A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 6

Bailey

I’m pressing cool, wet hands to my cheeks when Shannon saunters into the bathroom at the bowling alley, whistling. Her smug smile tells me the cold water has done nothing to tame what feels like a permanent flush in my cheeks.

Of course my closest friend knows I’m flustered. And exactly why. Even if I hadn’t mentioned my crush on Eli before, I’m sure it would have been obvious tonight.

Can I help it if the man makes me shine brighter? Feel lighter? And blush like a schoolgirl with a crush?

Shannon leans a hip against the counter and brushes a strand of dark hair off her cheek. Oh, so casual. Too casual. Somehow, she also manages to make her floral nightgown paired with bowling shoes look trendy and cute. Whereas I’m drowning in ugly pink fabric and certain I’ll wake up tomorrow to find some kind of bowling-shoe fungus on my feet.

I tug at the neckline of my own nightgown. It’s the kind I see women with tufts of white hair sporting in my grandmother’s nursing home: a thick pink material with decorative buttons down the front and tiny flowers. It should fall to my knees, but the ruffled hem hits me mid-thigh. Which makes me wonder if it’s a child’s nightgown—usually I’m swallowed up in fabric, not worried about things being too short. Paired with orange knee socks and bowling shoes, I look like I lost a bet. Or several.

Instead, it was Beth—whom I’ll find a way to get even with later—who picked out my clothes for me as part of Eli’s supposedly Canadian birthday shenanigans. Our whole little group is now dressed in a random assortment of sleepwear. Well, Shannon, Eli, Van, and I are. After the Walmart shopping excursion, we lost the other two. They gave excuses about early work mornings, but I think it was more the idea of bowling in nightgowns that didn’t appeal to Jenny and Beth.

“Those Canadians sure love celebrating birthdays,” Shannon says, crossing her arms.

“Yup.” I rip off a paper towel from the dispenser and pretend like the rough brown paper is actually helping to dry my hands. Anything to avoid looking at Shannon.

“It’s weird, though.” Her voice takes on a thoughtful tone as she taps her chin. “I’ve never heard about Canadians doing a special birthday extravaganza.”

Me, neither. In fact I highly suspect that Eli, for whatever reason, made the birthday thing up.

Which would mean this entire night—from the round of drinks at the bar to bowling in the silly clothes to the as-yet-unfulfilled promise of waffles at my favorite diner—is only because Eli wanted to make my birthday more fun. Not because it’s the “Canadian way.”

The idea makes me ridiculously happy. But I need to find a way to tone it down to a manageable happy. A reasonable happy. I’m getting way too many ideas.

When the reality is that Eli is a nice guy. A fun guy. A guy who seems to enjoy making other people happy, even people he’s barely friends with. Like me.

This has nothing to do with him crushing on me the way I’ve crushed on him for so long. And I’d really love for it to have nothing to do with his visa issues. Like this night is some weird way to ease me into his marriage-fraud idea.

“I don’t know much about Canada,” I say. “Other than like … hockey and snow and poutine. Is that a Canada thing or a Wisconsin thing? Sounds gross, either way.”

I’m babbling and I know it. Which won’t in any way help curtail my too-smart friend’s suspicions. I’m at least grateful I didn’t tell her about the whole mention of marriage. If Eli’s pretending that never happened, so am I.

Even if, deep in the recesses of my brain, I can’t stop thinking about it.

From what Eli said, he’s going to have to go back to Canada. I was already sad when I thought about not seeing him again. After tonight, it will be worse. I’d rather not face that fact on my birthday. But the thought has been there, like a steady hum of a refrigerator or the Muzak in a department store.

“Oh! And the Ryans! They’re Canadian,” I add. “Reynolds and Gosling.”

Shannon snorts. “Nice try, with your sad little Canada facts. But you know I’m like a bloodhound.” She makes a show of sniffing the air. “And I smell … romance in the air.”

I squeeze my paper towel into a tiny, tight ball before tossing it in the trash. But when I try to brush past Shannon, she blocks my exit. Her hands on my shoulders are surprisingly gentle. Yet also totally inescapable, like she’s a mama hawk and I’m the baby she’s grasping in her talons while flying above the tree line. The way my stomach is pitching and rolling, I can practically feel the ground dropping out beneath me.

“You like him,” Shannon says, her eyes roving over my face like she’s trying to find something she misplaced.

Rather than denying it, the way my panicking heart is telling me to, I roll my eyes. “Who wouldn’t? But it’s nothing. Just a tiny crush on a man who seems manufactured for the sole purpose of making women crush on him.”

“It’s not nothing, Bay.” The softness in her tone grates on me, even as it soothes me to know someone cares. “You deserve a crush on someone like Eli. Especially after losing so much.”

Her jaw clamps shut as I glare with the fiercest look I can muster. “Can we just not? It’s my birthday.”

Shannon sighs. “I know. I just love you. And you’ve shouldered a lot.”

She trails off. But she doesn’t need to finish. And she’s not wrong. I just would rather not think about my parents not being here to celebrate my birthday. I already feel guilty that I haven’t thought about that in hours. Not since Eli showed up and made the night special.

“Anyway. It’s not like it matters,” I tell her. “Eli doesn’t like me. He’s just a really nice guy.”

And he’s moving back to Canada.

Unless I—or someone else, like maybe one of the women from the bar—marry him.

“Nice?” Shannon asks.

I double down. “Very nice.”

He is. Nice. Thoughtful. Fun. Funny. Hot. Sweet.

I’ve had a front row seat to so many of these qualities at the shelter. You can learn a lot about a person by the way they talk to a dog. But tonight, I’ve seen all these same qualities in another setting.

Eli paid for everything tonight. He made sure my friends felt included. He got protective when a drunk man stumbled into Jenny, knocking her glasses down her nose. Eli stepped in between them, pinning the man with a hard stare until he apologized.

It was Eli’s suggestion that we stop by Harvest Hollow’s one and only Walmart before bowling—Part of the Canadian birthday tradition, he said. And of course, he paid for the clothes and the bowling and I bet he already picked up the tab for the sodas and copious amounts of French fries, which are somehow better at the bowling alley than any restaurant in town.

The entire night, Eli has buoyed the mood, keeping things fun and light. Though I usually hate being the center of attention almost as much as I hate birthdays, somehow Eli has made me feel special without making me feel as though I’ve been followed along by a giant spotlight. Almost like this man who barely knows me somehow knows me well enough to know what I need. Which is to enjoy my birthday without having all the unnecessary birthday attention.

So, yeah, my crush hatched, sprouted wings, and flew away hours ago. It’s an entirely new animal.

Which is why I desperately need to get my feet back on the ground. Preferably not in these bowling shoes.

I also need to stop using so many flying analogies.

With a smile and a little bit of muscle, I manage to extricate myself from Shannon’s mama-bird grip. “Really. It’s no big deal. He’s barely a friend. It’s just my birthday. Nothing more.”

As I push out of the bathroom door, the noise and flashing lights and smell of bowling alley and beer hitting me, Shannon stays put.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Shannon calls after me. The door swings shut on her voice, punctuating her words.

But I’ve already forgotten because Eli is leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway, grinning at me. My feet skid to a stop.

He couldn’t hear us … could he?

No—definitely not. There’s ’90s rock pumping through speakers overhead, plus the satisfying thwack of pins being struck and a tangle of voices and laughter. Still, my pulse ratchets up as my heart does a little terrified shimmy in my chest.

Even dressed in a bright green muumuu covered in lemons, which is what Shannon and I picked out for Eli and Van to wear, the man is enough to make my breath catch. Or perhaps it’s because the loose house dress has slipped off one shoulder, revealing a swath of tawny golden skin. Toned. Rippling with muscles even as he just stands here, doing zero athletic activities.

As I watch, Eli tracks my gaze, which has caught on his bare shoulder. With a small smile that looks far too pleased, he slides the fabric of the lime green muumuu back up, covering the skin I was admiring.

I almost boo.

“You look like you’re about to protest.” Eli’s mouth curves in a wide smile—a pleased one.

Am I that easy to read? Apparently so.

“I was just looking for scars,” I say, scrambling for any kind of excuse for my rude staring.

“I’ve got plenty. Though the hallway of a bowling alley probably isn’t the best place to show them off.”

“Probably not,” I agree, as though this is perfectly normal bowling alley conversation.

“Maybe later?” He arches a brow, and a thrill moves through me at what sounds like an invitation.

But an invitation to—what? Check out his scars?

I think I lost the thread of this conversation. If I ever had it. My skin burns with a feverish flush, and I can’t find a safe place to look. Not at Eli’s face, with his mouth tipped up in a half smile and his blue eyes, intent on mine. His shoulders are too broad, his collarbones too inviting.

You know it’s bad when you find yourself obsessing over clavicles.

I’m saved from myself by a huge yawn. Even though it’s only ten-thirty, I’m suddenly exhausted. I have an embarrassingly early bedtime. Beth told me once after I didn’t answer a string of texts around ten o’clock that her eleven-year-old niece stays up later than I do.

I believe it.

“We should probably head out.” Before I get any ideas. “I’m getting tired.”

“What about waffles?”

Immediately, I can see a Belgian waffle, butter glistening in every square, syrup pooling around it in a sticky lake. “I just—” A yawn cuts me off, and I cover my mouth with my hand. Who knows what my breath smells like after beer, a Dr Pepper, part of Shannon’s chili fries, and a few handfuls of Skittles. “Should probably get some sleep. I’ve got the early shift tomorrow.”

Eli lifts his hand. I think he’s going to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the one that never stays put, but instead, he gives it a gentle tug like he did earlier, then lets it fall back against my cheek. His fingertips graze the side of my neck. I shiver.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t sound very sure.” Eli leans closer and drops his voice to a sultry whisper. “Waffles, Bailey. Waffles.”

Has a breakfast food ever sounded sexy?

“Fine.” I give Eli a playful shove, mostly because my sense of self-preservation kicks in. Having him this close is dangerous. “Let’s see who else wants to go.”

Because I need the buffer Shannon and Van provide. The two of them have been flirt-bickering all night, and it’s the perfect thing to diffuse the probably one-sided electric tension I’m feeling.

“I need to head home.” Shannon is suddenly beside me, the bathroom door swinging closed behind her. She gives me a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. “Happy birthday, B. Do you think you can give the birthday girl a ride home?” she asks Eli. “I drove her because her car totally sucks.”

“Hey! It drives!”

“Barely,” Shannon says.

So, maybe it needs new tires. And has a dashboard lit up like Christmas with all the flashing lights: Check Engine, the little oil can symbol, and something called ABS something or other. One day I’ll have the extra cash to get all those things fixed. Or at least checked out.

Not anytime soon with the money I just sent off to Gran’s nursing home.

“I’ve got her,” Eli says, and I like the way that sounds—maybe a little too much.

We say goodbye to Van and Shannon in the parking lot, and then Eli leads me to a black SUV and opens the door for me. When he takes my hand to help me up, I exhale a happy sigh. I manage not to protest when his palm slides away from mine. After making sure my legs are properly tucked inside the vehicle, he closes the door and jogs around to his side.

As he climbs in, he pulls out his buzzing phone, frowning as he glances down at the screen. “Sorry—it’s my mom.” He lifts the phone to his ear. “Hey—what’s wrong?”

His frown deepens, and worry pinches my chest. I’d like to reach out, to place a reassuring hand on his arm. The same way he did the other day when I was coughing.

Eli didn’t hesitate or overthink the gesture. He just came right over and made sure I was okay.

I want to do the same, but I can’t quite bring myself to be that brave.

The call ends before my bravery arrives, and as Eli shoves the phone back in his pocket, I tell myself that in ten more seconds, maybe I would have worked up the courage to touch his arm.

“I have to go,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “Something’s wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me what on the phone.”

My bravery chooses that moment to kick in. “I’ll go with you.”

“Yeah?”

Eli’s brows shoot up, and it’s then I realize he might not want me to go with him. We’ve gone from randomly running into each other in a bar to me meeting his mother. Which is a lot of ground to cover in one night.

I twist my hands into the fabric of my nightgown. “Or I could just grab a rideshare or you could⁠—”

“Not a chance.” Eli shakes his head. “But buckle up,” he says, and I get the sense he means both literally and figuratively.

I fasten the buckle with a satisfying click, wishing it were a little easier to secure the rest of me.

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