Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(23)

“Thank you.” Graham rubs his forehead. “But when I say lie low, I mean it. No going out with the guys, no drawing attention. We don’t need to give the media a reason to be looking, because if it gets out before we’ve made a decision”—he pins us with a look—“we’ll be forced to go with whatever’s on the table.”

We’re finally released, and as I leave the room, it’s like I’m walking out of the principal’s office. I’ve been spoken to before about dumb things I’ve done, things I’ve said to the media that I shouldn’t have, but nothing like that. Nothing with the threat of a trade hanging over our heads.

If one of us is traded, it’ll probably be me. There’s no way Vegas would trade the goalie who got them to the Stanley Cup game last season. That would be moronic on their part. The fans would be pissed. I’m just another replaceable forward. Moving away, living without Tripp, it would mess with my head. But I’ll do it if it’s our only option.

We get out into the parking lot, and before I can stop myself, I start to laugh. Not a fun kind of laugh. An oh-fuckstick-did-I-screwup type of laugh that has a hysterical hitch to it.

Tripp eyes me. “You okay there?”

“Dumbass Dex strikes again.” I cover my face with both hands as I let out a long, frustrated sound. “You know, I think this tops the list.”

“You keep a list?”

“Dex’s finest moments. You should subscribe.”

“Why, when I now have a front-row seat to the action?”

I plant my hands on my hips and let out something between a sob and an exhale. “This can’t be true. It can’t. It has to be one of those Photoshop thingies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Clearly someone is pranking us. They have to be.”

“Seemed pretty legit to me.”

A noise catches in my throat. “How are you so calm?”

“Maybe I just don’t see being married to you as the worst thing that could happen.”

“But they’re talking about a trade. A trade. I couldn’t even get a fake marriage right, how the hell am I supposed to manage a real one?”

The familiar panic of being the world’s biggest screwup starts to claw at my throat again. There has to be an explanation for this. There has to be. “We need to figure out what happened.”

“I know we got drunk straight after, but surely you haven’t forgotten what got us here. It’s obvious what happened. The chapel filed the paperwork.”

“But they weren’t supposed to. The website I read said we had to file it.”

“Dex.” Tripp squeezes my shoulder, and I immediately cover his hand with mine. “Will going to the chapel to confirm what happened help with … whatever this freak-out is?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He grabs his luggage and nods at me to grab mine. “Then let’s get a ride, drop this stuff at home, and head over there.”

Before he can take a step, I haul him into a hug. “Thank you for being so cool about this.”

“Duh. We’re the Mitchell Brothers. We’ll chalk it up to being two halves of a whole idiot.”

I try not to cringe as I pull away. “That might be the truthiest truth to ever truth about us. Though, I think I’m a whole idiot on my own, so together, we’re one and a half of one.”

“That’s not how math works.”

I shrug. “What’s that word for when something that’s supposed to happen doesn’t happen?”

“What?” Tripp screws up his face in confusion.

“You know, there was that old song written about it. It goes like …” I clear my pipes and sing. “And isn’t it moronic? It’s like paaaaain—”

“They’re … not the words.”

“It was something like that. For us, marriage might be the thing that tears us apart when it’s supposed to bring people closer.” I couldn’t stand it if that happened.

“Real marriages are supposed to bring people closer together. Fake ones are fair game. And I think the word you’re looking for is ironic.”

I snap my fingers. “That’s the word. Anyway, yeah, that’s us. Ironic.”

“That’s not …” Tripp closes his mouth. “You’re right. Totally us.”

And now I’m going to have to think up a way to fix this, when I’m not so great with the thinking of things.

Thank fuck it’s not a long drive to drop our luggage off and head to the chapel.

When we get there, I hand one of the ball caps I grabbed from home over to Tripp. They won’t do anything against a hockey fan, but on the off chance someone tries to take a photo, they’ll give us some coverage.

There’s one couple waiting in reception when we walk in, and I tilt my face away from them as I approach the desk.

“Good morning,” the receptionist says. “Here to get married?”

I sling my arm around Tripp’s shoulders. “We already are, but it occurred to me that we signed the license but forgot to take it with us so we could register the, umm, marriage.” My heart is beating loud enough to be aware of it while I wait for her answer, hoping with everything I have that she’ll confirm our mistake and send us on our way.