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

Bailey

The days leading up to my wedding day—I still can’t even think the words my wedding day without giggling nervously—are a blur of busy. I’m working full-time. Eli’s schedule is intense as they prepare for their two-week trip.

And now it’s move-in day.

Which means I’m distracted at the shelter, walking with my head down, my focus halfway on the chart in my hands, halfway on the boxes stacked by the door of my apartment—soon to be stacked in Eli’s guest room, which I still haven’t seen.

“Oh,” I say, jumping back as I collide with a person where I didn’t see a person moments ago. My fingers flex and I drop the file, papers fluttering to the floor. “Sorry.”

Dr. Evie runs her hands down the front of her white lab coat as though checking for damage, then picks at an invisible piece of nothing, her expression just short of disgusted, like I’ve infected her with some kind of virus.

I haven’t exactly been avoiding her since she agreed to write me a recommendation. Not unless you count ducking into the kennels when I hear her voice outside the door or suddenly deciding to walk the dogs early.

I crouch and gather the papers, stuffing them back in the folder. “I’m sorry.”

When I stand, Dr. Evie is smiling. A crocodile smile. “Guess I can understand why you’re distracted. What with the wedding and all.”

I haven’t spoken to her one time about this, which means she must have seen it on social media. Personally, I’ve been avoiding all things internet ever since Parker warned me it could get overwhelming—or ugly. “Don’t get me wrong,” Parker said, “social media is my job and it’s a beautiful thing. But with the way fans tend to obsess over the players, ignorance might be bliss.”

Now, I’m suddenly wondering what things Dr. Evie might have seen or might know that I don’t. Does she follow Eli on social media? Read the comments? Drop into his DMs? The idea makes my stomach churn.

“I can’t believe you met him right here,” she says with a shake of her head.

Clearly, that’s not all she can’t believe. More likely than not, she can’t believe someone like me—shy, unassuming, pretty but not hot—snagged someone like Eli. Maybe she thinks if she met him first, things would be different.

“What are the odds?”

“It’s been … a whirlwind,” I say, pulling the folder tight to my chest, an ineffective paper shield.

“I’ll bet.” Her tone is crisp, and I swear, I can almost feel her taking stock of me, tallying up my strengths and weaknesses to arrive at a final score. One she finds wanting.

I wish Beth was working today. She makes an excellent buffer. Or Cyn. Everyone stays out of her way. But today, it’s just me and some volunteers.

“I’d better get back to it.” I give her a tight smile and start to walk away. I hardly remember where I was going, but now I’m going to head out front to reception. Just to be in another room.

Before I can push through the door, though, Dr. Evie says, “Oh, I meant to tell you …”

And I already know this won’t be something I want to hear, even while she’s assembling her features into what I think is supposed to be compassion? Hard to tell. Other than to know it’s completely insincere.

“I’ve gone over your performance reviews”—we have performance reviews?—“and unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to write that vet school recommendation for you after all.”

I’m only able to shelve my frustration and fury over Dr. Absolutely Evil because the moment I get home from work, my apartment fills with hockey players. They’re too big for the space, too loud, too much for my thoughts to fixate on the reality that while I might now have money to pay for vet school applications, I won’t have a recommendation to help me get in.

I shelve those thoughts and worries for another time. Maybe around four o’clock on the last Wednesday of never.

My tongue tangle activated when three guys I barely know showed up in my space to help carry boxes. I’m fairly comfortable around Van now, but barely know the quiet Nathan and the flirtatious Alec. What does it say about me that it only takes four people—Eli, Van, Nathan, and Alec—twenty minutes and the back of one pick-up truck to load all my possessions? Hopefully, it says that I’m not superficial and tied to material things. Rather than being a flashing neon sign indicating the smallness of my life.

The worry over what Eli’s teammates think of me stacks up neatly next to all my other anxious thoughts, piling hoarder-high. It’s too bad there aren’t specialists who can deal with thought stockpiling. People who could parse through the worries and negative thoughts and sweep them out and into a dumpster.

Nervousness bubbles up inside me as we arrive at Eli’s house in a little caravan. Maggie welcomes me on the front porch with a hug and a wink. When she leans close, whispering, “Don’t worry—the walls aren’t thin,” I giggle maniacally and almost throw up in the bushes.

My nervous giggles give way to nervous hiccups I can’t shake, despite all the internet’s suggested remedies. Drinking water upside down—harder than it looks and didn’t help. Swallowing three times without taking a new breath—also harder than it should be and also nope. I even popped into the kitchen and tried a spoonful of sugar and immediately sucked on a lemon, leaving my mouth tasting funky … and still with hiccups.

“What’s in this box, B?” Van groans, pauses at the bottom of Eli’s stairs, and shuffles the box in his arms, clearly labeled BOOKS. “Bowling balls?”

“Yep,” I deadpan, then hiccup. “But just my favorite ones.”

He frowns. “I was kidding. Considering how many gutter balls you had the other night, I’m surprised. You really have your own bowling balls?”

Eli steps inside the house, adjusting the boxes in one arm so he can smack Van on the back of the head. “You’re blocking the doorway. And don’t insult my fiancée’s bowling prowess. I’d worry more about your ability to read. The box says books.”

“What kind of books?” Van asks, looking with interest at the line of tape across the top like it will somehow become a window into the contents.

“I read a little of everything. You’re welcome to look if you want,” I tell him.

“But first—upstairs,” Eli says, nudging Van with a box. “Move.”

“Okay,” Van whines, clomping up the stairs.

“Thank you!” I call. Then knock my hip into the wall when Eli darts in for a sneak-attack cheek-kiss on his way by. I press my hand to the picture frames, rattling from the contact. Right along with my rattling heart.

Hic.

“Have you tried snorting cayenne pepper?” That’s Alec, walking in with a box in each arm, plus a hanging bag of the few nice things I own draped over his shoulder.

“I’m … not going to try that,” I tell Alec through another hiccup.

Alec shrugs and heads upstairs, followed by Nathan, whose face is a perpetual storm cloud. But he does pause long enough to say, “Snorting cayenne isn’t a remedy for hiccups. The best thing is to focus on breathing and relaxing your diaphragm.”

“Thanks,” I say, watching as he goes, passing Eli on his way back down.

Just the sight of Eli’s smile seems to make my hiccups do double-time. I step back slightly, expecting Eli to pass by me in the small entry hall, but instead, he curls his palms around my shoulders and directs me backwards, his smile edging wider and brighter.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my eyes darting left where Maggie is pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. She grins at the sight of us, waving an oven mitt as she sets the cookies down.

“I have another idea to cure your hiccups,” Eli says, and then he’s steering me into the cramped bathroom under the stairs, doing an awkward shuffle as he kicks the door closed behind us.

We’re plunged into darkness.

Immediately, my other senses engage. I can hear his breath and my pulse in my ears as my heart does its best jackhammer impression. I’m hyper aware of Eli’s hands inching across my shoulders, thumbs dragging over my collarbone and making me suck in a hiccuping breath.

“If you’re trying to scare them out of me, it’s not working.”

His scent invades my space as he leans in, the rough stubble he’s been growing out brushing against my cheek. His mouth finds my ear, his words and breath sending a cascade of shivers along my spine. “Who said I’m trying to scare them out of you, Leelee?”

Well, okay then. I may not be willing to snort cayenne, but I’m happily willing to try whatever this is.

Especially when Eli kisses a path along my jaw and up my cheek, like he’s mapping his way in the dark. Unhurried yet somehow urgent, like he’s torn between prolonging this moment and rushing to get there.

When a tiny sound escapes me that is definitely not a hiccup, Eli’s urgency wins. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s messy and raw and absolutely perfect. My hands take on a life of their own, just as eager as my mouth is as they grasp Eli’s shirt, then move to his biceps, then link around his neck, tugging him closer.

We bump into the wall, then the corner of the sink. I’m going to have a bruise on my hip. I actually hope I do. Maybe I can get a tattoo artist to trace around it, shade in something permanent.

Even as I realize how ridiculous that idea is, I lose all rational thought as Eli’s hands grip my waist, palms spread wide like he wants to cover as much surface area as possible, even on top of my shirt. I slide my hands through his hair, loving the silky brush of it against my fingertips. He shifts, going for a different angle.

In the process, he must hit the light switch because suddenly we’re blinking in the too-bright bulb over the sink. I take the tiniest peek in the mirror and see mussed hair, cheeks reddened from the scrape of his stubble, and lips that appear swollen. Eli is a mirror of me, only instead of looking simply dazed, he looks delighted. Totally unabashed. Totally unrepentant.

I wonder what it would be like to have Eli’s confidence in place of my shyness. Even for five minutes. I’m sure it would be revolutionary.

As it is, I’m just glad I had the wherewithal to say I wanted to keep kissing. Because Eli’s lips on mine have a sort of drugging power to erase any of my worries and issues. Even while ratcheting up other things, like need. Want. Hope.

“See?” he says, and I can only blink at him.

I don’t see. At least, not whatever he’s asking about.

Because all I see is the trouble lying ahead when I’m living in close proximity to the man who will soon legally be my husband. The man I’m starting to feel like I wouldn’t mind marrying for real. The man who seems to have no qualms or confusion about pulling me into bathrooms for passionate make out sessions.

The one who doesn’t share my confusion for the whole situation.

“Cured your hiccups,” he says, sounding all too pleased with himself.

Right. Those.