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

Eli

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. But neither Asheville nor Knoxville is too far. I don’t know why Grant didn’t consider someone from either of those places. Unless …

Unless there really are no other options.

My insides have coiled into a knot so complicated, it would take a surgeon to untangle everything.

And 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 achievements glowing like a scoreboard.

But my hopes for this lovely, aimless day were ruined by my phone, which wouldn’t stop ringing after I set it down.

“Your fans are calling,” Mom said.

But it wasn’t my fans. It was Malik, requesting my presence at the Summit, my first sign that today would turn into a five-alarm dumpster fire. The second sign of the impending apocalypse was seeing Grant in Malik’s office. I should have turned and run.

Instead, 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. You’ll go back to Canada, apply for a new visa, then wait for processing. Any other suggestions”—he glares at Mr. Pebbles again—“would be fraud and”—now he glares at me like any of this was my idea—“is not condoned by the Appies organization.”

“No one suggested fraud,” Mr. Pebbles says, though I’m pretty positive that’s exactly what he suggested. He runs a hand down his tie, finally noticing the dark stain I’ve spent half this meeting trying to identify. Ketchup? Soy sauce? Chocolate? His frown makes me wonder if he even knows its origin. Gross.

Now, though, 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 current girlfriend. Considering the fact that she doesn’t exist.

I drag a hand down my face and look away. “I’m not seeing anyone I was planning to propose to in the next month.”

It’s not, technically speaking, a lie.

I’m not dating anyone I would propose to in the next month. In fact, my dating life is blanketed in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Not for lack of trying, either. Oh, how I’ve tried. Maybe if I wanted what most guys in my position—young, professional athletes—want, it wouldn’t be hard to find company. Something casual.

But I’m a not-so-closet romantic, and I haven’t dated someone seriously in a good, long while. Which is no one’s business in this room but mine.

“But you could at least discuss the idea,” Malik suggests.

“Somehow, I don’t think she’d be on board with this.” Because she doesn’t exist.

“I’m not hearing this conversation,” Grant says, actually putting his hands over his ears.

“Once again, it’s not fraud if the marriage is legitimate between two people involved romantically who were planning to get married anyway,” Mr. Pebbles insists.

Grant glowers, the hands over his ears clearly not blocking out any sound. He looks ridiculous this way, and if I were in a better mood, I’d snap a picture and send it to the team group chat. “Please stop saying the word fraud.”

As we ride back to the Summit, me in the backseat like a child and Grant and Malik arguing up front like two parents on the cusp of an ugly divorce, I stare out at the mountains. I’ve grown used to this view. I love this view. Even though I’ve spent more collective time on other teams and in other cities, the Appies feel like family. Harvest Hollow feels like home.

I could lose all this if I leave in a month. My teammates, some of whom have become the closest thing I’ve known to brothers. My career, which has grown exponentially since I transferred to the Appies.

And this won’t just affect me. It will have just as much impact on my mom.

“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 about it?”

I frown. “About going back to Canada?”

“About asking your girl to marry you sooner than later.”

“Not going to happen,” I say instead of telling Malik the truth—that there’s no her to ask.

“Are you against marriage?”

I blink at him. “No. I want to get married.”

To someone I love. Not so I can stay in the states. Like Grant said: it’s fraud.

Even my nonexistent girlfriend agrees: Real men don’t commit fraud.

Malik nods. “And she doesn’t? Or …?”

Or … she doesn’t exist.

“Worst case scenario, I’ll just go back to Canada until we get it straightened out. If it takes six months, that puts us at the end of the season. I could be back for training and⁠—”

“The immigration lawyer said it could be months before things get processed. A year, man.”

Am I sinking? It feels like Malik’s leather seats are suddenly sucking me down into them. I definitely didn’t hear Mr. Pebbles say anything about a full year. It must have been one of the many times when I zoned out.

“I can’t promise Larry would hold your spot.”

I sink just a little bit farther. If I had to describe the Appies’ team owner in one word, it’d be hungry. While hunger is what drives me to be the best at my position, Larry’s hunger is the ugly kind. The greedy kind. The kind wanting to feast on more money, fame, recognition—as much as he can get and in any way he can get it.

Larry is the single person I don’t like inside the Appies organization. It sucks that he happens to be the owner.

I swallow past a growing lump in my throat. Feels like a boulder.

“I’m sorry, man,” Malik says. “I’m sure it will be fine. Just … talk to your girl. We all do things and make sacrifices for the people we love. Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Somehow, I don’t think she will.

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 a face full of needles than my visa issue.

Mom loops her arm through mine as we cross the wide porch. A group of jack-o’-lanterns left over from Halloween slouches on the steps, their smiles softening as they slowly cave in on themselves.

“Then you should have specified,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze.

She’s got me there. And even if she didn’t, I still wouldn’t say no. I almost never do, unless it’s something that would be harmful to her health, like skipping out on appointments.

Because today is a good day, we walk the few blocks to The Toasted Pecan Bakery. The air is crisp, but the sun is high and bright, making this late fall day feel more like summer than a precursor to winter. It’s so nice I can almost forget about my morning.

The lawyers. My visa issue. Having to tell Mom.

So far, she hasn’t picked up on my mood. But then I make the mistake of only ordering coffee. Which sounds puny compared to Mom’s cinnamon roll, chocolate caramel muffin, and slice of French silk pie. None of which are cheesecake, cookies, or ice cream but all of which satisfy her sweet tooth. For now.

Mom presses a hand to my forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Well, you’re something,” Mom says. “Not hungry for you has always translated to something being wrong. Like the time you stole those batteries from the store.”

I groan. “Will I ever live that down? It was a two-pack of double-A batteries, Ma. I was seven.”

“And your guilt kept you from eating dinner. Otherwise, I’d never have known. Not when you buried the batteries in the backyard to hide them from me.” She laughs. “Remember getting worried about growing a battery tree?”

We’re still standing at the counter, and I’m thankful there’s no post-lunch rush. “Yes. I do remember.”

“Good thing you chose hockey instead of a life of crime.” Mom pats my arm. “You’d make a terrible criminal.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, but the mention of hockey only makes my stomach clench more. Same with the mention of being a criminal.

Because I’ll be honest—over the last few hours, I’ve been considering Malik’s suggestion. Or some version of it, since there is obviously no girlfriend in the picture like he thinks.

Which means, I guess I am thinking about a life of crime.

A temporary life of crime. More like a season of it. A brief moment of crime.

And when you compare getting married to stay in the country to something like selling drugs or robbing a bank, it’s hardly even a crime. Not if you grade crime on a curve.

It would be less a life of crime and more a moment of ignoring some minor laws.

“For 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.

“What’s the next stop on your sweets quest?” I ask, desperate for a subject change.

“We can head home since you have plans.”

“I thought you wanted to eat your way through Asheville’s desserts?”

Mom shakes the bag in her hand. “I’m fully stocked on sugar. At least for the afternoon.” She pauses. “Why don’t you ever take me with you to the shelter?”

“I didn’t think about it,” I say.

Which isn’t exactly true. I know she’d probably love it. I have thought about bringing her before. But going to the shelter helps me unwind. It boosts my mood if it happens to dip. And as much as I love her, it wouldn’t serve the same purpose if Mom came with me.

I also have a sneaking suspicion she’d probably try to set me up with Bailey. “You need a nice young woman,” Mom’s said more than once. “Not those hockey hussies always hanging around.” Bailey falls into the nice young woman category. And I’ve had enough of people trying to push me into relationships today.

“I’ll bring you sometime,” I tell her. “But not today.”

She hums, like now her mind has turned from solving the mystery of why I’m not eating to why I want to go to the shelter alone. So long as she’s not trying to figure out why I had to go into work this morning, she can Sherlock her way around anything else.

“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 this whole situation. But he was a garbage human, one who drove a deep wedge between my mom and her family before he took off.

Now, she has me and Annie, who’s still in Montreal and visits occasionally. Always unannounced because Annie loves chaos. And surprises.

Mom won’t stay here without me. I know it. Ripping me out of my life means ripping her out of hers as well. And I simply won’t do that to her. Which means … I guess I need to find myself a wife.