A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 9

Eli

The first thing I’m aware of is something nudging my thigh. A persistent push, growing slightly harder. A kick?

I groan, feeling the stiffness in my neck, then blink open gritty eyes to squint into painful sunlight.

I’m … outside? And based on the ache and cold in my lower half, sitting on concrete. That’s dumb. Why would I sleep outside when I have a top-of-the-line mattress at home?

Then the reason floods me. Bailey. Her safety hazard of an apartment complex. The memory of her neighbor stepping out of the shadows like the creepy love child of Gumby and Gabe. Gumby Gabe—a much better name than Jesse.

My hand closes around the sneaker-clad foot nudging my thigh. I blink up at Bailey, who is glaring down at me.

“Why are you sleeping outside my apartment?”

Van chooses that moment to saunter around the side of the building, covering a yawn with his hand. His dark hair, which he’s been growing out, is sleep mussed, but otherwise, he looks a lot more awake than I feel. There’s a sleeping bag slung over his shoulder and, surprisingly, a book under one arm.

Van reads books?

“Since we’re all awake and happy now”—Van’s steps slow, and he stops completely when he takes in Bailey’s expression, now spearing through him—“or at least awake, am I done with guard duty? I need to take a leak, and it felt disrespectful to let loose on the patio plants.”

Bailey makes a choking sound, and I clamber to my feet, the blanket Van brought me puddling around my feet. As grateful as I am for his help, it’s way too early for talk of peeing in potted plants.

“You slept on my patio?” Bailey manages.

“His orders.” Van points to me.

“You’re good to go. Thanks.” I gather up the blanket and toss it at him. Maybe with a little more force than necessary. It lands on his head, and for a moment, he’s cocooned in fabric. “I’ll get your coat back to you at practice.”

No way am I taking it off now. The morning air is well beyond crisp. Not muumuu weather at all. My breath gusts out of me in tiny wisps of cloud. We’ve got a later morning practice today—no ice time, just the weight room and then a strategy session with the coaches. I’m going to need to add in some serious stretching time beforehand to work on the cricks I’m feeling. The effects of sleeping sitting up on concrete.

“See ya,” Van calls, already jogging toward the parking lot.

When he’s gone, I turn to Bailey, fully expecting her annoyance to have blossomed into anger. I had no right to stay here, after all. It’s a few steps beyond intrusive. Instead, her brown eyes are almost gold in the morning light as she offers me a soft smile.

“You stayed,” Bailey says, wrapping her arms around herself. She’s drowning in a puffy coat that looks warm but too big, blue scrubs underneath.

“I needed to know you were safe.” I stuff my hands into the pockets of Van’s coat, my fingertips immediately brushing against something sticky. Feels like an unwrapped peppermint. Gross. “Are you mad?”

“Not mad,” she says. “Just not used to … this.”

I hear a lot of unspoken things in that one word. A lot of ways Bailey hasn’t been cared for in the past. A lot of ways people have let her down, or maybe not shown up at all. Plus, without her parents or other close family besides her gran, she’s so alone.

Wanting to show her the care she deserves feels like a challenge. And I’ve already got ideas.

Holding her gaze, I offer up what I hope is my most endearing smile. “Better get used to it, future Mrs. Hopkins.”

“I’m getting too old for this, Elvis.”

I startle at the sight of my mother sitting on a chair just inside the front door. She has one eyebrow arched dramatically and a mug of coffee in hand. It’s the kind of look you’d give a teenage boy sneaking in after a wild night out.

Not an adult man coming home with a crick in his neck after protectively sleeping outside someone’s door.

On the drive home, I thought exclusively about two things: drinking coffee and telling Mom about Bailey and me getting married. Which probably needs to involve a little priming the pump first, like telling Mom Bailey and I are dating or have been dating. That it’s pretty new but serious. Imminent engagement serious.

But any rehearsed thoughts have vanished from my head. A mom lying in wait will do that to a person.

“I don’t have a curfew, Mom. I’m an adult. Remember?”

“Remains to be seen.” She grins, and the one arched eyebrow turns into a pair of waggling ones. “Did you and Bailey have fun?”

Fun has at least three syllables. “Definitely less fun than whatever you’re imagining.”

Mom takes a sip of coffee as I toe off my shoes by the door. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Elijah. If you can’t talk to your mother about sex, who can you talk to?”

I slap my hands over my eyes. “Anyone! Anyone else! But we don’t need to talk about sex because, again, this is not that.”

I drag my hands down my face with a groan, feeling the grit of stubble on my jaw. My mother doesn’t believe in boundaries. Or, if she does, she treats any topic I don’t want to talk about like a starter’s pistol. I need to get ahead of this—and fast—or I’m going to mess up and tell her the actual truth.

“But … if there’s more coffee, I would love to talk to you about some things.”

“I love things,” Mom says. “Would these things involve Bailey?”

“They would.”

She squeals and tries to clap her hands, forgetting about the coffee she’s holding. I pluck the mug from her hands before she gives herself a second-degree burn. She pops out of the chair with more energy than should be possible this early.

Another good day. I can tell by her fluid movements and the easy way she stretches up to kiss my cheek. I hand back the coffee and lift the chair, urging her toward the kitchen with it like I’m some kind of lion tamer.

It feels a little bit like that.

“I’ll make more coffee,” Mom says. “And chocolate chip pancakes! Plus eggs so you can have your protein.”

Most mornings, I make breakfast for us both, leaving hers in the fridge if she’s still in bed. But on days where she has energy and the pain is more of a low hum than a loud roar, as she describes it, Mom likes to do as many normal things as possible.

“And bacon?” I ask.

If I’m about to tell the biggest lie of my entire life to the person in it who means the most, I’d at least like to do so with bacon. Also, the more cooking she’s doing, the more likely her full focus and attention won’t be on my face, where she might be able to read the lies flashing like numbers on a scoreboard.

“And bacon,” she promises.

“Sold.”

Half an hour later, I’m finishing the last of the chocolate chip pancakes, bacon long gone, feeling overstuffed and also overly pleased at the way I was able to convincingly pull this off. Somehow, I don’t even have the shroud of guilt for lying I felt sure would be hanging over me. It hardly felt like a lie.

Mom bought every word of the story I spun about going to the animal shelter so often because of Bailey. About keeping it on the downlow because I wanted to be sure before I brought her home. I even said things were moving quickly, though I didn’t quite have the bravery to define exactly how quickly. I probably need to talk with Bailey about details before I announce my plans to propose.

And I already have plans.

“I knew there was a reason besides dogs you were always going to the shelter,” she says. “And why you didn’t want me to go with you. Though it took entirely too long for you to bring Bailey home. I love her.”

I grin. “Good. I’m not surprised the two of you hit it off.”

Despite being mildly horrified by the lengths Mom went to last night to meet a woman she suspected I was on a date with, I loved seeing the way Mom embraced Bailey. And the way Bailey didn’t run screaming from the house or hide in a corner when she had to deal with meeting not only my mom but also the whole book club.

“Of course we did. How could I not love anyone who loves you?”

I open my mouth to argue about her use of the word love, then realize I’m going to need her to believe I love Bailey. I’m going to have to get used to saying it, to thinking it. Even if it’s not the exact truth.

I enjoy Bailey. Nuh-uh. I love Bailey.

I care about Bailey. Nope. I love her.

I like Bailey. No. I love Bailey.

I’m sure I’ll get used to it after a while. As I take our plates to the sink and start to wash up—thanks to Mom, I’m a firm believer in the adage that whoever doesn’t cook, cleans—I consider how long a while is.

Is there a certain length of time we’ll need to stay married for legality’s sake?

What if I get traded to another team?

What about when she starts vet school? It’s not guaranteed she’ll go somewhere nearby.

Will I still need to at some point go back to Canada and handle the P-1 visa stuff, or would the marriage cover it?

I’m not sure who to even ask these questions to. Certainly not Grant. Gracie, Felix’s girlfriend, had a lawyer friend who visited recently. Maybe I could ask her. She’s probably someone I could trust but is far enough removed from my life and the Appies that it would feel a little safer.

“Is Bailey coming to your game this week?” Mom asks. “So I won’t have to sit alone?”

My game this week—right. More of my focus and attention definitely needs to shift to hockey or I’ll never shake the Speed Bump nickname.

“I’ll ask her,” I say, an idea taking shape in my mind.

No matter how many times I tell her to stay home, Mom comes to every game. Usually alone, stuck jammed between two drunk strangers. At our last home game, I remember waving up at her, my smile slipping into a frown as I took in the way she was hunched over to avoid the man next to her in his Appies foam hat—shaped like the tiny mountain range on our logo—who was waving, of all things, a set of maracas with wild abandon.

Mom’s smile was big, but the next day, she stayed in bed late, complained of a headache, which turned into a two-day-long migraine. Her book club friends, despite being very avid fans of hockey players—particularly the calendars from years past featuring my teammates shirtless—rarely want to go to a game. Too much noise. Too many jostling bodies. Just … too much.

I might have to pull some strings with someone in the office to get a group of seats, but I bet Parker would be willing to work her magic. Especially once I tell her why I need tickets.

The game would be the perfect—and very public—place to propose to Bailey. Perfect because it’s so public. I don’t want there to be any question about the marriage, no chance for the word fraud to even be whispered on the wind. And maybe the best way to preempt any accusations is to make things as big as possible.

Go big or go home—to Canada, in this case.

I drop a quick kiss on Mom’s head. “I need to get ready for practice, but I’ll let you know about the game.”

But I need to talk to Bailey first. And then Parker so I can coordinate the biggest, loudest, impossible-to-question-its-legality surprise proposal possible.

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