine,” Bailey says. “I’m actually⁠—”

“Bailey!” At a table near the back, a woman with short dark hair waves wildly. Two other women sit slack-jawed and staring like this scene is straight out of a telenovela. It’s close enough.

Even more so when arms snake around my waist from behind as Brenda and Kellie—whom I’d forgotten all about—make what can only be called a last-ditch coordinated, amorous attack.

“Uh-oh,” Van mutters.

Though I think it should be pretty obvious to anyone watching that I am not interested, the presence of Brenda and Kellie has an immediate effect on Bailey. Her smile fades, and her eyes dim. She steps back, her shoulders curling as she folds herself into a smaller and smaller space, like she thinks she can disappear.

“I’m with friends,” Bailey says, taking another step. “And it’s obvious you’re … busy.”

“I’m not busy.”

I clench my jaw, removing Brenda and Kellie’s hands from my body with less gentleness than when I pushed them from my lap. It takes some effort. When I push away one hand, another appears like a hand-Hydras.

Finally, I take a huge step away from them. Toward Bailey.

I’ve completely invaded her space. We’re nose to nose. Or, I would be if she were taller. More like her nose to my collarbone.

I lean close. “Can I meet your friends? Or buy you a drink?”

Bailey saws her teeth over her bottom lip, glancing again at her friends then behind me where I imagine Brenda and Kellie are regrouping. “Um.”

“Please?”

I don’t even care how desperate I sound. Because Bailey’s presence is a strong wind, blowing away the thick, dark fog I’ve been feeling.

I wish she would also blow away Brenda and Kellie, who step forward again like some kind of synchronized stalking team, trying to hook their arms through mine. I wiggle away from them and curl one arm around Bailey’s shoulders until I’m practically draped over her like a shawl.

Her hair smells like cinnamon and cotton candy. Suddenly I’m starving.

“Please,” I repeat, this time in a whisper. I bend, my lips brushing her ear. This is more touching than we’ve ever done, and I half expect Bailey to evaporate in a puff of smoke. “Help me, Bailey-Wan Kenobi! You’re my only hope.”

“Are you afraid of the big bad wolves?” she murmurs.

“Very.”

“Fine. You can join us.” She glances back once more, where I imagine Brenda and Kellie are pouting. I don’t look. “They do have very big … teeth.”

That has me laughing as I start to guide her toward her friends, my arm still curled around her shoulders. A burst of happiness blooms bright in my chest when she relaxes into me. I give her shoulder a squeeze. “You’re funny.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Hey, in my defense, up until this week, I could barely drag more than two sentences at a time out of you.”

Bailey’s elbow finds my ribs, a teasing poke. “I tend to be a little … reserved when I first meet people. Or when I’m not comfortable with them yet.”

I grin. “So, you’re comfortable with me now?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. And sorry again about back there. My teammates were trying—and failing—to set me up. Mostly against my will. I should have extricated myself before then.”

“Extricated, huh?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, echoing her words from a moment ago. “I’ll have you know I aced the vocab portion of the SAT.”

“Good to know. But as for the need for extrication …” Bailey sticks her lip out, and I find myself suddenly distracted. “Poor little hockey player with all the ladies after him.”

Grinning, I pull her closer with the arm around her shoulders and use my other to tickle her lightly. She giggles, a sound that lights me up from the inside out. “Don’t mock me.”

She bats my hand away. “I said what I said, hockey player.”

“I see how it is. Now that you know who I am, that’s all I am to you—a hockey player?”

“Pretty much.”

As we cross the bar to her table, I take Bailey in for the first time, and my brain goes on a brief hiatus from working. Until now, I haven’t even noticed that she’s not in scrubs. She’s always in scrubs.

But not tonight.

She’s dressed in a dark skirt that falls just above her knees. Legs bare, despite the chilly fall temperature outside, and she has on ankle boots. Her blue top is soft and loose with a wide neck, revealing delicate collarbones. It’s the first time I’ve seen Bailey’s hair out of a ponytail, and it hangs loose around her shoulders.

She glances up, as though feeling the weight of my attention on her, and the smile I get is one I haven’t seen before. Still hesitant, but more open than usual, like she no longer feels the need to make herself small around me.

Pretty, I think with a hard swallow. She really is pretty.

The whole thing throws me. Seeing Bailey here at a bar in normal clothes is disconcerting in the same way it is to see your doctor at the grocery store.

I blink and try to readjust the box Bailey fits into. From shelter worker to … this.

The soft smile and the flush in her cheeks are the same. The shy demeanor too, though she’s definitely more comfortable. Maybe she’s had a beer? Two? I need to focus here—on the things I recognize. To hold them as anchors.

But my eyes are drawn to her bare legs. I tell myself not to ogle. Even though they’re absolutely ogle-worthy. Ogle-able. Ogle-icious.

Anyway. No ogling. Nogling.

I force my attention back to Bailey’s face, feeling my skin prickle with awareness. Brenda and Kellie are long gone. I probably don’t need to keep my arm around Bailey.

I keep it there anyway.

Van steps in front of us just before we reach the table. “Sorry we got interrupted,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“I was buying Bailey and her friends drinks,” I say.

“Sounds good.”

I look at Bailey. “Is this cool?”

Bailey hesitates, like she’s weighing various options and outcomes. Finally, she sighs and then looks between me and Van, then peeks past him at the table. “Fine. My friends would be more than happy to meet you. I may not know hockey, but some of them do. I apologize in advance for the fangirling you’re about to be subjected to.”

“I love fangirling.” Van tugs at the collar of his shirt, adjusting for maximum tattoo teasing.

“You would,” I mutter.

We reach the table with Bailey’s three friends, one of whom looks significantly older than Bailey, and all of whom are actively staring.

Bailey drops onto the nearest chair, patting the one next to her and looking up at me expectantly. I waste no time sitting down and scooting a little closer to her. Van pulls a chair over from another table and turns it so he’s straddling it backwards. He turns his baseball cap at the same time, as though he needs his hat to match his chair.

“Everyone, this is Eli and Van,” Bailey says, her voice more bold and commanding than I’ve ever heard it. “Yes, they play for the Appies. That’s the hockey team in town, if you don’t know. Be cool. Don’t ask intrusive questions. And no”—here she gives a long look to the younger, dark-haired woman directly across from Van—“they will not sign any of your body parts.”

“Eli won’t,” Van corrects. “But I’m happy to sign anything at all if you ask nicely.”

I roll my eyes. “Ignore him. He was raised in a cave by trolls.”

“Not wolves?” Bailey asks.

“Nope. Definitely trolls.”

Bailey does introductions, and I try to remember, though my brain is buzzing. Shannon is the loud one with pale skin and dark hair, and I think Jenny is the name of the one with glasses, rows of tiny braids, and light brown skin. Her disposition reminds me a little of Bailey. She speaks so softly, it’s hard to hear her over the music.

I realize I’ve met the older woman at the shelter—Beth, with her white curls and wide smile. I’m too distracted by the feel of Bailey’s leg pressed against mine under the table to take in much else. I’m wearing jeans so I can’t feel her skin, but just knowing hers is bare is enough.

I have a brief argument with myself about being shallow for noticing Bailey now that she’s wearing something other than scrubs. But my awareness started the other day. When she was in normal work clothes and had her hair in a messy ponytail.

And I’ve always liked Bailey. Even if it’s only lately that I started to realize my visits to the shelter are maybe as much about her as they are the dogs. Her quiet steadiness calms me. I’ve enjoyed the challenge of seeing what questions will actually make her talk.

So, see?

Not shallow.

We’re friends. I feel affection because we’re friends, just like I told Van when I had him in a headlock.

She smiles up at me, and my gaze falls to her lips.

Not terribly shallow. Maybe more than just friendly feelings. A mild sense of attraction.

“Good to see you,” Beth says, her white curls bouncing around her face as she smiles. “Almost didn’t recognize you without a dog in your lap.”

“How’s Doris?” I ask.

Bailey’s smile widens. “Better. Still doesn’t like the other dogs or most people, but she’s eating.”

“Who’s Doris?” Van asks, looking confused.

I ignore him. “Can I buy everyone a round of drinks?” It’s only as I look around the table that I notice the birthday balloons and a few gift bags, brightly colored tissue paper peeking out of the tops. “Wait—whose birthday is it?”

All conversation stops. And from the way everyone’s eyes fall to Bailey, I don’t need anyone to answer. I spin, angling myself toward her and resting my arm on the back of her chair.

“Bailey—is it your birthday?”

She stares down at her hands, twisting a napkin in her lap. But she’s smiling. “It’s not a big deal.”

My arm is still on the back of her chair, and I let it fall forward until it brushes her shoulders. “Oh, I happen to disagree. Where I come from, birthdays are a very big deal.”

Shannon furrows her brow. “Like, birthdays are a big deal in Canada?”

“Yeah, Eli,” Van says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You have Canadian birthday traditions I don’t know about, eh?”

“Yeah. We do.”

We don’t.

But no one else at this table knows that. Honestly, I’ve found that the American understanding of Canada begins and ends with maple leaves, Mounties, and the apparent universal appeal of Justin Trudeau.

Oh, and eh. Just add eh to unlock your Canadian achievement badge.

I grin at Bailey, staring pointedly until she lifts her gaze to meet mine. For half a second, looking at her warm brown eyes, I forget where I was going with this.

“In Canada we have a whole set of birthday traditions.”

Bailey tugs at the end of her hair, twirling a strand of it around her finger. I find this little show of nerves endearing.

“Like what?”

Like … I don’t know. But I’m good at spontaneous. Much better at living in the moment than thinking ahead. And I’d highly prefer to just have a fun evening making Bailey’s birthday special than worrying about my time ticking down.

I grin and give the end of her hair a playful tug. “You’re about to find out.”

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