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

Bailey

“How was your day?” I ask Gran.

She snorts instead of answering, then pats the side of her wig. Today it’s the Dolly 9 to 5 wig, which makes her head look like a curly blond Q-tip.

I straighten the blanket at the end of her bed, needing something to do since Gran’s not in a talkative mood. Mom crocheted this blanket—her only attempt before giving up on the hobby altogether. It’s ugly and poorly constructed and almost unraveling. But when I packed up their house, I couldn’t bear to throw it out, so I brought it here. Gran seems to like it. Or, at least, she hasn’t tried to stuff it in the trash or set it on fire, so that’s something.

I trace one of the too-big gaps with one finger, missing Mom and Dad with a sudden and severe ache. I wish they were here to discuss all of this with me—Eli, the proposal, our upcoming date tonight. Of course, if they were here, I wouldn’t be considering a marriage proposal for the sake of money. They also never were the greatest at dispensing advice. Or being interested in the details of my life.

I’ve found one of the hardest things about losing people you care about is the guilt of remembering the things they weren’t so great at. Thinking about their flaws and disappointments makes me feel like a traitor. I’d love to picture Mom sitting down with me over coffee to talk about Eli, but it’s hard. Because we never did that. Not because she didn’t care, but more because we didn’t have that kind of relationship ever. And had she lived, I’m not sure we ever would.

The thing is—I’ll never know.

For this reason, I keep pushing with Gran. When I start to sit down on her bed, she waves me away with the television remote, a look on her face like I’m carrying cooties.

I thought maybe she’d notice or ask about the giant ring on my finger. The one I can’t stop looking at or touching, spinning it around and around when I’m thinking. I’m surprised Gran didn’t complain about it blinding her. It’s that big. Way bigger than Eli needed to get for our situation, or what I’d ever ask for, but the classic round diamond in a platinum band is beautiful.

Gran is too distracted to notice my ring because The Bachelor season ten thousand is on. A rerun, I’m guessing, since it’s not even six o’clock yet. Gran is a hardcore member of Bachelor Nation. She’s seen every episode of every season, plus watches Bachelor in Paradise or Bachelor Island or Bachelor in Space or whatever spin-offs the network vomits up.

Unlike many avid viewers of the franchise, Gran hate watches. Back in the day, before we had to take away her internet access due to her excessive trolling and one tiny bomb threat, she aired her grievances in multiple Bachelor subreddits. I wish I’d thought to print screenshots and have them bound up in a book so she could reminisce about the good old days before Bailey took the Wi-Fi away.

“You could learn something from this, you know.” Now, Gran points the remote at the TV, which is on mute with subtitles scrolling across the screen. A woman with mascara streaking down her face is weeping in a limousine, wondering why she isn’t enough.

At least, I think that’s what she’s wondering. The subtitles haven’t been entered correctly, so it actually reads, Why am I not a cough for him?

“What can I learn, exactly?”

“Always wear waterproof mascara,” Gran says. “You never know when someone’s going to break your heart.”

I’m too antsy to wait in my apartment for Eli to pick me up. I changed my clothes twice—which feels reasonable, all things considered—then cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom and started folding my underwear before deciding a short walk to the parking lot might dispel some of this nervous energy.

The only thing it does is make me clearly see all the reasons Eli slept outside my front door not even a week ago. It is dark—too dark. I find myself scurrying from one pool of light to the other all the way to the parking lot, where I stand near my car, directly under the sole working streetlight. Every time a door slams or I hear a raised voice from an apartment somewhere, I jump.

Okay, so my limited budget doesn’t cover safety. Noted.

When Eli’s dark SUV pulls into the lot, my nerves hit a crescendo, like a tiny orchestra is playing furiously and with wild abandon inside me. It takes effort to wait for Eli to park. Part of me wants to run, take a leap, and slide across his hood like people always do in cop movies. Only … there is no world in which I possess that level of coordination.

Eli parks and hops out, his smile wide as he brushes his hair away from his eyes. He’s growing out his facial hair, it seems, and my fingers twitch with the urge to touch the short whiskers, a smidge darker than the hair on his head. Almost the color of lightly toasted bread, and I happen to love toast.

“Hey,” I say, stepping forward and giving him a little wave.

Eli’s smile widens, but he fumbles and drops his phone, which goes skittering underneath his car somewhere. He leaves it.

“I was going to come to your door,” he says, joining me on the sidewalk.

I’m glad to know I chose my outfit well—what I’d call nice casual, which perfectly matches what Eli’s wearing. We’re both in jeans, Eli with blue-checked Vans sneakers and me in boots. The blue shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes pop, even in the dim light.

“I couldn’t wait,” I say. “I probably shouldn’t admit that but …” I shrug and look him over again. It’s a really nice view. “Hey—you’re still not wearing a coat.”

“I’m fine,” he says, then fidgets, lifting his hand like he’s trying to decide whether to hug me or shake my hand or nothing at all, which is what he finally decides to do, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

I wilt a little. Because I really could have used a hug.

As though I’ve broadcast these thoughts across my face like a lit marquis, Eli pulls his hands out of his pockets and wraps me in a hug so quickly that my forehead hits his collarbone and my arms are trapped between us. I wiggle them out, sliding them around Eli’s waist. Now I understand him not wearing a coat. The man is a furnace.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologize. I like hugs from you.”

“Then I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. But next time I’ll try not to slam your face into my collarbone.”

“I like your collarbone too.”

Go ahead, Bailey. Just confess all the things. Might as well tell him you can’t stop thinking about kissing him and also that you have more than friendly, more than contractual marriage feelings for him.

After a moment, Eli sighs and lets me go. But not completely. He takes my hand, opening the car door and helping me inside. I suck in a breath when he leans across me to buckle my seatbelt, the scent and heat of him overwhelming me. If I were a bolder person, maybe someone with Shannon’s level of confidence, I’d lean forward and brush my lips across his cheeks.

But I’m me, so I just imagine how his whiskers would feel against my lips while my heart stutters out a panicked rhythm.

The belt clicks into place, and he pulls away. “Safety first.”

I laugh. “I could have done that myself, thank you.” But I’m glad you did, I don’t add. Just before he closes my door, I remember his phone. “Oh! Don’t forget your phone under the car.”

As Eli climbs into the car, his stomach makes an unholy sound. I bite back a laugh as he presses a hand over his abdomen like he’s trying to shush it. Then he puts the car in gear—and bumps right into the curb. Apparently, he put it in drive, not reverse.

“Are you okay over there?” I ask. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so … unsteady.

He puts the car in park and runs a hand through his hair, pretty much glaring at the dashboard. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Without fully turning, Eli tilts his head my way. “I’m nervous, and it’s making me totally awkward.”

Well, that makes two of us. I just happen to not be the one attempting to operate a motor vehicle.

“Can I confess something?” I ask.

“Please do.”

I lean across the center console and whisper, “I’m nervous too. And awkward is my natural resting state. So … maybe we can just be happily awkward together?”

“Awkward together.” Eli’s grin is fast, and it makes me unreasonably happy to know I put that smile on his face. Warmth rolls over me in a wave, spreading through my chest until even my fingers tingle with it.

But when his gaze drops to my mouth, the warmth gives way to heat. Is it possible I’m not the only one who keeps thinking about the kiss we shared on the ice?

Eli quickly turns back to the wheel, putting the car in reverse this time.

Our conversation slides into something easy and comfortable, Eli asking me about work and about Doris, who’s adjusting but still hasn’t found a home.

“Any cat incidents?” Eli asks, his grin mischievous.

“Not a week goes by.” I pull back my sleeve, revealing the edge of my latest battle wound. A bite this time, the result of trying to administer deworming medicine to a new arrival.

“Ouch.”

Eli winces, then reaches across to brush two fingers across my wrist, just shy of the pink skin. His touch is gentle, yet it sparks something not-so-gentle in me. The kind of urgent yearning for more that makes my skin tingle with restlessness.

When he puts his hand back on the wheel, I ask, “What’s your hockey schedule like this week? Any more games?”

He shoots me a boyish grin. “You want to come to more of my games, Leelee?”

“I didn’t really understand any of the rules, but I liked watching.”

And by watching, I mean watching him. Though by the end, I found myself screaming for the Appies right alongside Maggie and the other fans in our section. It was thrilling. Definitely a lot more fun than sitting at home watching Netflix.

I might have even screamed, “You suck!” at a player on the other team who knocked into Eli. Which was much nicer than a lot of things people were yelling. But meaner and louder than how I’ve ever behaved at a public event.

“Any time you want, I’ll get you tickets. Mom goes to most of my home games, usually alone.”

“Really?” I don’t like the idea of Maggie sitting by herself. “Well, then count me in for any upcoming home games.”

Eli doesn’t seem to take in the fact that this means I have absolutely zero social life and just seems happy enough that I want to watch him play. Apparently, he’s got a lot of travel coming up. Two straight weeks on the road with the team playing regular games, some exhibition games, and a lot of fan events, organized by the team owner in an attempt to capitalize on—and monetize, from the sound of it—their social media fame.

“Will we get married before or after you go?” I ask, toying with the ring. Trying to wrap my brain around the question I just asked.

Because this ring means we’re getting married. I let go of the ring in favor of a button on my coat.

Maybe Eli’s struggling to wrap his head around the idea too because his hand knocks into the wiper lever. The blades screech across the dry glass, and he winces as he fumbles to turn them off. In the process, he flicks on the brights, and someone honks.

“Sorry. I, uh, hadn’t planned that far ahead,” he says, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “But I guess we should get married before?”

“Which means in the next week.”

I swallow, twisting the button until it feels ready to pop off, then letting it spin back. A thousand things flood my mind. Things we need to do. Things we haven’t done. Things I don’t know how to do. Google is about to get a hefty workout as I search everything I need to know in order to plan a wedding. In a week.

“Wow. Can we do it that fast? I guess if we’re just doing a courthouse wedding, it’ll be fine. With the judge or whatever?” My brain starts to spin out, totally unchecked and careening right toward the edge of a cliff. “Unless there’s a waitlist for that or something. I’ve never been to the courthouse, but the building’s pretty. I love that whole area of town. It’s so⁠—”

“Bailey.”

“Hmm?”

I blink rapidly until I’m back in the car. Aware of my fingers, still spinning the button on my coat. Of Eli, looking and smelling so good just a foot or so away. Of the fact that I was just babbling.

“Do you want a courthouse wedding?” Eli asks.

No. The answer is immediate in my mind, even if it takes a moment to wrangle my tongue into submission.

“I mean, we don’t really have time for anything else. People spend a year or more planning weddings. And this isn’t—this is just, um …”

I’m not going to say it’s not real. I can’t. Because for me … it is real. Or some things are real. Right now, slightly drunk on Eli, I’m not sure.

Eli pulls into a parking spot at the restaurant, then turns to face me, one hand on the wheel and the other on the back of my seat. I want to lean into his hand. I can practically feel the heat coming off him.

“What would you like to do?” Eli asks, his gaze piercing. “If this were the wedding of your dreams, what would you like?”

I glance down, still toying with the button on my coat. Eli drops his hand, lacing our fingers together.

“I never really gave it much thought,” I say, studying our hands. I look up, meeting his gaze. “Have you?”

“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”

Not in the least. I smile. “Actually, no. You seem like—” I stop, unable to finish the sentence I started.

“How do I seem?” he asks.

I draw in a breath. “You seem like a romantic, hockey player.”

“You’re very observant, Bailey … Wait—I don’t know your last name. How can I not know your last name?”

I drop my head back, laughing. This seems like the most perfect kind of irony. Is irony even the word? Probably not. Still—being ready to take the last name of a man who doesn’t know mine is ridiculous.

“We sort of skipped over that part, huh? My last name is McKinney.”

“Well, Bailey McKinney, soon to be Bailey Hopkins—it sounds like we’ve got a wedding to plan,” he says. “Let’s discuss the details inside. With breadsticks.”

I smile. “Always with breadsticks.”

Eli apparently made a reservation, which shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. Our table is by the fireplace, which would be cozy—maybe even romantic?—except that the table closest to ours has three children all watching different shows on iPads. Full volume. No earphones. I wish I didn’t know who Blippi is, but I do. And now he’ll be joining us on our date because the little girl in the highchair apparently loves him.

The waiter drops off our waters, and Eli suddenly gets jumpy. Fidgeting in his seat, wiping his hands repeatedly on his thighs, looking around the restaurant everywhere but at me. It’s honestly kind of adorable to see him struck with the same kind of affliction I deal with on a somewhat frequent basis.

“So,” Eli says loudly. “Food!”

Reaching for the menus, he somehow knocks over both of our glasses, sending a sea of water into his lap.

He jumps to his feet, patting at his jeans with a napkin, but there is very little hope. His jeans are more wet than dry, specifically in the upper parts of the legs and crotch.

“Wa-wa!” the little girl at the next table says, Blippi forgotten in favor of Eli’s entertainment. She slaps her tiny palms on the table with a manic grin of pure delight, and I cover my mouth to hide my laughter.

“That’s why we have lids,” one of the little boys says, pointing to his plastic cup. His very serious expression is tempered only by the fact that he’s missing both front teeth. “I’m sure they’ll give you one if you ask.”

“It looks like you peed your pants,” the other boy adds. He’s younger and looks like he recently took scissors to his bangs. “Jason peed his pants after recess, and he looked just like you.”

Poor Eli. Now, even the parents are trying not to laugh.

“We keep extra clothes in our cubby,” the boy continues. “Do you have extra clothes?”

Eli gives up trying to dry his pants, tossing his napkin into the booth with a sigh. “My dude, I don’t even have a cubby.”

“That sucks,” the toothless brother says, nodding.

“Fenton,” his father says. “We don’t say sucks.”

“But it does,” Fenton argues. “It totally sucks.”

“Wa-wa,” the little girl squeals again, clapping her hands.

I can’t help it. I giggle. Eli’s head snaps up, and he narrows his eyes at me, but he returns my smile, then points at me.

“You’re the one who said awkward was fine,” he says.

“It is. Awkward is amazing. It can also be very amusing.”

“Well, good. Because I seem to be stuck on the extreme awkward setting.”

And then he’s sliding into my side of the booth, crowding into me, his big body taking up most of the seat. I can’t say I mind being this close to him, his thigh pressed up against mine, his body heat making me want to snuggle closer like he’s my personal electric heater.

“My side is wet,” he says.

I shrug. “You don’t need an excuse to sit by me, hockey player.”

Our waiter appears then with replacement waters and a busboy who mops up the mess. Fenton, the toothless brother, tugs on the busboy’s sleeve and asks if they can bring Eli a cup with a lid.

“Wa-wa!” his sister shrieks again, and I can’t hold back my giggles.

Eli mock-glares, then tells the waiter we’re going to need a few minutes. The moment we’re alone again—aside from the children who are way too invested in our date—Eli groans, dropping his head to the back of the booth.

“What is it?” I nudge his shoulder with mine.

“I’m screwing this all up,” he grumbles.

I let my cheek fall to his shoulder just for a moment. “I can assure you, you are not screwing this up.”

He tilts his head, peering at me. “I’m not?”

“You’re not. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.”

“At me. You’re laughing at me.”

I grin. “Do you really mind?”

“Nope.”

I don’t mind either. But I also feel badly that Eli seems to be so nervous. Is it the wedding plans? Or the fact that we might be engaged but are also on our first date? Whatever the reason, I have a sudden idea that might just help us both feel more comfortable.

“But if you’re game, I have an idea that involves getting our food to go.”

And maybe will make us both feel slightly more comfortable.

Twenty-five minutes later, Eli and I are in the back room of the animal shelter, perched on the countertop, eating breadsticks and hot slices of pizza straight from the box. Every so often, I stop by at night to check on the animals, something I’ve been doing more since Doris arrived. She just seems so sad and lonely. Now, she’s happily wandering the room, sniffing every little thing and looking up at our pizza hopefully.

This thankfully seems to have banished the awkwardness. Though Eli’s never been in the back room like this, we’ve spent more time together in the shelter than anywhere else. It’s kind of our origin story.

Eli finishes his current slice, which I think is his sixth or seventh, and wipes his hands on a scratchy brown paper towel—the best I can do as far as napkins, which we forgot to get from the restaurant. Gripping the counter, he leans forward, catching my eye. We’re sitting catty-corner, close enough that I can playfully kicked him with my socked feet. He still has on his shoes, but my boots got uncomfortable, so I slipped them off when I sat down.

The look Eli’s wearing is intense and makes me suddenly self-conscious about how I chew. I cover my mouth with my hand. “What?”

“I can’t believe you like spinach on your pizza. What’s the other stuff?”

“Arugula,” I answer, keeping my mouth covered in case either of the green leafy toppings is in my teeth. “It’s like a peppery kind of leafy green.”

“Gross. You’re basically eating salad pizza.”

“And you’ve got meatza,” I shoot back. “Is there a kind of meat you didn’t ask for?”

“Canadian bacon. Not a fan.” When I start to laugh, he says, “What?”

“Oh, the irony. The Canadian doesn’t like Canadian bacon.”

“I don’t claim Canadian bacon. It’s a poor representative of both bacon and Canada. It has no taste!”

“Funnily enough, if I’m getting meat, that’s the one I would get,” I tell him.

Eli shakes his head. “Bailey, Bailey, Bailey—how is this marriage going to work when we can’t even agree on pizza toppings?”

I finally finish the bite I’ve been chewing and wipe my mouth, considering the question. Which I know he meant as a joke, but it’s got me thinking about marriage. You know, the thing we’re about to do together, for better or for worse, fraudulent or not.

“Maybe that’s what marriage is,” I suggest. “Arguing over pizza toppings.” Eli’s brow furrows, so I continue. “I mean, no two people automatically start agreeing on everything once they say ‘I do.’ So, they learn their differences and how to navigate them. What things are fine to disagree on—like pizza toppings—and where they need to come to a consensus. That’s marriage.”

My parents seemed to me like the very definition of two peas in a pod, which left me feeling a little bit like the third wheel. But when I said as much one time, Mom told me she and Dad had tons of things they disagreed on. And okay, all of them were kind of nerdy, like whether Battlestar Galactica or Firefly was the better show. She said that over time, they learned which arguments needed resolution and which ones were healthy to keep in the name of individual autonomy within a marriage. Her words.

“Speaking of marriage, I had a thought. You seemed a little overwhelmed when I brought it up in the car.”

I smile weakly, placing my palms on the countertop to steady myself. “Overwhelmed is an understatement.”

“How about this: you let me know if there are specific things you want, and I’ll handle all the details,” Eli suggests.

The relief at this suggestion is palpable. And yet, I don’t want to put this all on him. It feels wrong. “You don’t need to plan the whole wedding, Eli.”

“I don’t mind. Actually …” His smile is a little sheepish, and his cheeks flush the lightest pink as he says, “I kind of want to do it. If that’s okay. I know I screwed up the proposal⁠—”

“Eli. Stop. You didn’t.”

“Bailey, I did,” he insists, leaning closer. “Don’t try to make me feel better about it. I didn’t think it through. But I promise to do better with this. If you trust me, that is.”

“I trust you.”

I gently tap his shin with my foot, and he traps it between both of his, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing me. I smile, feeling a sudden satisfaction that has less to do with the pizza I just ate and more to do with the man whose sweetness keeps surprising me.

“We should also talk about expectations,” he says, shattering the sense of calm I’d just been relishing, replacing it with jittery nerves.

“Expectations,” I repeat.

“Not for the wedding, but after. Like, what this will look like between us in practical terms. I made a list,” he says, clearing his throat and shifting his weight to pull something out of his back pocket. A pink sticky note, just like the ones he used on his volunteer application.

What is it with the pink sticky notes?

I want to ask but quickly forget my question altogether when Eli reads the first item on his list. “As far as sleeping together …” I’m not sure what expression my face makes, but he quickly adds, “We don’t need to sleep together. Uh, as in, there are two bedrooms upstairs. Two beds. Mom doesn’t usually come up there because stairs are hard on her knees. So she won’t know that we’re not sleeping together. In the literal sleeping sense.”

I may be an adult, capable of talking about adult things, but right now, I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. “Sounds good,” I manage.

“Wow.” Eli chuckles, dropping his gaze to the sticky note in his hand, which is quickly becoming rumpled as his fingers flex. “I thought having a list would help me.”

“Awkward together, remember?” I say gently, knowing my cheeks are burning. “What’s next?”

It’s not a long list, and after the whole sleeping conversation, we move a little quicker. With fewer double meanings. But no less blushing on my part as we decide when I’ll move in—as soon as possible to get me out of what Eli calls my “unsafe living situation”—and how finances will work—despite my protests, Eli insists he’s going to cover costs of just about everything, from the wedding to vet school to groceries.

“I do make money,” I tell him, more than a little defensively.

Eli gently nudges my foot with his.

“I’ve been on my own for a while.”

Which leads to him asking about my parents. I do my best not to get choked up about it. Their loss is like a scabbed-over wound that so easily gets picked off and goes back to painful.

Eli puts his hand on mine. “You’re not alone, Leelee. Not anymore.”

If he thinks that kind of statement is going to make me less emotional, he is very, very wrong. I dip my chin, swallowing back a sob at the sudden wave of emotions. Happiness, sadness, grief, hope, and the nagging sense of how much it will hurt when this ends.

“How long will this last?” I ask, my voice sounding a lot steadier than I feel.

Eli is quiet, and I finally take a breath and tilt my head up to look at him. I can’t quite read his expression, which looks as jumbled up as I’ve felt through this entire conversation.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Maybe … we can table that discussion for now and revisit later?”

I’m all too happy to do that. I think I’d happily table any further talking and end the date before I collapse from the emotional weight of it all. Doris has the right idea—snoring a few feet away, her head resting on one of my boots.

“Last item,” Eli says, and I almost groan. “What about kissing?”

Cue my face turning red. Again. Maybe I should start wearing blush in copious amounts so that when I get embarrassed or uncomfortable or any of the other emotions that spark the rush of blood to my capillaries, no one will be able to tell the difference.

“Good question,” I say. “Actually, wait—what’s the question?”

Eli’s hand closes around the sticky note, and I wonder if he even realizes he’s crumpled it into a ball. I watch, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple visibly moves.

“I know there are times that might call for kissing,” he says. “Like, uh, the proposal. And the wedding ceremony. I just want to make sure you didn’t think I expected you to have to kiss me all the time.”

“You say that like it’s a hardship,” I mutter.

If I had my choice, we’d have spent a better portion of the night kissing rather than having this awkward but necessary discussion.

Wise? Probably not.

Helpful in terms of guarding myself from falling harder for Eli? Definitely not.

Enjoyable? Absolutely.

“I just don’t want you to feel pressured,” he says.

“You’ve never made me feel that way.”

“Good.” Eli opens his hand, blinking down at the crushed pink paper. He tosses it toward the trash can. A perfect shot. He scoots off the counter and gets to his feet, stretching. I watch the way his biceps strain against his shirt, glad my cheeks are already hot so they don’t give anything more away. “I guess we’re settled.”

Settled is the last thing I feel. “On what?”

Eli’s gaze meets mine. “On kissing only when the situation requires us to.”

Is it just me, or does he sound as disappointed as I feel?

One thing that has come up over and over in my past relationships is my struggle to vocalize how I feel. What I want and what I don’t. I’m not sure if it’s my inherent shyness or that I never felt fully comfortable, even around my longest-term relationships. Which weren’t all that long.

But I find myself needing things to be different here. Not because this is an arrangement, not something real. I want to speak the truth to Eli. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it’s a bad idea.

Even if it might reveal my true feelings for him.

“Do we need to take non-required kissing off the table?” I ask.

He goes completely still. Not a relaxed sort of stillness either. I can see the flex in his jaw. The tightness in the way his hands are fisted at his sides. Tendons in his neck are tight.

“Tell me what you want, Leelee.”

Eli’s voice is a low rasp, and it tugs at something in my chest. A ribbon of want unfurls inside me, slow and lazy.

“I don’t think we need to stop kissing,” I say. “Or that it needs to be done strictly when necessary.”

“No?” He takes a step closer.

“No,” I breathe. My hands tremble, but I hold his gaze steadily, feeling brave and reckless, ignoring the tiny voice telling me the ice is too thin here. It won’t hold me. I don’t care. “I mean, it might seem a little unbelievable if it’s not something we’re comfortable with.”

“Comfortable, hmm?” Eli takes one more step toward my spot on the counter until he’s standing so close, my knees bracket his torso and my dangling feet brush his thighs.

“I like the way you look with a blush on your cheeks,” he says, his gaze moving across my face. “Especially when I’m the one who puts it there.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Eli brushes a fingertip over the swell of my cheek, then over the slope of my nose to the other cheek. My eyes are on his, but his are following the path of his finger. The blue of his eyes is dark, a heavy storm cloud over a tumultuous sea.

“You blush like a sunrise,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice making my breath hitch. “First a light pink, then a deeper flush, and finally, rose red. Not just in your cheeks. Here,” he says, tapping the end of my nose, then sweeping two fingers to my jaw and trailing them slowly down my neck. “And here.”

I swallow, and Eli seems fascinated by the movement, tracing my throat with his fingertips.

“You know,” he says, his eyes still on the place he’s touching me. “You’re right—if we don’t spend time kissing in private, it might not look believable to other people when we’re in public.”

“We can’t have that,” I whisper. “I won’t let them deport you, hockey player.”

His eyes snap to mine. “No?”

I shake my head. “I think I’d like to keep you.”

I mean to add for a little while or for as long as I can, but the words don’t come. Probably because they’re not true. I don’t want this to be temporary. I don’t want this to be an agreement, a list of talking points on a sticky note, balled up and tossed away.

But I’m not brave enough to say all that. Telling Eli this little bit I want feels like a start. A tiny step in the right direction.

“Will you kiss me?” I ask.

Eli slides his hand around the back of my neck, then up into my hair. He makes a humming sound, leaning in until our noses brush.

“That is,” I say, my eyes fluttering closed as his lips brush my cheek, his short beard prickling against my skin. “If you don’t think it will make things confusing.”

It’s too late for me. I am nothing if not a tangled knot of confusion, of warring wants and fears, but right now, my longing for Eli’s mouth on mine eclipses them all.

“I’m not confused,” Eli says.

And then his lips find mine. A light, teasing pass at first, a whisper of a kiss. Then another. But when a low noise escapes my throat, something in him seems to snap, and his mouth moves over mine, hot and sweet and so overwhelming, I’m immediately lost to him.

It’s better than I remember. Better without the whole stadium of people watching.

Better with no pressure and no hurry, even though we’re kissing with desperation. As though these are our final moments, a goodbye kiss. It feels like we’re at the bottom of an hourglass, sand spilling over us faster every moment.

I grip his shoulders, pulling him closer as he gently tilts my head to the side, his mouth finding my cheek, my jaw, my neck.

Until he pulls away suddenly. I blink at him, trying to orient myself to the harsh lighting above and the jar of cotton swabs to my right, the sound of dogs barking incessantly in the kennel nearby.

It only takes a second for me to see why Eli stopped kissing me. Doris is staring up at us both while lifting her leg and urinating on Eli’s shoe in a steady stream. Totally unrepentant. Brazen, even.

And we’re both frozen. At least, until Doris finishes and darts away, chasing the paper towel Eli dropped earlier.

“Really, D? It’s like that?” Eli asks, and the steadiness in his voice is alarming.

Because I am wrecked.

Eli is teasing Doris while I am trying to remember how to breathe. I lean forward, resting my head on his shoulder. He can’t see my face this way and notice my disappointment.

But then, he said he wasn’t confused about kissing me. I’m the one who asked him to kiss me, and I’m the one confused.

“Are we okay?” he asks, his hands gently kneading my shoulders.

He’s so kind, I think. Too kind. I need to stop mistaking that for something else. Even if … even if I really thought maybe it was more.

“We’re fine,” I tell him. “The question is—are your shoes okay?”

This makes him smile, which is what I want. Even if I also want to die a little. And for him to kiss me again. And to tell him he can’t kiss me again because I was wrong—we’re not fine and I’m completely confused. Even if he isn’t.

But what is he not confused about?

Is he not confused because he can casually kiss people without catching feelings? I really, really hope that’s not what he meant. Maybe he’s not confused because we just set up expectations for our arrangement and kissing is just one more part of that?

Or … is he not confused because he has feelings for me, which are not confusing?

His lack of confusion only sends me spinning into more.

As we head for the door, I quickly bend and rescue the balled-up pink sticky note from the trash, stuffing it inside my pocket before I follow Eli out into the darkness.