Good Boy (WAGs #1)(5)

That kind of shit only happens to me, though. My two friends here are solid.

The show is over, so I click the tablet off and hand it back to the waiter who’s keeping it for me. (Tipped him twenty bucks.) My chocolate mousse is still waiting for me, thank you, baby Jesus. As I tuck in, my phone buzzes with a text. Hoping it’s from my date to the wedding tomorrow, I eagerly glance at the screen.

But it’s from Jess. Where on earth did you get the pictures and video?????

Stop texting me, I reply. Don’t want to have to block you.

From the other end of the table, she gives me an evil look.

Yeah, it’s on.





2 WTF Does Everyone Have Against Glitter?





Blake


I’ve been to a shit ton of bachelor parties. Most of them were rated tripleX. I’m talking strippers who get naked top and bottom. Lap dances. One ended in an orgy. Another involved lots of whipped cream.

Now, I wasn’t expecting all three X’s for this shindig, but would it have killed the grooms to let me plan something with at least one X? Or maybe an Rrating?

I don’t do PG. Makes me antsy.

But Wesley and Jamie hamstrung me, threw a bunch of rules on me and demanded I fall in line. Which means no life-sized cake with a male stripper popping out of it. No tequila shots off each other’s butts. And no glitter.

What the fuck does everyone have against glitter?

“This place is rad,” my teammate Eriksson remarks.

“I’m diggin’ it,” Wes’s college friend Cassell agrees as he brings his cigar to his lips and takes a quick puff. The smoke billows out and paints the air gray, making Jamie cough.

“Whose idea was it to do this at a cigar bar?” Jamie grumbles, but I don’t know why he bothered asking, because those brown eyes are focused on yours truly.

I glare at Groom Number Two. I’ve designated Wesley as Groom Number One. ’Cause I met him first. “Mine, asshat. Because someone vetoed all my other venue suggestions.”

Wesley leans over to smack a kiss on Groom Number Two’s clean-shaven cheek. The nine of us have commandeered the back corner of the dark, paneled room, and the music is low enough that nobody’s gotta shout to be heard. Jamie’s dad and Coach Pat both look as though they’ve died and gone to heaven, sitting side by side in overstuffed leather chairs, sipping on glasses of bourbon.

“This was the lesser of a million evils, babe,” Wes tells his man. “Just be happy there’s nobody waving around a limbo stick.”

“The night’s still young,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. But truth is, I’m kinda starting to enjoy the low-key vibe in this room.

Only thing that’d make it better would be if my girl J-Babe was sitting on my lap right now, puffing on her own stogie. But the women all begged off, which was probably wise.

“Do not have hangovers tomorrow,” Jess had threatened in the restaurant parking lot before she took off. “I don’t want you two looking green in the photographs.”

“Stop worrying so much,” I told her. “They’re responsible adults, just like me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” she grumbled.

She’s always ribbing me, that sweet blonde angel of mine. I know she loves our verbal foreplay as much as I do. She’s just too stubborn to admit it.

Plus, she’s kind of holding a grudge against me because Jamie became seriously ill when she and I were supposed to be taking care of him. That was the day I met Jess. That was also the day I met Jess…in the biblical sense.

The thing is, Jamie’s scary fever was a total fluke thing. And it turned out fine—I mean, the dude’s getting married tomorrow, isn’t he? But Jess will never let me live it down, even though her little brother is as healthy as a horse.

We all are. Healthy, that is. It’s summertime, and we’re drinking expensive Scotch and smoking first-rate cigars. Tomorrow we’ll put on our Sunday best and watch Wes and Jamie tie the knot.

Man, life is damn good.

The whole thing puts me in a sentimental mood, so I rattle the ice cubes in my glass and take a seat next to Eriksson, because he’s the only one looking a little low. “Chin up, buttercup. It’s a wedding.”

He casts his eyes down, looking guilty. “I know. I’ll behave. Weddings make me think of mine, though. When I said ‘I do,’ I meant it.”

Ouch. Eriksson’s wife left him just before the playoffs. “I’m sorry, man. But this shit is totally survivable. It’s like any kind of pain. Like a rough check to the gut. Feels awful for a while, but then it recedes.”

“What would you know about it?” Eriksson grunts.

More than he thinks. “Did you ever hear about the time I almost got married?”

He lifts his chin and smiles at me. “Let me guess—it was in Vegas with a showgirl? I can totally see it.”

“Nope. You’re way off.” I puff on my cigar and think back. “This was almost five years ago, during my rookie season. My college girlfriend and I were together three years by that point. I loved her more than I thought possible.”

Eriksson raises a brow in surprise.

“Seriously, I would’ve laid down in the road for her. We had a wedding date set. Three hundred people were invited to our shindig at the Toronto Zoo…”