Everyone is smiling at us when we arrive in the kitchen, clearly less concerned about last night’s allergic reaction and more focused on the fact that we’re strolling in like two lovers late for breakfast.
“Nice of you to join us,” Carmen says, smirking wildly over her coffee cup. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” I reply, stepping up to the island where everyone is gathered, while Scarlett heads straight for my uncle’s high-end espresso machine. She’s had her eye on that machine all week.
I pick up a plate, then move to the counter where I load up on eggs and bacon.
Carmen lifts an appraising eyebrow. “Well. Somebody’s appetite is back.”
“I’m starving.” I add a third slice of bacon. “How was the shindig last night?”
Scarlett and I missed the joint bachelor-bachelorette party, held at some lavish private club outside of Charleston. Given how our evening ended, I can’t say I’m sorry about it.
“Not the same without you two,” Carmen says with a pouty face.
“Obviously,” I say with a smirk.
“But we managed. Tony challenged Jaxon to an arm-wrestling competition.”
“How fast did he lose?”
“About ten seconds. He claims he was distracted by the karaoke.”
I pause. “There was karaoke?”
“Of course there was.” Carmen’s eyes dance with glee. “Some of your hockey players performed an entire Britney Spears lip-sync medley…with choreography.”
I turn to stare at her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
She waves her phone. “I have video evidence.”
The video starts playing as five professional hockey players appear on stage, performing a full Britney Spears lip-sync medley. Leo is front and center doing some hip moves that a professional athlete should not attempt in public. Rourke has somehow acquired a feather boa, which I’m hoping he found in Janie’s classroom. Tate, the same man who reads classics for fun, is executing each move like a robot while he counts the beats out loud. Miles, bless him, is trying harder than anyone. Because he’s twenty-two, he’s actually the best one up there, which I will never tell him. And Brax, the man who commands respect from every player in this league, is on the floor doing the worm.
I stare at the screen. “These are the men I coach.”
“They’re so entertaining!” Carmen shrieks.
Then I point at the phone. “How much do I have to pay you to delete that?”
“Not a chance,” she singsongs, heading back to her seat.
My mother appears at my elbow, patting my back as she reaches past me for the hot sauce. “Carmen told me what happened at the spa yesterday. I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I didn’t want to disturb you, since Scarlett was taking good care of you.”
“She always does,” I say, catching Scarlett’s eye across the kitchen. She smiles over the rim of her cappuccino, and I have to remind myself not to drop my plate.
My phone goes off in my pocket, and I set my plate down. Three new messages sit in my message inbox—a note from Coach Jenkins asking about my missing report for Sunday’s game. A meeting confirmation request from Jakowski. And a third one from Lauren, our PR manager, that makes my stomach drop:
Lauren
Hey, just a heads-up. You were mentioned in a hockey column this morning. The guy’s claiming you’re responsible for our last loss. Working on a response. Call me ASAP.
I find the article in under thirty seconds. The columnist goes straight for the jugular, questioning my qualifications and my right to be on that bench at all. He calls me a “nepo baby,” and then notes, as so-called proof, that I’ve been conspicuously absent this week forundisclosed reasons.
No mention of my sister’s wedding. Which makes me sound like I’m drinking margaritas on a beach in Cabo.
I sigh before firing off the same quick reply to all three:I’ll come in this morning, give me an hourand slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Hey, Bren.” Carmen looks up from her strawberries. “Any chance you could pick up the tuxes for the groomsmen today? The delivery person called in sick, and the entire family is doing wedding prep.”