Birthday Girl: A contemporary sports romantic comedy (Minnesota Ice Book 3)

by Lily Kate

  “Are you dressed?” she asks. “I’m coming in, Annie.”

  Without allowing me any time to respond, my mother barges into the dressing room of the wedding shop, followed closely by my grandmother.

  “Oh, you look adorable! What is all this moaning about?” Gran asks, patting me down from head to bum. She focuses on the bum. “Look, I’ve got the matching version of your dress on—we can be twins. I think you inherited your rear end from me.”

  “I look like a bumblebee.”

  “You do not,” Gran says. You look like Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Yeah... the Beast, maybe.”

  “It’s not so bad,” my mom says, but even she doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe if we take it in a little bit...”

  “Just go for something simple!” I look in the mirror, wincing at the brilliant shade of yellow. It’s not the yellow itself that’s offensive, it’s the vibrancy of it. And the amount of it. The shade an eye-watering color of sunflower. “What happened to the black one I showed you?”

  “I will not be having my maid of honor wear black at my wedding. I refuse.”

  “How about that dark purple one?”

  “The one that looks black from a distance?” My mother gives me the side eye. “No. This is a happy time, and I want everyone to know it. Would you prefer orange?”

  “Probably not the best idea,” I say. “It wouldn’t go well with the theme.”

  “The theme? The theme is bright and happy!” My mother’s staring at me with a look of puzzlement. “How does orange not go with that?”

  “The dress will clash with Claude.”

  My mother still doesn’t look convinced, so I pull out my phone and find a recent photo on my mother’s Facebook page of her and Claude. She’s worse than most high schoolers. Her profile picture is an image of her macking on Claude’s cheek.

  “Here.” I zoom to show a close-up of her fiancé’s nose. Then I place the phone beside the newest dress in my mother’s hands. The women of my family compare Claude’s face to the orange loofah that is supposed to be a dress. “Well?”

  “Ellie, your daughter has a point,” Gran murmurs. “They’re the perfect match.”

  My mom’s face is getting paler by the second, so I put the phone away. “I’ll change,” I offer. “Whatever you want mom. It’s your day, really. If you want the yellow, I’ll wear yellow. If you want orange, I’ll wear orange.”

  Turning, my mother stomps off toward the lobby, out through the front door, and finally stops, pacing back and forth. She pulls a cigarette from her purse. She tried out smoking after the divorce, but it didn’t last long. However, she’ll still whip out a cig when she needs time to think.

  “I’m going to go after her,” Gran says, eyeing my dress. “Don’t you worry, I’ll talk her into the perfect dress.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that, huh?”

  “We couldn’t have done orange. I’m just glad you said it before I did. Now she’s mad at you, and I get to console her.”

  “Gee whiz, that’s great of you.”

  “Before I go out there...” Gran gives me a searching stare. “I want to know if you’ve thought any more about our conversation.”

  I shift my weight from one bare foot to the next. “Conversation?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot last night already.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So?”

  I shrug. “I already hurt his feelings. It’s probably too late. Apparently I’m getting very good at upsetting the people around me.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “I’m being realistic.”

  “You want to get married someday, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes,” I admit. “That was always the goal.”

  “Well, marriage ain’t gonna work if you give up on it every time you’re in a pissy mood and have a little tiff with your husband.”

  “I wasn’t in a pissy mood.”

  “Fine. Then let him go.”

  Gran twirls in a flurry of fabric, and begins stomping toward my mother, who’s coughing out front. She sometimes pretends to smoke when she’s stressed. Usually, she just holds the cigarette and flicks it every now and again until it’s gone.

  “Hang on a second,” I call after Gran. “What am I supposed to do if I want to see him again?”

  “You could wait a week for swimming lessons,” she says. “Or... you can take this old thing I found in the paper this morning.”

  She shoves the slip into my hand and whisks herself away to console my mother. Peeling the crumpled sheet back, I find Gran has ripped out the Stars’ upcoming schedule from the paper. One game in particular is highlighted, and the date is for tonight.

  Oddly enough, I already knew this. Although I may hate admitting I’m wrong, I know when I owe an apology.

  I text Sarah to see if she’s available tonight. Dishing out an apology might be easier to stomach if I have my best friend next to me, reminding me why I’m there in the first place. Unfortunately, she’s busy.

  On a whim, I find Leigh’s number from when she plugged it in my phone after our last class. I ask if she’s available and interested and, to my surprise, she agrees to join on one condition—that she can bring her oldest son.

  I reply that it’s a deal, and give her the time and place to meet. Then, surrounded by piles of chiffon and the smell of someone steaming a wedding dress hot in the air, I scroll through my phone until I find a website to purchase tickets.

  I click purchase, my heart fluttering with nerves, and then shimmy out of the yellow dress. Scurrying into my street clothes, I decide that today is the day of apologies. First, I have to apologize to my mother and find a dress that’ll make her happy.

  Then, tonight, I’ll hunt Cohen down and apologize all over again.

  I can only hope it’s not too late.

  Chapter 21

  ANNIE

  I’m pretty much an idiot when it comes to sports. I can’t swim, I am uncoordinated with my hands, and playing soccer with my feet has never made sense to me. The whole working out thing doesn’t make all that much sense—I prefer to not sweat, if at all possible.

  Sometimes, I do yoga and Pilates when the mood strikes, which isn’t often, or I’ll go for a walk with Sarah if we both need coffee and have the money to splurge for a latte. Those are rare days. Occasionally, we’ll walk to get ice cream if they’re offering free samples.

  Because I’m horrible at all things athletic, I had to Google photos of the latest Stars’ home game—not, as one might think, to look at Cohen. Instead, I needed to study the crowd and find out what girls wear to a hockey game. Jeans? Dresses? Face paint?

  After extensive research, I’ve settled on jeans, mittens, a cute sweater, and my winter jacket. It’s reasonably comfortable and reasonably cute, and I suppose that’s the best I can do if I’ll be freezing my butt off in an ice rink.

  I leave my car in a downtown St. Paul parking ramp and get plenty frozen while waiting for Leigh and her son to show up. They arrive ten minutes later, and they’re adorable. I watch as they approach our meeting area, but they don’t see me yet. They’re too wrapped up in their own world.

  Her son must be twelve or thirteen, almost to that age where hugging and touching is really, really uncool, but it’s clear the way this kid looks at his mom that they’re close. He leans into her, speaks quietly, and then she laughs at whatever he’s said.

  “Hey, guys!” I chirp, hugging Leigh before extending a hand to her kid. “You must be Leigh’s oldest son.”

  “Dominic,” he fills in. He’s got dark hair, just like hers, and eyes that hold the same twinkle as his mother’s. There’s a level of calmness about him that’s different than what I would’ve guessed for a boy his age. “Thank you so much for the tickets, Miss Plymouth.”

  “Annie,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Glad you guys could come. Shall we head inside? I hear they sell popcorn, and I’m hungry.”

  Dominic nods
, but Leigh shoots me a knowing look. “You owe me a story.”

  “Later,” I promise. “First, popcorn.”

  We make our way inside and take our seats as the players are warming up on the ice. I don’t see Cohen yet, but it’s difficult to make out individual faces with all the gear the men are wearing. I realize I don’t even know his jersey number.

  “Nine,” Leigh says, watching me as I scan the ice. “He’s not out yet.”

  I feel my cheeks burn a little and hunker down in my jacket. Leigh pulls a few bucks out of her pocket and asks her son to grab us some snacks from the stand just above us. As he leaves, her eyes follow her son, but her attention is directed toward me.

  “Spill the beans,” she says. “You’ve got about eight minutes until he’s back here. I won’t have you corrupting the mind of my baby. Talk fast. Why are we here?”

  “There’s nothing to corrupt! I promise.”

  “Well, you didn’t feel the need to come here because of your love for the game,” she says. “So what happened?”

  It’s just the nudge I need to spill the beans. All of the beans. She’s surprisingly easy to talk to, which is a good thing, but it also inspires me to babble and carry on about every little detail until thankfully, she interrupts.

  “Look, I get it,” Leigh says finally. “You said something you didn’t mean. Apologize. No big deal.”

  “You all make it sound so easy.”

  “Well, I am divorced, so I don’t know if you should be taking advice from me. Then again, I like to think I learned something from the whole ordeal.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it anymore. It was hard at first, but... I’ve had time to digest.”

  “Can I ask what happened? You can tell me to bug out if I’m being too nosy.”

  “I still don’t really know. One day, my husband told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Simple as that. Clinical, as if he’d fallen out of love with me some time ago and had merely gone through the motions for awhile. Weeks? Years? I don’t know, and he wouldn’t tell me.”

  I clear my throat and reach for Leigh’s hand. She lets me take it, hold it, her fingers small and cool against my own. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know what I did. I thought everything was going fine. We have three beautiful kids, and... now they barely see their dad. I just don’t understand it.” She pauses, shrugs. “He was always so stable in every sense of the word—an eye doctor, no less. He had a great job, came home every day in time to eat dinner. He was the most predictable guy I’d ever met. And then one day, he just wasn’t.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Really, it’s fine. I manage. It’s not the end of the world; I have my kids.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder. “You do more than manage. You’re brilliant, and you’re great with your kids. As a friend, you’re the best. I promise. Dominic is growing up to be a great guy, all because of you.”

  “You’re sweet. I just wish he had his dad around.”

  “I didn’t have my dad around,” I say, and then offer a short bark of laughter. “Although, I’m not sure if that’s any consolation. I’m a bit of an oddball.”

  “I like oddballs.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, as Dominic returns with his hands full. “I promise.”

  “Mom, I got you Peppermint Patties,” he says, handing over the change. “Your favorite.”

  Leigh pulls him in and kisses him on the cheek. “You are the best. What’d you get for yourself?”

  “Popcorn to share with Annie.”

  I wink at Leigh over his head. “It’ll be just fine.”

  The announcer interrupts us then, and I find my eyes drawn to the ice as a bodiless voice calls the players one by one. Sometime during my conversation with Leigh, most of the team has made their way onto the ice. I squint, looking for number nine.

  Next to me, Dominic goes wild. One second later, the announcer’s calling Cohen’s name, number, and position. He skates forward and takes his place center rink. Found him.

  Cohen’s focused on the game, as he should be—and not once does he look into the stands. My heart’s beating too fast at the sight of him. I can’t help but wonder if he’d glance up and look around if I’d told him I’d be here.

  To distract myself, I turn to Dominic. He’s chomping popcorn, eyes glowing like flashlights as he watches the rink.

  “So, Dom,” I say, once the anthem has played and the game has begun. “Can you help me understand the game? I have no idea about the rules.”

  “Sure. Have you heard of the penalty box?”

  “Let’s start with the very basics,” I say. “For example, what do you call the little black thing everyone’s whacking around?”

  Chapter 22

  ANNIE

  By the time the end of the third period rolls around—they are not called halves, as Dominic clarified—the poor kid has gone hoarse. As I requested, he’s detailed every second of the game: rules, player names, the score, strategy, penalties—everything.

  “Do you play?” I ask him as the clock ticks down.

  The game is tied, and his eyes are fixed on the rink. “Yeah.”

  “I bet you’re pretty good.”

  “Nah,” he says. “I’m okay. Not like these guys.”

  “Someday you will be,” his mom says. She speaks over his head to me. “He’s very good. Just shy to admit it.”

  “Moomm,” Dominic whines. “Watch the game. There’s only a minute left.”

  I had never known one minute could be so thrilling. I watch, cheering when Dominic cheers and holding my breath when he does, too.

  “Don’t watch me,” he scolds. “Watch the ice. Your boyfriend is going to score, I know it.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend—”

  I’m interrupted by the roar of the crowd. Everyone’s on their feet, cheering like maniacs. The few stragglers from the opposing team’s cheering section remain seated, heads in hands, frustration and disappointment scrawled across their faces.

  “Told you.” Dominic turns to look at me, grinning openly. “Tell your boyfriend good job from us. That was awesome.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, but again, the sound is drowned out by the crowd. I stand along with the rest of them, clapping and cheering, wondering why I’m arguing with a twelve-year-old.

  “Do you think you can get me his autograph?” Dominic looks up at me. “My mom hasn’t gotten up the guts to ask for it, yet.”

  “I do too have the guts!” Leigh gives him a look of mock anger. “I told you I’d ask if you got straight A’s this semester. I have yet to see your report card, mister.”

  His shoulders slump. “But history is so hard.”

  “If it’s okay with your mom,” I tell him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We’ll see,” Leigh agrees. “If Annie gets you the autograph, you owe her all A’s.”

  “I promise,” he says, eyes glowing. “I seriously promise.”

  “It’s past our bedtime,” Leigh says. “Are you okay here, Annie? Can we walk you to your car?”

  I give a weak gesture toward the ice. “I think I’m going to stick around for a bit. I have an autograph to hunt down.”

  Dominic squeals with excitement. Leigh hugs him to her and nods, giving me a conspiratorial smile over his head. “You’ve got your phone, right? Text me if you need anything. We’re not far away.”

  “Thank you.” I give both of them a hug. “Thanks for the Hockey 101, Dom.”

  Dominic offers me a fist bump. “Anytime.”

  “I want details on everything,” Leigh calls over her shoulder. “Good luck!”

  I sit back down in the bleachers while I let the crowd clear out. Most of the folks on this side of the rink are laughing and jolly, swigging the last of their beers as they reminisce over the recent game highlights.

  It’s a festive crowd, but I find it hard to g
et swept up into the feeling. My stomach churns with nerves, and I fumble with my phone, pretending to scroll through Facebook even though my eyes can’t focus on a thing.

  Cohen still doesn’t know I’m here. When he plays, apparently he focuses on the game— and only the game. He didn’t once look into the crowd. I should know, seeing as I stared at him like a lion watching an antelope for all three periods.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him; the way he moved on the ice was impressive. Smooth, clever even, and with confidence. And of course he scored the winning goal. He’ll be a hot commodity at the bar tonight, I’m sure, celebrating with teammates and fans.

  Maybe I should go home for tonight, I think, pulling myself to my feet as the janitors start cleaning the floors, sweeping up stray popcorn kernels, gum, and other miscellaneous treasures from the crowd. It’d be easier to call him, or talk to him after lessons on Saturday.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, letting the crowd push me toward the entrance. I pass the food stands, the girls in mini skirts, the parents with stars in their eyes... and somewhere among the latter, a sudden thought hits me.

  If what Cohen said was true, neither of his parents would be here. His mom is long gone, and his dad is uninterested in his son’s career. Cohen wouldn’t have had any family around to see him score the winning goal.

  The thought sent a jolt of discomfort toward my stomach. I know how that feels—how disappointing it is to realize that, after volleyball practice, my dad had forgotten to pick me up. Or, how it feels to prepare for a piano recital for months, only to find out that my dad had shown up so late he’d missed my entire song.

  For me, however, my mom had been there. Always. Clapping and cheering and rooting for me, no matter what. It’s this memory that makes up my mind. I’m staying tonight, and I’m finding Cohen. I’m going to apologize, congratulate him, and then let the powers that be do their thing.