Good Boy (WAGs #1)(16)

I shift around to see a hot redhead in a hot-pink dress. Tricky color combo, but she pulls it off.

“I’m a huge fan,” she continues.

“Really? Hockey fan?” Jamie always tells me that hockey isn’t big in Cali.

“You are so built!” She squeezes my biceps over my jacket like she’s at the grocery store trying to pick out a ripe melon.

I tolerate this because it’s my champagne-holding hand and I’ll probably spill the Dommy P all over myself if I make an abrupt movement. But my Spidey senses are tingling. There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way. Make no mistake—I love having a chick’s hands all over me. But at least buy me dinner first. And I’m not one hundred percent sure that my big fan even knows my name.

“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” I ask.

“Just…all of it,” she says, sweeping hungry eyes over me.

“Me too,” I admit. “Did you see that game between Miami and Seattle? Crazy, right?”

“Great game.” She nods enthusiastically, her hands on my lapels.

Ah, hell. I knew it. Those cities don’t even have NHL teams. My interest in this conversation dies a fiery death. Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with women looking for hockey players or women looking for sex. But what I can’t stand are phonies.

My head gives a stab, and I rub my temple.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“…back in to-ow-ow-ow-own!”

I’m spared from answering thanks to the dying cat on stage. Also known as Matt Eriksson trying to sing. Eriksson, one of our star forwards, is shit-faced and belting out his version of “The Boys Are Back in Town.” I immediately search the lawn for Jess, because I’m pretty sure drunken hockey player karaoke wasn’t something she arranged.

I spot her in the corner of the shiny dance floor, in deep conversation with my man Cindy. Jess doesn’t seem to notice that it’s Eriksson performing with the band instead of the wedding singer she probably picked after interviewing five thousand other candidates.

The crowd notices Eriksson, though. And they’re loving him. Loving him hard. Ten of my teammates are gathered at the bottom of the stage, their ties loosened, glasses and bottles raised in the air as they sing along, loud and off-key.

“You hockey boys sure are rowdy,” Red remarks with a giggle. “Do you…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “…want to get out of here? Go somewhere a little more private?”

I gently pry her manicured talons off my arm. “Sorry. Got best-man duties to attend to.” Then I dart off before she can object.

I get it—weddings make people super horny. But I’m not feeling this chick. She made me feel like a piece of meat, and not in a good way. That ain’t cool.

“Fuck,” comes a dejected voice. “Gonna miss this.”

I slap my teammate Forsberg on the back as he sidles up to me. “Naah, nothing to miss. You know there’s this thing called a postal service? People can send each other letters and shit, and I could be wrong, but I think it’s possible to mail stuff between countries. I know, right? Freaky. But that means when you’re down in Florida, you can just open your mailbox and presto! You’ll see all the save-the-dates and bar mitzvah invites and the court summons I plan on sending you when I sue you for that hundred buckaroos you owe me—”

“Okay, okay, I gotcha.” Forsberg sputters out a laugh. “Do you ever shut up, bro?”

“Naah.”

He rakes a hand through his scruffy hair and then chugs half his beer. “I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see you guys, but…shit. Getting traded still sucks balls.”

“Yeah. I know, dude.” And I hope it never happens to me.

If I got traded, I wouldn’t worry about adjusting to a new team. I fit in everywhere. Throw me on a dude ranch and slap some assless chaps on me? I’ll be roping steers and riding broncs like a champ before the day is done. Adapting to a new franchise would be even easier. Hockey is hockey, right?

But I like my life in Toronto. My apartment, my teammates, my family. I’m not ready to say goodbye to any of that yet.

Forsberg doesn’t look ready either, poor fucker. He’s been walking around all sour-faced ever since the GM told him he was being booted to Florida. It’s goddamn sacrilege almost. Forsberg is one of those players who gets traded every few seasons, and he’s really fucking sick of it.

It’s going to be weird not to have him on my line this season. Toronto traded Will Forsberg, a solid veteran, for Will O’Connor, a hotshot with a chip on his shoulder. A Will giveth and a Will taketh away. Life always evens itself out, I guess.

Except, O’Connor’s played for three teams in two years. Grapevine says he can’t keep his mouth shut or his pants zipped. Apparently someone in the head office thought it’d be a good idea to welcome a media nightmare into our town.

“I got a life here,” Forsberg mutters.

Shitballs. He looks close to tears. I’m not good with tears. Especially man-tears.

Luckily, Eriksson stumbles over, saving me from having to bust out a stand-up routine in order to cheer up Forsberg.

“What’d ya think?” Eriksson asks, nodding toward the stage. “I kicked ass up there, huh?”