Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  “Ladies and gentlebeasts,” I begin.

  At the other end of the table Jess’s beautiful brown eyes narrow.

  “As Wes’s best man, it’s my obligation to embarrass him tonight.”

  There’s a ripple of laughter, and Wes just shakes his head.

  “But it’s not gonna be easy,” I admit. “’Cause Ryan Wesley is a helluva friend and a helluva teammate. I mean, the guy is full of shenanigans. But the man who witnessed all of those—the public nudity in Lake Placid and the drunkenness and the trespassing—is marrying him tomorrow. And he wouldn’t give me the dirt I need.”

  That gets me another laugh.

  “This year he played a season of hockey that was the opposite of embarrassing, so there’s no material there. Honestly? The only thing that’s embarrassing these days about Wes is how much he loves Jamie.”

  “Awwww,” the whole family says in unison.

  Wes looks at his coffee cup.

  “I mean, I could just stand up here and tell you some of the stupid shit that Wesley has said. Like that night in the bar after a game against Philly, he argued—vehemently, I might add—that penguins weren’t mammals.” I give a little chuckle just remembering that ridiculousness. “He wanted me to believe they’re birds.”

  “They are,” Jess mutters under her breath, because she loves to bait me.

  “But I thought it would be more fun…” I wave to the waiter who’s watching from the door, and he carries in the extra-big tablet I rented for this. I get up and stand where everyone can see me, and I fire the thing up. “…to let Wesley embarrass himself, you know? It turns out that he wasn’t always such a great hockey player and such a studly guy. Thought you all should know.” Then I press play on the video I made and hold it up.

  The sound is working—that’s good. The first strains of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” emerge from the speakers on this thing. The intro text I made lights the screen, and it reads, Ryan Wesley, Ladies and Gentlemen. Then it changes to say, Super Stud. The first picture dissolves into focus, and it’s a two-year-old Wes gripping a hockey stick in his chubby little hand, looking quite deranged.

  There’s a gasp from the other end of the table. Jess’s eyes are the size of my dessert plate.

  “Awwww!” Cindy Canning says, clutching her heart.

  “Look at you!” Jamie crows, reaching over to rub his fiancé’s back. Wes just leans forward, staring at the screen in confusion.

  “It’s a good thing the Toronto management didn’t have access to these babies.” I chuckle as the next photo fills the screen. It’s Wesley in a snowsuit at age five, I think, those fierce eyes already recognizable. He’s on a pond somewhere, skating hard after two kids about twice his size. He doesn’t have a prayer of catching them. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

  But nobody’s laughing. Jamie has his arm around his boyfriend now, and his eyes look a little shiny. Cindy Canning is standing behind them both, an arm around each shoulder. And everyone else is smiling.

  “Where on earth did you get these?” someone murmurs.

  Then comes the really good stuff. A video clip plays of Wesley at eight, kitted out in a full uniform, a determined look in his eyes. He sends a slapshot toward the goal and…misses! And because I’m just that funny, the clip is followed by Wesley missing shots on goal three more times at various ages. There’s one where he’s kind of tiny and skating face-first into a snow bank.

  Finally, I get a laugh. Tough crowd here tonight.

  More pictures flash on the screen—Wesley at twelve, accepting a trophy. Wesley with a mouth full of braces and a serious case of bedhead. The music swells because my video is coming to an end.

  “Brace yourselves,” I tell my audience.

  Next we get Wesley at fourteen, grinning, a big pimple right on his nose.

  The final shot is my pièce de résistance. It’s the only photo I had to steal. I took it out of Wesley’s wallet one night in D.C. during the playoffs. We were all so exhausted after the overtime period of our game that a single glass of whiskey made us drunk and silly. I’d swiped the photo and had it scanned by the hotel concierge. (Tipped the guy twenty bucks.) It was safely back in Wesley’s wallet a half-hour later.

  There’s a chorus of awwwws and sighs as the photo of sixteen-year-old Jamie and Wes together fills the screen. They’re standing on top of a hiking trail somewhere near Lake Placid. Jamie is making a goofy face, but Wes is looking at him with such love that it gives me a big ol’ ache in my chest just to see it.

  I check my teammate’s face and find red spots on his cheekbones. Maybe he thinks I’ve embarrassed him with this picture, because it reveals so much. But I haven’t. It’s only embarrassing to declare your love for someone who then betrays you with it.

  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 triple-X. 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 R-rating?

  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 blo
nde 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…”

  “Oh man.” He snorts. “That really is perfect for you. The gorilla cage, right?”

  “By the lions’ exhibit, actually. But I called it off two months before.”

  “What happened?” He looks stunned by this plot twist.

  I take a sip of Scotch and wonder what I’m willing to admit to my teammate. “She did something unforgivable. A real betrayal, like Young and the Restless type of shit. So I knew it was over before it began, you know? Anyone who can lie to my face is not someone I need to marry.”

  Beside us, Jamie’s brother Scott winces. If I’m not mistaken, he’s had a recent breakup, too. “Sorry, bro,” he offers. “But you’re better off knowing.”

  “No kidding. And I don’t want to be a Donny Downer, ’cause these two—” I wave my glass at Grooms One and Two, “—have what it takes to go the distance.”

  “Yeah!” Scotty’s twin, Brady, raises his glass.

  Their older brother Joe puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

  Heads turn, because we’re the loud crew in this establishment. But fuck ’em. We’re celebrating true love here.

  “KISS!” I yell, banging my glass on the table. “Come on, let’s see a practice kiss.”

  Wes rolls his eyes, but Jamie laughs. Then he gets up and sits right on Wes’s lap, grabs his face and plants one on him.

  We all howl our approval, and it’s a miracle I hear my phone over the din. I fish it out of the pocket of the suit jacket I’d tossed over the back of my armchair. Kind of a dick move to answer your phone when you’re celebrating the deep eternal love of two of your closest buds, but I’ve been waiting for this call all day.

  “’Scuse me,” I tell the boys. “My date’s checking in.”

  I duck into a nearby corner and swipe my index finger on the screen. It takes a few swipes because I’ve got big fingers and they never click what I want ’em to click. “Angie, honey!” I say after the phone blessedly unlocks. “You get in okay? All in one piece?”

  Her hesitant voice tickles my ear. “I just got to the hotel.” There’s a pause. “Are you sure it’s all right that I take your room?”

  “S’all good. I made other arrangements.” And I did, thanks to a saint named Cindy Canning. Jamie’s mom is far beyond da bomb dot com. She’s like…da bomb dot gov.

  “I’m nervous,” she admits. “I won’t know anyone there.”

  I grin into the phone even though she can’t see me. “You know the most important person there, Ang.”

  “How many times have I told you not to call me that?” She sounds exasperated.

  “How many times did I tell you I don’t listen?” I counter. “Anyway, check in and get some sleep. Have a nice, relaxing morning. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after lunch.”

  I hang up before she can protest, because it already took some serious effort to twist her arm into being my date. I’m not sure Jess is gonna like it, but hey, Jess isn’t the boss of me, now, is she?

  Jess

  I juggle my phone, day planner and steaming mug of decaffeinated tea as I leave my tiny kitchen and enter my tiny living room. My friend Dyson is babbling in my ear, giving a long-winded response about everything from the weather to the color of his tie, when all I asked was whether he plans to show up early to help me out.

  I set my mug on the coffee table and cut him off midsentence. “Babe, I adore you. You know I adore you. But for the love of God, can you ever answer anything with a simple yes or no?”

  “What was the question again?”

  I almost hurl the phone against the wall, but stop myself at the last second. “Are you coming early to help with the setup, or are you showing up at three?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, I’ll come early,” he decides. “We can watch everyone arrive and dish about what they’re wearing. Ooooh! Do you think Cousin Brandy will have another wardrobe malfunction?”

  Oh God, and repeat the Strapless Bra Mishap of 2014? I hope not. My sister Tammy still has nightmares about that. It happened at her and her husband’s ten-year anniversary party, and she’s never forgiven our cousin for it.

  “I already made Brandy send me pictures of every item of clothing she plans to wear,” I assure him. “We should be good.”

  “Way to crush my dreams.”

  I snicker. “What do you need to see tits for? Wouldn’t you rather my cousin Andy’s tuxedo pants popped open and flashed some dick?” Andy is Brandy’s twin brother. No joke. My mom’s sister—Aunt Val—is terrible at naming children. Andy and Brandy’s little brother is named Chuck. Not even short for Charles. Just Chuck.

  “Ooooh, Andy will be there? He’s almost as dreamy as Jamie.”

  “Ew, Dyse. You are not allowed to drool over my little brother.”

  “You’re right. I’m not allowed to now. I missed my chance. I cannot believe Jamie is marrying a man. It’s like the universe is having a laugh at me right now. If I thought there was even a two percent shot Jamie would turn to the dark side, I would’ve blown him in the high school locker room while I had the chance.”

  “Omigod, no thank you for that image.”

  “I’m seriously heartbroken, Jess. This is worse than opening up Brandr and seeing guys on there who used to stuff me into lockers. Jamie was one of the good ones. And he’s marrying a celebrity athlete. He should be marrying me.”

  I take a sip of my tea, then a deep breath. “Are you going to be able to contain your disappointment tomorrow? Because I really need your help.”

  “Sure.” He sniffs. “Maybe I’ll catch the bouquet.”

  There won’t be a bouquet, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. I flip to the back page of my day planner, where I jot down last-minute notes about the wedding. “Oh, hey, I’m going to need you to sit on Wes’s side of the aisle tomorrow. All his teammates will be there, but I’m not sure that’ll be enough to balance out the Canning side.”

  “Baby, you had me at
teammates. Please tell me there won’t be enough chairs and I’ll have to sit on one of their laps.”

  “You want to try to sit on a hockey player’s lap? Do you care about your teeth? If not, go ahead.”

  Laughter fills my ear. “I’d get punched in the mouth any day of the week if it means hooking up with a hockey player. You know my life’s goal has always been to be a puck bunny.”

  Trust me, it’s overrated, I want to tell him.

  Instead I say, “Please don’t get punched in the mouth. Wes’s teammates have been awesome. But it’s not like I made all the guests fill out a questionnaire checking off ‘Cool with the Gay Thing / Less Cool with the Gay Thing’ boxes.”

  And Dyson is the biggest flirt I’ve ever met. I swear, he probably flirts with himself in the mirror when he’s home alone.

  “I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Dyson promises.

  “Thank you.”

  We hang up a few moments later, and I quickly go over the rest of my list. As long as the minister and the caterer show up, along with the tables and chairs I’ve rented, the show could go on. But I won’t be satisfied by merely pulling this off. It has to be perfect. It needs to be such a gorgeous wedding that people are talking about it for weeks.

  Once I’m satisfied I’ve covered every detail, I finish off my tea, drop my mug in the kitchen sink, and wander around the apartment turning off lights. I have a bad habit of leaving every single light on. When I was in high school, my dad used to take a percentage of the money I earned at my part-time job at the ice cream parlor to put toward our electricity bill. He claims I was to blame for how high the bills were. I call bullshit, but I can’t deny I suck at remembering to turn off lights.

  My bare feet slap the hardwood as I walk into my bedroom. I’m nervous about tomorrow, but excited, too. Jamie and Wes are going to have such an amazing life together. I’ve never met two people more perfect for each other. Even Tammy and her husband, John, who are disgustingly in love, don’t seem to have that same deep, tightly woven bond that my brother has with Wes.