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

Bailey

With every box stacked in the guest room upstairs and the other guys gone, I puddle limply on the living room floor, nose pressed to the carpet, which smells inexplicably like peppermint.

Not the living room floor. My living room floor? Technically, this is my new residence too. My house. My room.

But maybe because of the lack of bills I’ll pay (no rent money was part of the arrangement) or my name not being on the deed (getting my name on the deed was not part of the arrangement), I’m left feeling very much like a visitor. Not quite an intruder, but very much a guest.

I don’t know that this will ever feel like my place. When was the last time anywhere felt like a home to me? Definitely not my apartment, which I’m honestly relieved to be out of. Once Eli pointed out all the safety concerns, I couldn’t not see them. I think I’d been stuffing down my worry with a bright, forced optimism since my budget left no other choices. Before that, I lived in college dorms, college apartments. And no place that smells consistently of ramen noodles and slightly stale weed can feel like home.

Honestly, I haven’t had a place since my parents died, I discovered they had a reverse mortgage, and I ended up having to give it back to the bank. Ever since their death, I’ve been floating, I realize. Not only in terms of not having a home, but in having no real anchors. Maybe that’s why I try so hard with Gran. She’s all I have.

It’s these morbid thoughts my brain is circling when I hear heavy steps and then feel something nudging my thigh. I tilt my head slightly to confirm it’s Eli, toeing me with one of his socked feet. They’re boring white athletic socks, but it’s oddly cute seeing him in them. Probably there’s no look that wouldn’t be attractive on him. And now I’ll be living down a short hallway from him, seeing them all.

Maybe the sketchy apartment is less dangerous—for totally different reasons. I return my nose to the carpet, squeezing my eyes firmly closed.

“You awake and alive?” he asks, amusement lacing his voice.

I grunt in response, too exhausted and, frankly, depressed, to use words.

“Aw, Leelee.”

My heart constricts at the tenderness in his voice, and it becomes hard to swallow. There’s suddenly a warm pressure on my back, a firm hand gently pressing as it glides up the length of my spine. Even without opening my eyes, I know he’s crouched beside me. I can feel the heat of him there.

It’s nice. More than nice.

“Today was a lot for you, huh?”

“Feel like my bones melted,” I mumble, aware that his warm hand on my back is both lulling me to sleep and waking up some feelings I’d rather stay in an extended hibernation. I’m also aware I sound like an idiot.

“You look like your bones melted. Are you hungry?”

“No,” I say, as my stomach disagrees with a loud groan.

“Hm. Well, Mrs. No Bones⁠—”

“Melted bones.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Melted Bones—we’ve got dinner ready. And don’t worry about getting up,” Eli adds. “I’ve got you.”

If I weren’t already in a state of limp sloth, those three words would have immobilized me. I don’t think it’s ever solidified as a conscious thought before now, but I’m suddenly very sure that I’ve got you might trump I love you in my book. Maybe it’s the overuse of the latter, the casual and interchangeable way people use love for their favorite ice cream flavor, their sibling, or their spouse.

Or maybe it’s just that, given my last few years’ of being alone and adrift, the idea of someone having me has been elevated.

Eli carefully rolls me over and scoops me up, cradling me against his chest with care. For someone so big, he’s gentle, measured in his movements. I think of him on the ice, how amazing it is to watch him—all the guys, really, but especially the one I’m most fascinated with—move all that bulk so gracefully, with such speed and delicate precision.

He holds me the same way. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, but instead keep them folded against my chest in tight fists. Like maybe if I stay still, I won’t be able to fall any harder for this man who keeps surprising me with his kindness.

Impossible.

Maggie’s laugh when we reach the kitchen is the thing that finally makes me crack one eye open, then the other. I blink, then blink some more.

Because my gaze is caught on the table, all set for dinner with plates and folded paper towels for napkins and silverware in perfectly straight lines. It’s not this or the platters of food at the center of the table making my throat ache and my nose burn. It’s the place setting right in front of me. With a small place card that has my name written in Eli’s neat print.

“We made a place for you,” Maggie says.

They made a place. For me.

It’s got to be the exhaustion of the day, the emotional overwhelm of the last two weeks, or the way holding in my real feelings is starting to crack me in half, but Maggie’s words and these small, simple gestures are too much.

Especially when I think about what Maggie thinks this is versus what it actually is. The guilt eases some when I remember that oh, yeah—there is nothing fake about my feelings.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

I don’t miss the look Maggie and Eli exchange just before he sets me down in my chair, pushes it in, and even hands me the paper towel to put in my lap.

“Thank you,” I say, gripping his hand tight, the paper towel between our fingers. His deep blue eyes are so kind it brings back the aching tightness in my throat.

“Of course.” Eli squeezes my hand and presses a kiss to the top of my head before dropping into the chair next to mine. He looks comically colossal, his legs stretching almost the length of the small table and his shoulders almost as broad.

Maggie smooths her hand over my hair and leans down to whisper, “You don’t need to thank us. It’s what family does.”

I thought it would be Eli, but Maggie is the one who will be the death of me.

And between the longing for family with a place setting for me at the table and the lies resting between us, I spend the whole first ten minutes of dinner in complete silence, hoping the tears backing up inside me won’t flood out of me over the plate of grilled chicken.

Considering our situation, staying in the second bedroom upstairs is a perfect solution.

Almost.

As I stare up at the slats of light filtering through the gauzy curtains, it’s the almost my brain keeps snagging on.

There’s a whole bathroom in between Eli and me, so it’s not like he’s right on the other side of the wall or anything. But knowing he’s six steps—yes, I counted—down the hall is … something.

Tantalizing? Tempting? Nerve-racking? Insomnia-inducing?

Then there’s the fact that Maggie misses very little. I can’t imagine she didn’t hear the heavy steps of hockey guys carrying things to the opposite end of the hallway. This little charade is one trip up the steps from being revealed. I know Eli says she doesn’t come upstairs much because of her joints, but most days I’ve seen Maggie, she’s been spry and energetic.

Like today—she made three dozen cookies for the guys and then dinner too. If she decides to snoop—and she absolutely has snoop written all over her—it will take one peek up here to find us out.

Clearly, with her not-thin walls comment, she wouldn’t have a problem with us sharing a room. Before the wedding, we could always say that we’re waiting. But there’s not any kind of reason why I wouldn’t be sharing his bed after. And if Maggie happens to come upstairs once Eli and I are married …

I freeze, hearing a creak in the hallway. The soft pad of a bare foot on hardwood.

My whole body practically vibrates with tension at the thought of Eli standing outside my door, barefoot and shirtless, athletic shorts slung low on his hips like earlier when I ran into him outside the bathroom and almost fell into a trance. The sight of so much bare skin, so many stacked muscles, the light dusting of golden hair on his chest—it was all too much for my already threadbare heart, worn thin by all his kindness.

Still wrecked by something as simple as a place card at the table, being told it’s what family does.

I strain, listening for more while trying not to move, not to breathe, not to imagine the blocky muscles of his abs. I’ve never dated a guy who looked like that, never really thought it was my thing. Shannon once said I was weird when I only shrugged at some shirtless picture of Chris Hemsworth she showed me.

“Doesn’t do it for me,” I told Shannon at the time, thinking I was oh-so-enlightened, a woman interested more in personality than looks.

Ha! Apparently, it just takes the right guy. Then I can go all-in on abs.

When I hear the bathroom door close with a quiet click, disappointment surges in a hot wave, followed by an equally hot flood of embarrassment. This isn’t what we agreed to: feelings, desire, disappointment. It should be easy enough to keep the lines drawn. He gets to stay here and so does Maggie. I get some relief from the financial burdens I’m half-buried under. Simple. Cut-and-dried.

But the moment I kissed Eli, it moved the goal post. I’m not sure it’s even planted firmly in the ground. Feels more like it’s moving and shifting with each little gesture, each kiss. I think the goal post was obliterated altogether when Eli pulled me into the bathroom earlier.

Until he reminded me he was only kissing me to help get rid of my hiccups.

If that wasn’t just an excuse. And I don’t think I’m reading too much into Eli’s gazes and glances, his touches and kisses. Maybe I’m not the only one considering how things could be between us.

Or it has more to do with the fact that Eli is the most physically affectionate person I’ve ever seen.

He passes out hugs like parade candy, and always seems to be touching someone. With his teammates, it’s everything from high fives and fist bumps to shoves and hair ruffling. His mom gets a gentler, yet still playful, side of him, whether he’s carrying her when her joints are bothering her or simply reaching for her hand. It’s … almost sickeningly sweet.

So, how much meaning can I attach to the way he touches me, kisses me? Even with his tactile propensities, I don’t see Eli as a casual hookup kind of guy. He isn’t careless. Just … generous with his affection.

If I am the only one with feelings, and all of Eli’s gestures and actions are simply part of his effusive and enthusiastic golden retriever personality, I can’t fathom confessing feelings and then living here still with an unrequited husband.

Fake, I remind myself. The only thing real will be the marriage certificate, making this legal. Otherwise, it’s fake, fake, fake.

I’ll probably fall asleep tonight counting fakes instead of counting sheep. If I fall asleep at all.

When there’s a light knock on the door, I almost leap out of bed. My heart takes off, torn between the knowledge that it’s Eli and the split-second when it was simply reacting with fight or flight.

“Eli?” I whisper.

The door creaks open, and his big form appears, backlit by the hall light. “Expecting someone else?”

I may not be able to see his expression, but I hear the smile in his voice.

“Van mentioned stopping by to borrow a book sometime⁠—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence because Eli is suddenly striding into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. The room goes dark, and there’s a thump and a grunt. The room is still a maze of boxes, and there is one more grunt and then a kind of growl before the bed dips and Eli is climbing in.

“Scoot over, Leelee.”

I’m not going to argue. Not with that husky command. I slide over in the double bed to make room. I almost immediately roll back his way when Eli’s weight fully settles on the bed. When I try to sit up and leave space between us, he curls an arm around me and drags me to him, my head landing on his bare chest. His hand rests on my lower back, two fingers touching the bare sliver of skin between my shirt and shorts.

The heat of him, the scent of him—it’s intoxicating. My fingers flex, wanting to explore the bare skin I feel under my cheek, to know what those muscles feel like beneath my palms. Under the soft glow of the nightlight I plugged in earlier, Eli’s eyes are hooded, his beard looking darker.

“Having trouble sleeping?” he asks.

“I wasn’t until someone interrupted me.”

“Liar. I could practically hear you worrying.” I don’t bother protesting this time, and Eli adds, “Want to talk about it? You don’t have to. But you can. I’m also fine with just being here for as long as you need, just being quiet.”

“Really? Because you haven’t stopped talking since you walked in the room.”

Eli’s hand on my back presses in, giving me a playful shake. “Wow. Nighttime Bailey is feisty. Or is all this big talk how you are once you’re really comfortable around someone?”

“Guess you’ll find out,” I say.

He chuckles then shifts slightly, lifting his other hand until he’s stroking my hair. The light scrape of his nails against my scalp, the soft press of his fingertips—it’s almost enough to lull me to sleep. But it stirs awake longing too, making my skin hum and my belly flutter.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks.

“No.” I’m honestly shocked by the question. But then, maybe that’s how he’s interpreting my behavior today. How quiet I was at first with his friends and then again at dinner with Maggie. I’m nervous. I have worries. But I’m not rethinking. Just … overthinking. “You?”

He’s quiet for too long. Shame burns hot in my throat and my eyes, and I start to wiggle away. His hand on my back presses forward, holding me in place as his fingers stroke my hair with a little more pressure.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he says. “The lying.”

It is. Even harder as my feelings grow. Because I’m not just lying to Maggie and others about what Eli and I really are to each other, but in a way, I’m lying to him about what I want us to be. I’d prefer to steer us away from this conversation before I do something stupid, like make a declaration in the darkness.

“I had an issue at work today,” I say, and when he hums encouragingly, I proceed to tell him about Dr. Evil refusing to write my recommendation.

I can feel his anger growing in the way he tenses beneath me. Without allowing myself time to overthink it, I reach up, running my finger over the whiskers on his jaw, remembering the way they left my cheeks pink and raw after kissing in the bathroom. He sighs under my touch but doesn’t completely relax.

“Why would she do that?” he asks.

“She isn’t a very nice person.” Which is being generous. “And I think she might be … jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of you, dummy. Or, I guess, of me for having you.”

“Well, that sucks.”

I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. I’m not even sure why—maybe because Eli’s answer was so simple. Some people might have blamed themselves unnecessarily, when this is clearly a Dr. Evie problem, not anyone else’s. It’s also a relief to talk about something—even if it’s a stressor—unrelated to the marriage situation.

“It does suck,” I say. “Especially considering I need to turn in applications soon.”

Two professors from my undergrad program at UNC-Asheville wrote recommendations, but it would be better to have someone from a work environment.

“You know,” Eli says, “I think one of the women in Mom’s book club works for a vet hospital. Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“No one’s going to write a recommendation for someone they don’t know,” I protest.

“Give me a few days,” he insists. His hand glides up my back, then down again in soothing strokes.

I want to protest more, to tell Eli he doesn’t need to fix all my problems. He’s definitely trying—earlier he insisted that when he’s out of town, I’ll be driving his car while mine gets a tune-up and some new tires. I couldn’t argue my way out of that either.

And honestly? After being completely on my own for a few years now, it feels so incredibly nice to have someone taking care of me.

“Now that we’ve solved all your problems for the night”—Eli ignores my snort at this—“go to sleep.”

“If nighttime Bailey is feisty, nighttime Eli is bossy.”

I swear, I can feel him holding back whatever it is he wants to say, but after a moment he only huffs out a small laugh. I’m almost asleep when that deep voice rumbles again, his lips brushing my forehead.

“And Leelee? I don’t want Van borrowing any of your books. Or coming anywhere near your bedroom.”

“Bossy,” I murmur.

“You have no idea.”

I wake when the bed moves again. It takes a moment to shake off sleep and remember Eli climbing in here with me. I smile, rolling to face him, missing his warmth and his hand on my back.

But as I turn and find myself staring at a pair of navy eyes, it takes me a few seconds to make sense of what I’m seeing.

Because it’s not Eli next to me in bed.

I bolt upright in bed, clutching the comforter to my chest. The woman —who shares Eli’s eyes and his winsome smile—bolts up right next to me.

“Sorry to scare you,” she says, grinning and not looking the least bit sorry. “I’m Annie. Nice to meet you.”