A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, one step away from the classic head-between-the-knees position to prevent fainting. Clearing my throat, I ask, “To sum up, my options are…?” The immigration lawyer, with his wispy comb-over and a stain on the center of his baby-blue tie, gives me a tight smile. A pitying one. Which is all I need to know. I drop my head into my hands with a soft groan. “I’m afraid you’re out of options,” he says. “You’ll need to return to Canada at the end of the month or risk deportation and a much bigger issue. That is, unless you were planning to get married in the next thirty days.” He laughs. I don’t. Malik, the Appies’ manager sitting to my right, doesn’t. And Grant, the no-nonsense team lawyer in his crisp black suit and stain-free tie, absolutely doesn’t. Deported. Married. DEPORTED. MARRIED. Breathe, Hop, I tell myself. Easier said than done. I wonder how likely it is that this guy keeps a stock of paper bags in his desk for situations just such as this. Grant glares at the immigration lawyer, whose very unfortunate and very unlawyerly name is Mr. Pebbles. “You, of all people, know getting married solely for immigration purposes is considered fraud.” Mr. Pebbles holds up both hands like he didn’t just suggest—or joke about?—this exact thing. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says, which doesn’t even make sense in this context. Is this really the best immigration lawyer Grant could find to consult? Maybe in the small town of Harvest Hollow, yes. Bu...

to think I got out of bed thinking it would be a perfectly lovely day. No practice. No meetings. I slept late, relishing the warm cocoon of my sheets. Rolling out of bed at nine o’clock felt positively indulgent. Mom sat crisscross applesauce in her favorite chair in the living room, perky and pain-free. I joined her. While she drank coffee and read a book, I sipped a smoothie and checked stocks. Markets opened strong. Things looked good. All in all, a lovely, lazy morning. During the hockey season, very few days stretch out with zero plans. If not practice and training, it’s filming social media content—both for the team and my account—giving interviews, attending charity events, and so on. My only plans for the day were to take Mom to the acupuncturist. Then, I hoped to stop by the animal shelter before it closes. Dogs make me happy. Visiting the sad dogs who need homes makes me really happy. Technically, I don’t think I’m supposed to keep coming in if I know I can’t adopt one. But the shy woman who works there, Bailey, doesn’t seem to mind. She also doesn’t seem to know who I am, which is refreshing. She’s become something of a personal project. More like a challenge. Can I get her to say more than four words in a row? If so, how many? At my last visit, she said two sentences in a row, and I almost got her to laugh. There was the tiniest huffing sound before she swallowed it down, which is a win in my book. I’ve started counting her blushes. Keeping a mental tally, my a...

Malik drove us in tense silence to this immigration lawyer’s office, which smells like old sub sandwiches. Then I listened to them argue about terms I only vaguely know and understand. P1-A and O1-A and petitions for renewal and so on. What I do understand: I have to go back to Canada to file a new visa. But this could take time, and there’s no guarantee I’ll keep my spot on the team. The Appies may be an AHL team, but we’re arguably as recognizable as any NHL team now, thanks to social media. Guys are begging to get traded here. And I have—or had, until now—no intention of going anywhere. How did this even happen? Between the team’s administrative staff and me being a functioning adult, there’s no good reason. I could have gone to Canada in the off-season this summer and taken care of this. Had I remembered or been reminded by the people who manage this stuff that I needed to do so. When I first got signed to Denver and moved stateside, I was eighteen. Mom handled talking to the team about the visa stuff. I have a vague memory of hearing about the cap on my visa. How I could renew here after five years but would need to go back to Canada after ten. I also remember thinking this seemed like a problem for Later Eli. Hello, Later Eli. I wish I could say it’s good to see you. But it’s really, really not. I lean back in my chair, playing with a pen I found on Mr. Pebbles’s desk. “You’re sure there’s no loophole? A clause? An extra payment option?” Grant’s eyes cut to me. “No. ...

I have much more pressing concerns than the mystery stain. Like, for example: deportation. What this will mean for my spot on the Appies. The rest of this season, my career. And what this will mean for my mom. I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling and picturing Mom’s smile this morning. The way the sunlight made her hair look more gold like mine, like hers used to be before the white crept in. I imagine the happiness draining from her face, replaced by worry and disappointment. Mr. Pebbles puts both elbows on his desk, which is cluttered with papers. “I only meant if Eli is dating someone, you could push the timeline up a little. Or, you know, a lot.” He waves a dismissive hand like neither fraud nor asking a woman to push up a wedding timeline are serious things. I’ve watched enough episodes of Say Yes to the Dress with Mom to know he’s wrong, at least about the second one. I’m sure there’s a meme somewhere, featuring Boromir from Lord of the Rings and the words One does not simply ask a bride to move up her wedding date. I’d love to see Mr. Pebbles try telling a bride not to take a change in date seriously. You know what’s hard to take seriously? A lawyer with a last name like Pebbles. That’s what. Malik leans forward in his chair, catching my gaze. His brown eyes are hopeful. Way too hopeful. “It would just be like fast-tracking a relationship. Aren’t you dating someone? That girl with the … um …” I can’t blame the man for not knowing details about my curre...

“We'll get this sorted out, Hop,” Malik says as we pull through the gates for the Summit’s player and staff parking. I meet Malik’s eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Exactly how will this get sorted out?” My leg bounces and I shift, pressing a hand on top of my knee, like that will be enough to quiet the anxiety coursing through me. Malik parks, then shoots Grant a quick look before twisting to face me. “Would it be so hard to move things along with whomever you’re seeing?” Ah, yes. The girlfriend I made up spur-of-the-moment twenty minutes ago. Her. I should have known the not-technically-a-lie would come back to bite me. “If you're going to commit fraud, I can’t know about it.” Grant swivels around, directing his trademark pinched expression toward me. “Think: deportation with little hope of playing hockey again anywhere. No team would touch you.” Malik turns to Grant. “It’s not fraud if Eli and his girlfriend decide to rush things along for practical reasons. I’ve heard of plenty of people getting married on the DL for a variety of reasons. They could do it now legally, at the courthouse, then have a big wedding and celebration later. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like Eli’s trying to pay someone to marry him.” “Which would absolutely be fraud.” Grant gives us both one last look of warning, his personal version of a fraud deterrent, then slams the car door. I can see him muttering to himself as he walks away. Malik studies me. “So, are you thinking abou...

Mom tries to convince me we should cancel her acupuncture appointment by doing jumping jacks to demonstrate how good she feels. Her version of jumping jacks looks more like some kind of dance you might see in a boy band video, only done very, very poorly. Her arms flail up as her legs come together, completely incorrect form. Normally, this would make me laugh. Today, I shake my head, holding back a sound that I’m afraid might be a sob. “We’re going.” When she clasps her hands together under her chin, pleading, I wag a finger at her. “Nope.” “But I feel good. So good. Need me to do jumping jacks again?” She lifts her arms above her head, already starting in the incorrect position. I finally get her in the car by plying her with promises of sweets. “Cheesecake, cookies, or ice cream. Your choice,” I tell her. And she holds me to this after her appointment, telling me she wants all three. “You said my choice. And I choose all three.” “I meant your choice of one,” I say, pushing open the door for her while waving goodbye to Dr. Wei, her acupuncturist. Needles make me sweat in places I’d rather not mention. I fully blacked out the last time I had immunizations. But acupuncture helps Mom, so I can manage sitting in the same building, trying not to imagine her with tiny needles in her skin. I always wait in the living room of the old-house-turned-acupuncture-clinic, doing something inane like responding to comments on my latest TikTok videos. Today though, I’d rather think about...

here or to go?” the man behind the counter asks. “To go.” I turn to Mom. “I still want to go to the shelter before it closes.” Her smile is wide. “You and your dogs. When are you going to bring one home?” “One day,” I tell her. We both know I’m too busy, and her health is too up-and-down to add in the responsibility of a dog. As we retrieve our order, the guy behind the counter clears his throat. “And could I get an autograph? I follow you on TikTok.” “Of course.” I end up signing one of the white pastry bags for him. It’s still folded neatly, my scrawled signature contrasting with the neatly printed Toasted Pecan logo. “I could sign too,” Mom teases, and the guy gets flustered. “Oh, um, sure?” “Kidding. You wouldn’t be able to sell it on eBay then,” she says with a laugh. “People do still use eBay, right?” she asks me on the way out. “Probably? I don’t know.” “I heard of another site recently—OnlyFans? Is that similar?” I almost spit coffee all over the sidewalk. “That’s not—no. It’s not like eBay, Ma. Never mention that site again. And please don’t go there.” She cackles, and I realize she knows exactly what OnlyFans is and was totally messing with me.

“Don’t forget—I’m hosting book club this week,” she says. “How could I possibly forget?” Mom laughs. “It’s not that bad.” I grumble, but in truth, I’m grateful Mom has her book club. Even if I never, ever want to be home when all the ladies are over. I’m pretty sure the last time I accidentally walked in, Janice took a picture of my butt. Janice is pushing eighty. I felt like a prize steer at some kind of livestock show. I half-expected to receive some kind of ribbon or get auctioned off at the end of the night. Even so, book club is one more reminder of what’s at stake. Mom’s roots in North Carolina are even deeper than mine. Mostly thanks to her book club friends, but also the abundance of practitioners and homeopathic experts here in Asheville. None of whom ever tried telling her that fibromyalgia is a fabricated illness the way her doctors in Canada did. Not to knock Canada—I’m sure many doctors here would suggest the same thing. Overall, the medical community seems unsure what to do with chronic illnesses. More than any other place we’ve lived, we’ve found the best care here and the best routine. An acupuncturist, a massage therapist, and a chiropractor as well as a great rheumatologist. Mom’s health and her spirits have never been better. Mom won’t want to go back to Canada. She shouldn’t go back. Unlike me, she has dual citizenship. If my dad hadn’t been such a controlling, manipulative jerk, my sister, Annie, and I might have gotten dual citizenship too, avoiding t...

“I told you—I don’t want whatever you’re selling.” A deep scowl on a pale, deeply lined face accompanies this proclamation. The look paired with her words almost have the power to make me feel ashamed, like I am a solicitor who knocked on her door with a clipboard selling magazine subscriptions. Instead of what I actually am, which is her only granddaughter. The one who brought the pho she really loves—rare beef, no onions of any kind—and her favorite flowers, peonies—which are not in season right now so a lot more expensive. Next time, I tell myself, maybe I’ll bring her carnations. I won’t. I know I won’t. Because she may not remember me, and she may not have been all that kind before she lost her ability to remember, but Gran is all I have. She glowers at me like a queen enthroned among the pillows, the perfectly curled blond wig atop her head acting as her crown. Today, it’s the Classy Dolly Updo wig, one of seven Gran purchased from an Etsy store specializing in custom wigs modeled after Gran’s number one hero, Dolly Parton. Out of the bunch, my personal favorite is the Dolly Layered Bouffant wig. I tried it on once and almost felt like I could conquer the patriarchy or solve the literacy crisis. So, I get the appeal. “It’s Bailey, your granddaughter.” I manage to dredge up a smile from somewhere. Feels like it was scraped off the concrete. “Your son Peter’s daughter.” I am very careful not to use past tense when talking about my dad. It’s better when I don’t have to ...

If freeclimbing were a thing I ever thought about doing, my grip on this letter would be tight enough to keep me hanging on the sheer face of a cliff. You’d never catch me climbing a cliff, but it sounds downright pleasant compared to dealing with this letter. Its cheerful font is a slap in the face, a direct contrast to the not-at-all cheerful threats it contains. Threats, I tell you! Because the assisted living facility where my grandmother lives is clearly run by a terrorist cell. Too bad I have no choice but to meet their demands—a twenty percent price increase to their already exorbitant monthly costs. Which insurance and all the governmental things only cover nominally to begin with. Where am I going to get an extra twenty percent? What even is twenty percent of her current monthly payment? I need a calculator. What I would love is not to be the sole adult left to handle these details. I often miss my parents with a deep, throbbing ache. Their voices, the sight of them bent over books or the laptop glow reflecting in Dad’s glasses. But in moments like this, when I have to be more adult than I feel qualified for, I miss them with a sharp tang of bitterness. Usually accompanied by a few moments of why me and poor little orphan Bailey before I tell myself to shut up and deal with the hand I’ve been dealt. Which is: losing my parents to a car accident just months before college graduation and now being the sole caretaker for Gran on a nonexistent budget.

“Oh, Bailey …” The moment I hear Beth, my most favorite and also most nosy coworker, sing-song my name, I shove the letter into my bra. Just like the completely normal, fully functioning adult I am. One of the paper’s sharp corners immediately pokes delicate skin where no woman ever wants a paper cut, and I wince. It’s the same knee-jerk reaction I would have had as a kid when caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A cookie jar would be a lot more fun—and tastier—than this missive. Why, exactly, do I feel the need to hide the letter? And why did I shove it into my bra? That’s easier to answer—because scrubs don’t have pockets. Or, at least, mine don’t. They’re the bargain scrubs. No pockets. And made of a fabric only a stone’s throw from burlap. I really wish I could afford the softer, pocketed kind. Because as I turn to face Beth, I am rewarded with what is most definitely a paper cut on my nipple. “Yes, Beth?” I echo in an equally melodic voice. I know from the smug grin on her softly lined face exactly what she’s going to say. My heart, already racing a little, picks up the pace again, clearly going for a PR on its late afternoon sprint. “Your boyfriend's here,” Beth says, clasping her hands over her chest in a gesture that somehow makes her look about fifty years younger, like an elementary school girl with a crush. I can’t blame her. But I also won’t reward her teasing with an acknowledgment. “Hot Puppy Guy,” Beth clarifies after a moment. Clearly, my response of star...

Irrational jealousy rises in my chest as Katrina—the lord of the flies, if I’m sticking with my bad bug analogy (and I am)—does her best contortionist impression, bending herself practically in half over the top of the high reception counter. No doubt to get closer to Eli. While also giving him a clear view of her cleavage. And demonstrating her flexibility. Like I said: flies. Katrina says something I can’t hear. Eli jolts a little at the sight of her, then pointedly fixes his gaze in the opposite direction from the low-hanging boob fruit she’s dangling right in front of him. Right at a poster about the importance of spaying and neutering your pets. No one ever said the ambience in an animal shelter was romantic. “Hot Puppy Guy is a snack,” Beth says, and I do my best not to visibly cringe as I step away from the door. “He has a name,” I remind her. “It’s Eli. And you can’t say things like that.” “You can’t tell me not to.” Beth crosses her arms. “You’re being ageist by implying I’m too old to use the term snack. Or to appreciate a snackable”—I flinch again—“piece of man.” “Beth, please. It’s as much about objectification as it is your te...

I’m in my spinster era. Every twentysomething has one of those, right?

Aside from a lucky lotto win, saving up enough to minimize student loans will take years. Especially if I consider the letter still jammed in my bra. The one I keep forgetting about until a corner pokes me in a very sensitive area. Again. I really need to pull this envelope out when Beth isn’t looking. She claps her hands. “Stop drooling and go.” I take another step away from the door. “I’m not drooling.” Still. When Beth looks through the window, I wipe my chin. Just in case. “Hm,” she says in a faux-thoughtful voice. “Looks like Katrina is trying to demonstrate yoga poses and⁠—” “On second thought, I’ll head out there.” Beth's smile widens into a smug grin, and she tucks a white curl behind her ear. It immediately springs right back out. “That's what I thought,” she says. “Maybe this time you could actually, I don't know, talk to him about more than dogs.” Doubtful. Not because I am incapable of carrying on conversations that don't revolve around animals. But more because every time I'm around new or unfamiliar people—and I don’t consider people familiar unless we’ve been close friends for at least a year—my shy tendencies kick in hardcore. Forget tongue-tied; I become tongue-tangled. My normally neat and organized thoughts get jumbled, like someone dumped an alphabetized file cabinet out on the floor then took a leaf blower to it. “I make no promises.” I hesitate by the door, and Beth gives me a hearty shove. “Get out there before Katrina takes her top off in a desperat...

there he is—his back still turned toward the reception desk. The three volunteers scatter at the sight of me. Totally busted in their ogling. I’m not their boss, exactly, but as a full-time employee, volunteers fall somewhat under my purview. Katrina answers the phone, which has probably been ringing since Eli walked in. I approach him cautiously, stopping a few feet away to give his flannel-clad back an appreciative glance. Not an objectifying stare. If I were objectifying, I’d be looking at his butt. Backs are totally neutral zones. “Here for more puppy therapy?” I ask, proud I’m not only able to get words out, but funny ones at that. When Eli turns and I catch the expression on his face, I immediately regret my attempt at humor. Not funny. Not even a little. Clearly, my words hit a little too close to home. Eli looks … terrible. I mean, relatively speaking. About as terrible as this man can look. Still very, very attractive, but his infectious smile has been replaced by a frown, and his blue eyes look haunted. It actually hurts to see such a normally bright and sunny man look so sad. Immediately, I want to fix it. Especially after sticking my foot so far into my mouth. “Sorry...

Typically, we would walk potential adopters through the second door that leads to the kennels and let them pick a few dogs to meet one at a time. But Eli isn’t typical. For one, he’s made it clear he can’t adopt a dog. His job—whatever it is—requires he keep hours that aren’t conducive to pet ownership. So he’s said. Which is a shame, really. I’ve seen the longing in his eyes when he’s playing tug-of-war with a lab mix, the widening of his smile when a tiny mutt climbs in his lap, the way he brightens when I walk into the room with any dog at all. The man should have a dog if for no other reason than it lights him up inside. I’ve never asked what he does that won’t allow him to care for a pet. I don’t ask him any questions. That would mean crossing over some invisible line I’ve set for myself. And fighting against the shyness holding my words hostage. Technically, I shouldn’t let Eli keep coming in to hang out with the dogs. Technically, I don’t care. The second reason Eli isn’t like other people who come in is that he lets me pick the dogs for him. After his first time here, he refused to go in the kennels. He said it made him too sad to see all of them lined up and waiting for homes. I remember the way his eyes widened, how his gaze traveled down the long row of enclosures, at the noses pressed between bars. His swallow had been visible, throat bobbing in a way that made me sad at the same time as it made me want to remove a layer of clothing for fear of spontaneous comb...

you okay?” I jump at Eli’s question, realizing I’ve been simply standing here, staring into space while thinking about kissing his centaur-unicorn counterpart. I give my head a little shake. “Sorry. I’m just, um, thinking.” About you shirtless and with a purple horse body. “Must be some good thoughts.” Eli grins and, for the second time in the last few minutes, I blush. “Very good thoughts.” I’ve never been more grateful that mindreading powers only exist in fiction. I’m sure if Eli knew about my dream version of him, he’d run screaming from the room. I’m worse than Beth and her snack comments and overt objectification! Needing a breather—and to get on with what I’m supposed to be doing—I open the door leading to the back room, which connects to the kennels. “Any special requests today?” Eli hesitates for a moment, and then the same lost look returns. The one he had in the lobby a few minutes ago. “Maybe ... a dog who looks like they need a hug?” If I didn’t already harbor a crush the size of the Appalachians, this comment would be enough to send me over the edge. I give him a quick nod and duck back into the kennels before I can do something like ... well. I don't know what I’d do. Kiss him like the centaur-unicorn of my dreams, perhaps? Definitely a bad idea. Ugh. Someone as good looking as Eli should really possess the personality of a cave troll just to balance out the scales. It’s a travesty of justice for someone so attractive to also be so kind. Completely unfair. E...

“Which of you needs a hug from a hottie today?” I ask and am rewarded with a lot of enthusiastic butt wiggles and shrill, desperate barks. But as I pace, my mind keeps circling back to one dog in particular. The one dog I probably shouldn’t bring out to meet someone. Still. I leave the kennel for the main back room, where a small black dog trembles in the single row of small kennels. The latest stray Animal Control picked up isn’t adjusting well to the shelter. To put it mildly. The vet had to sedate her so we could shave off the clumps of matted fur covering her body. She’s trembling, and every time a door slams or a dog barks from the kennel room, she jolts. I’ve grown so used to the steady barking, I almost don’t hear it anymore. But Doris practically had a panic attack when we walked her in there, so for the time being, we’re keeping her out here in the row of small kennels usually reserved for dogs recovering from surgery. I’ve been talking to Doris all morning, attempting to win her over with kind words, which have been ignored, and dog treats, which have been left untouched in a small pile near the front of her kennel. The look she gives me is pitiful. “Hey, girl,” I say. She gives the tiniest thump of her tail. Progress? “You definitely look like you need a hug. Do you want a hug? That’s the question.” Her pointy ears flick back, almost like she's saying, A hug, you say? Hard pass. But I can’t shake this feeling. The same instinct that often helps me pair the right...

Eli looks up, his shoulders more slumped and his expression darker than when I left the room. But he perks up immediately when he sees Doris, his face brightening and softening at the same time. And dang it—I’ve never been jealous of a dog, but I sure am now. I’d like to be the one putting that look on his face. The one who walks into a room and has that kind of impact. I gently slip the lead back over her head, setting her loose in the small room. “Eli, this is Doris. Doris, Eli. I’m not quite sure how this will go. She’s new and still getting the hang of things, so she might not …” There’s no need to finish my sentence. With the kind of grin that could disarm nuclear warheads, Eli holds his arms out wide. Doris, smart girl that she is, climbs right into his lap. I can’t blame her. If Eli were opening those arms to me, I’d walk right into them too. No, I’d run and take a flying leap. Eli doesn’t move while Doris settles in his lap, as though sensing her need to take things at her own pace. Slowly, he lowers his arms, bracketing her in while still giving her plenty of space. She sniffs one of his big hands, then the other. Eli waits, motionless but still smiling, letting Doris run the show. She tilts her head to look up at him. Then, slowly and tentatively, she stretches up and gives the blond scruff on his chin a solid lick. Even his chuckle is soft, as though he knows a full laugh might scare Doris. “That’s a good girl,” he says. My heart gives a solid thump. I ignore it...

Eli’s focus on Doris, I am completely at liberty to stare at the impossibly attractive man before me. I remind myself of what I told Beth earlier—don’t objectify him—and then add my warning for Doris—don’t get too attached. Doris, however, is listening about as well as my heart. After Eli passes her smell test (I could have told her that he would), she settles in on his lap and rolls over, presenting her belly for scratches. Eli gently strokes her belly. “We’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Doris?” His smiling eyes meet mine. “And to think you doubted me.” “It’s not that I doubted you⁠—” He smirks. “Uh-huh.” “I just wasn’t sure how it would go. Doris has had a rough time adjusting so far.” Eli’s happy expression recedes, and he gazes down at Doris, who is now shamelessly butting her nose into Eli’s palm. “She has a sad story?” His somber tone makes my chest tighten. “As with most of the dogs who end up here, we don’t really know. From the looks of things, she’d been on her own for a long time. You can see how thin she is, and her fur was one big matted clump. It’s why we shaved her so short.” “Well, I happen to think you look beautiful with a buzz cut, D. You’re a stunner. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” Gah! My heart! It feels like each of Eli’s kind words is piercing me like an arrow, tipped not with poison but some kind of love potion. There is a cupid laughing maniacally somewhere. I just know it. Doris curls into a ball and closes her eyes as Eli scra...

Normally, when people visit with dogs, I’ll pop in and out of the room, checking to make sure things are going okay but giving them plenty of space. Trading out one dog for another as people try to get a sense for what one might be the best fit. With Eli, I’ve started spending more time in the room. Mostly because he invites conversation, pushing me into feeling almost comfortable around him. Also because I just like being around him. I stay today because it’s almost closing time, and there’s not much else to do. And because Eli’s dampened mood when he came in has me concerned. Even now, with his smiles and his teasing, he’s not at full strength. Like someone has been messing with his dimmer switch, powering him down to a fraction of his normal glow. I slide down the wall, sitting directly across from him with my knees pulled to my chest. As he snuggles Doris closer, Eli’s gaze falls to my forearm, which is freshly marked up thanks to a feline encounter earlier in the day. He frowns. “You’re scratched up again. Cats really don’t like you, do they?” I glance down at the angry red marks. “I really do try. But no—the cats have clearly sent out an all-feline bulletin about me. It’s ...

bet you aced your test,” he says. “Which one was it again? The MCAT or the LSAT?” “It was the GRE. And I did well.” When he raises his eyebrows, I grin and drop my gaze to my hands. “Fine. I did ace it.” Which is good because those tests are not cheap, and I didn’t want to pay to take it again. “I knew you would.” He sounds almost proud, which makes me feel ridiculously happy. “You couldn’t know that. You barely know me.” “Or maybe I know you better than you think, smart girl.” Now, there’s a thought that just about breaks my brain. I’m always shocked Eli remembers or seems interested in any of my life’s details. He has a way of coaxing information out of me during his visits the way I coaxed Doris out of her kennel with soft words and a treat. I feel a sudden stab of guilt, realizing I don’t do the same for him. Not because I’m not interested. But it’s just hard for me. Even when he makes it look so easy. My shyness is a product of both nature and nurture. My parents were academics and researchers, Dad in literature and Mom in biochemistry. Both the very stereotype of the absent-minded professor, better with books and beakers than people. Though they absolutely adored me, their only and perhaps accidental daughter, my childhood was a little too quiet and solitary. They encouraged independent study, independent thinking, and just, well, being independent. The sad part is that I’ve always been drawn to people. I remember aching to have the kind of childhood I read about or ...

His shoulders are slumped again, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows as one of his big hands slowly strokes Doris’s back. I can still read the sadness in the uncharacteristic stillness of a man who usually possesses border-collie-energy mixed with golden-retriever-happiness. I think of Beth’s challenge to talk to him about something besides dogs, and I have a little argument with myself. Talk to him! No, thanks. Just ask if he’s okay. He’s fine. He’s not fine! Look at him! Yes, he is fine. Fiiiine. Not THAT kind of fine. Eli sighs, as if to prove the mouthy part of my subconscious correct. He might be fine-looking. But he is not fine inside. Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Is everything okay? You seem a little down today.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper, but Eli’s head snaps up like I shouted. I grit my teeth and force myself to hold his gaze. No sense being a coward now. He offers up a lopsided smile, but his eyes are still sad. “That obvious, huh?” I offer him a shaky smile. Shaky because adrenaline is surging through me. Sad what a tiny bit of bravery can take out of me. “You’re flying at half-mast,” I tell him, then hope it wasn’t a terrible thing to say. But Eli chuckles, looking somehow pleased. Maybe that I’m talking to him like this? Hopefully he hasn’t noticed the lopsided way our conversations have always gone. But how could he not have? He’s always the one talking, and I’m always the one answering. I feel anxiety trying to take me dow...

“Unfortunately, Bailey, I don’t think you can help.” “Oh.” Disappointment, sharp and bitter, lands with surprising force. At the same time, the blow is softened by a bright ribbon of pleasure curling through me. He knows my name! A tiny thing, really, especially when he’s been coming in for months. But we hardly ever address each other. When did I even tell him my name? The very first time he came in? And he remembers? It makes me double down on my bravery, which is starting to feel a whole lot more like recklessness. I shake my head and cross my arms. This presses the edge of the letter against my skin. I ignore it. “Try me,” I say, before the courage fueled by stubbornness dissipates. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I could—or would—help.” He tilts his head, and even under the harsh lights, his hair glows gold. “Why?” I’m not expecting the question. Or his piercing gaze. “Why … do I want to help you?” He nods, and I look away, my gaze landing on a poster about feline leukemia. A very sad cat stares back. I search for an answer that doesn’t include confessing my schoolgirl crush. “You don’t even know what I need help with. And to quote you from earlier,” he adds, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though I’m not looking, “you barely know me.” Again, the gentleness in his voice softens his words. But hearing the echo of what I said moments ago stings a little. Mostly because it’s true. Especially compared to how much information he’s managed to get out of me over these ...

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Eli says, finally. “And the kind words. But I still don’t think this is something you can help with.” He stops, then meets and holds my gaze with an intensity that freezes me in place. “That is,” he co...

I choke on a laugh. No—literally choke. And I guess, technically, I’m choking on my own saliva, not laughter. Caught in the embarrassing and unlikely situation wherein a handsome man makes a statement—or a joke?—about marriage, then you inhale your own spit and almost die. Maybe, I think as I hack uncontrollably, dying would be preferable to this current humiliation. Eli is beside me in an instant, crouching inches away, Doris cradled to his chest with one arm. He reaches out to me with the other, grasping my shoulder and giving me the smallest shake. His eyes—the pure, crisp blue of Norwegian fjords, which I know because I googled Norwegian fjords once after he came in—are wide and panicked. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. Bailey, I⁠—” I cut him off with a wave of my hand, trying to wheeze out something dismissive like, I’m fine, really, or Just leave me here to die. But my words are unintelligible, and his concern increases as he tugs me forward, then attempts to slap me on the back. All while keeping a small dog tucked protectively against his body. Doris must have seen some things in her little life because she seems totally nonplussed by my near-death experience. Then again, maybe she doesn’t care because Eli’s solid presence has lulled her into feeling secure. This situation is utterly ridiculous. Eli is ridiculous. Yet still so very, very attractive. This image would make a good inspiration for a monthly calendar. The theme being: Hot Men Saving Women from Certain Death W...

sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to … ah …” “Make me choke on my own spit?” I wipe my eyes, which are brimming with cough-induced tears. “Almost kill you with a marriage proposal.” Eli’s mouth kicks up on one side. I blink at him. “You really did say marriage.” “Ah, yeah. I did.” Eli blows out a breath, and he’s so close, I feel it brush my cheek like the softest caress. One of his hands is still warm and solid on my back, the other holding Doris, who has gone back to sleep, her nose tucked into the front pocket of Eli’s forest green flannel shirt. The tips of his ears are pink. “But you were joking, right?” I ask. There’s no way this man needs help finding a fiancée. No way he’d be asking me, a person he’s had minimal interactions with. Someone he’s not even dating. My brain is whirring along, sounding like the old laptop I recently threw out, which sounded like an airplane taking off every time I turned it on. “Yeah. But kind of no?” He gives his head the smallest shake, his smile sheepish. As I stare—because I’m totally staring right now—his cheeks turn the same pink as his ears. “It’s not—ugh. Not like a real marriage.” “A fake marriage, then?” If my voice sounds flat, it’s because that’s how I feel. Like his words are steamrolling me into a pancake. Are fake marriages even a thing outside of Hallmark movies and romance novels? “I mean, it would be real on paper. But not like a marriage marriage. With all the, you know, marriage parts.” “Marriage parts,” I repeat ...

I didn’t really think … I mean, you wouldn’t …” He didn’t think what? I wouldn’t what? My thoughts have been tossed haphazardly into an industrial dryer where they’re tumbling around on high heat. Around and around. Mixed up. Heated. If Eli’s cheeks are rose-petal pink, mine must be Valentine’s red. “Wow. I’m bad at this,” Eli says with a chuckle that sounds less humorous than a funeral dirge. “It’s not like you or anyone else would want to marry me anyway. For money or whatever reasons.” His eyes flick up to mine, and I swear there’s an unspoken question: Would they? Maybe even … would you? I wish I could say this didn’t have some part of me standing up, jumping and waving while shouting, Me, me, me! You had me at For money! Yes! I do! Put a ring on it! It’s the same part of me suddenly aware that I still have a letter poking me in the boob that very much has to do with money and my desperate need for it. And would it even be a hardship to marry this man? The one snuggling a dog, whose face is inches from mine. The one with kind blue eyes and the kind of scent I’d like to wrap myself up in like a warm sweater. “Can we, uh, just forget I asked you to commit fraud?” Eli asks, and...

Her blue eyes—which are not fjord-like but rather the gray blue of harsh slate—narrow at me first. Her delicate features manage to be pretty even when she’s glaring in disapproval. Professionally shaped dark eyebrows, lashes I suspect are extensions, and the kind of perfect lips that gave cupid’s bow its name. All of her deceptively pretty features might lead one to believe she is nice. One would be mistaken. While her doctorate is in veterinary medicine, Dr. Evie has a secondary degree in finding flaws and pointing them out with clinical—and maybe joyful—precision. All while looking just like a Disney princess. “What’s happening here?” she asks, closing the door behind her with a decisively judgmental half-slam. I scramble to my feet, eyes still slightly wet with cough-induced tears, cheeks still flaming from all the talk of marriage. This looks bad. I am not supposed to be hanging out with a prospective pet owner. Definitely not sitting practically nose-to-nose. Absolutely positively not talking about marriage. “Sorry, I was …” The explanation—or excuse?—I was striving and failing to come up with completely leaves my mind when Eli stands, towering over us both. His presence do...

so she definitely knows him. But if they know each other, why is she introducing herself? And why does he look so uncomfortable? Eli circles his arms a little tighter around Doris—either in an attempt to protect her or use her as a canine shield—and takes the smallest step back. “Hello,” he says stiffly. No smile. Why does this make me so unreasonably pleased? Doris gives a low growl as Dr. Evie steps closer. She pauses, eyes narrowing before they flick back to me, instantly shifting from sultry to sharp. “Doris hasn’t been cleared for adoption yet,” she says. “And I wouldn’t think hockey players have the time to care for a dog.” Busted! I wonder exactly how much trouble I’m going to be in for bringing Doris out. And for Eli’s visits when he’s made it clear he can’t adopt a dog right now. And for—wait. Hockey player? I make note of Eli’s broad shoulders and the way his thighs are testing the tensile strength of his pants seams. Professional athlete makes sense. Which I guess means his job is not bare-handed tree removal. But wouldn’t I have heard about this? If Dr. Evie recognized Eli right away, Katrina and the other volunteers always drooling over him probably know who he is. Come to think of it, they probably do know. I assumed they always congregated when he arrived because he’s attractive. Which could still be true. But I bet they just never mentioned who he is. And why would they? We don’t interact much. If they’re the cool girls, I hang with the other crowd—the shel...

you hoping to adopt a dog?” Dr. Evie asks Eli. Eli seems to shrink away from Dr. Evil’s attention. The expression on his face returns to the lost look he wore when asking for a dog in need of a hug. He drops his gaze to Doris. “I, um …” I clear my throat, which feels slightly raw from all the cough-trauma. “Eli was actually interested in our volunteer program,” I say, hoping he’ll play along. “You want to volunteer?” Dr. Evie asks him with an arch of her brow. “Yes,” Eli says quickly. “The Appies do a lot of volunteer work, and I was interested in …” His gaze meets mine, and it’s strange how we suddenly seem able to speak soundlessly from across the room. “Walking dogs a few times a month,” I say. “I was just about to get the volunteer application. To, um, keep things official. As we do.” “Well, then—why don’t you scurry along and get it?” Dr. Evie says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. I may have covered for Eli—and myself—with the volunteer lie. But now I’m going to have to leave Eli alone with her. I shoot him an apologetic look, but his expression is still carefully void of emotion. Thankfully, I know exactly where the volunteer applications are, and I’m back in record time. Not a moment too soon, either. Doris is practically burrowing her face into Eli’s armpit, and Dr. Evil looks about ready to toss the dog out of the way to pounce on her prey. She has one hand, with its French-tipped nails—far too pretty for someone in a hands-on job like hers—on Eli’s arm. He...

Dr. Evil glances at me with narrowed eyes the moment the door slams behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me Eli Hopkins was here?” I swallow, not wanting to admit exactly how often he’s been coming in. If she asks around, she’ll find out pretty quickly. I guess it’s a good thing most of the staff is afraid of her—or more likely sees her as competition—and wouldn’t say a word. “I had no idea he was a hockey player until you said something.” She laughs, then stops when she realizes I’m serious. “You didn’t recognize him?” I shake my head slowly. “You don’t follow him on TikTok?” “I’m not on TikTok.” “Oh, sweet Bailey,” Dr. Evil says with a cluck of her tongue. “You’re so young. If you’re not on TikTok, how do you spend all your free time?” Her patronizing tone grates, but I remind myself I need to stay on her good side if I want a recommendation. “Working mostly.” I clear my throat. This is a perfect segue. And I’ve got just the tiniest bit of bravery left over from my conversation with Eli. Just enough, it turns out. “I’m actually applying to vet school.” “Oh.” She blinks as though surprised. “I had no idea.” Of course, she didn’t. Despite it having been on my application to work here. And the way I drop hints every so often, hoping she might offer to write me a recommendation and I can avoid the ask altogether. I take a breath, hold it, then let it out slowly. Nice and easy, Bay. Just ask her. But she speaks before I can. “I’d be glad to write a recommendation letter if you ne...

I’m putting Doris back in her kennel, my mind circles back to the professional hockey player I’ve been hanging out with a few times a month without having any idea. Why is this hitting me the way it is? Or … is it the hockey player info combined with the whole marriage idea? I think about how he normally puts me at ease and the way he coaxes me to talk. So, he’s famous. A big deal. With me, he’s just Eli. Ha! The man isn’t just anything. Even without the fame, his presence is practically too large for a room to contain. I wonder if he’ll come back in after this. Dr. Evil probably scared him off. Or maybe our conversation did. The idea of never seeing him again sends a wave of disappointment through me. Way to ruin the highlight of my week, Dr. Evil. But she’s not done yet. She pops her head back in just as I’m about to start administering the various meds that go along with the evening feeding. “Oh, Bailey—I almost forgot,” she says. “The reason I was looking for you was to ask for your help bathing one of the cats. He made quite a mess and rolled around in it.” Her smile is as sweet as a honey-covered dagger. I don’t miss the way her eyes drop to the scratch on my arm. It’s no secret that I’m universally hated by cats. It also could just as easily be a volunteer’s job to bathe a cat. Dr. Evil’s already gone when I mutter, “There’s nothing in the world I want to do more than give a cat a bath right now.”

“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 Bu...

“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. ...

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.

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 a...

“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 wa...

“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 Wya...

“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.” Al...

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. "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!”

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.

“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.

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...

“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...

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. On...

She takes the tiniest step closer to me, like I make her feel safer. Good. I like that.

“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...