by Sarina Bowen
After he leaves, the room gets quiet again, and I drowse on the pillow. If we adopt a child, I’ll have to learn to cook. What kind of mother can’t make scrambled eggs for breakfast?
I’ll have a few years to sort that out. Unless we don’t try for an international adoption. If we go the foster-parent route, it could happen more quickly.
None of this will be easy. I’ll need to work with at least one adoption agency—and maybe more than one, if we pursue different avenues of adoption. And then, when we get closer to success, I’ll hire an office assistant to give Eric and I even more flexibility.
It will all go into the new five-year plan. Just as soon as I get out of this bed.
Spoiler: I do not get out of the bed. The sheets are soft and the pillow is fluffy and my man is roving the streets of Dallas, hunting down a deli that makes egg sandwiches.
He takes surprisingly long, and my stomach is growling by the time I hear the telltale beep and click of the room door opening.
“Do they not have delis in Dallas?” I ask, rolling over to look at him.
Tank is not carrying a bag. He’s not even carrying two coffees. I’m having dire thoughts, but then I catch his expression. His eyes are smiling so hard that it changes his whole face. “Bess, honey.”
“What is it?”
He walks over to the bed, where I am still lying lazily on my tummy. He kneels down beside me. “Let’s start the clock.”
“What?” I stretch my sleepy limbs. “What clock?” He leans a little closer and I find myself nose to nose with Tank. “What are you talking about?”
“The two-year clock, Bessie. Let’s not waste time.” He chuckles. “I hope you’re not the sort of girl who wants a video of this to post on social media. ’Cause that’s gonna be awkward. Bessie, will you be my wife?”
Wait, what?
Tank takes my hand and kisses my palm. “Will you marry me, ASAP? So we can have two years of fun and then adopt a baby or toddler who needs a home?”
Suddenly, this man has my full attention. My head springs off the pillow. “Seriously? We’re doing this now?” My heart is in my mouth, because I hope to God I haven’t misunderstood him.
“I never claimed to be a romantic. And maybe I’m doing this all wrong. But here goes.” He fishes something out of his pants pocket. It’s a little box. He opens it to reveal a diamond ring. “I didn’t know your ring size. And I had to bang on the window to get the store to let me in early.”
He’s still talking, but I’m just staring at the beautiful thing in front of me. The generous emerald-cut diamond is set sideways on a dainty, narrow band. There’s a row of tiny diamonds on either side of the center stone. I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s stunning. And my poor little brain is trying to grapple with the mystery of its sudden appearance.
“I want you, Bessie. All of you. I want your notebooks full of plans, and I want you to move into that apartment with me. Your commute will be longer, honey. You’ll have to cross the street.” He kisses my palm again. “Say yes.”
“Yes!” My throat closes up, making it hard for me to speak. “Of course I’ll marry you. Any day of the week.”
“Careful,” he says, his green eyes dancing. “I might pick tomorrow. Because I know this is right, and I’m not a patient man.” He carefully plucks the ring from its velvet cushion. “Let’s just try this on.”
I gasp when it fits perfectly. I shouldn’t be so surprised. Tank and I are a good fit. I know it in my heart. I know it the same way I know a rookie is going to grow into a hall-of-famer.
Tankiewicz is my hall-of-fame man. He always has been.
“Do you like it?” he whispers.
“I love it. So much. Almost as much as I love you.” All I can do is stare down at my finger.
He laughs. “Maybe this isn’t how you pictured your marriage proposal. So now I’ll slow down and wait until you’re ready to brainstorm a wedding plan. Or is there already a notebook for that? Have you ever thought about your dream wedding?”
“Never,” I whisper. And that’s the truth. Even when I’d told Zara I’d marry Tank in a heartbeat, I hadn’t believed it was a possibility. Marrying Tank sounded as realistic as turning mice into coachmen.
“We’ll think of something that works for two busy people,” he says. “I just needed you to know that I’m serious about our future together. And if you want to start the clock on adoption, I’m here for that.”
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. “You really know how to make a girl happy.”
“I’m working on it,” he agrees. “Can I feed the girl some brunch now? About that buffet—what do you say we sneak you in?”
“Okay,” I say, realizing this means I have to make myself presentable. “Give me six minutes.”
“We’re already running late,” he says. “So it doesn’t matter. Take your time and shower if you feel like it.”
“That includes a shower,” I say. “I’m speedy.”
“You really are the perfect woman,” he says, chuckling. “Off you go.”
I wear the ring to brunch. Which means I’m practically floating as we ride down to the lobby together. The comfortable pressure of Tank’s hand in mine as we step into the dining room is the only thing tethering me to Earth.
“There they are!” Georgia says, beckoning us toward one of two long tables where the team is assembled.
“Where’d you go last ni—” Becca’s eyes grow round. “Is that a ring?” she shrieks.
Georgia lets out a happy little scream, too. “Get over here and let me see!”
Tank, chuckling, gives me a little nudge in their direction. “You sit. I’ll find the food.”
My friends wave me in like buzzing bees to the hive. “This is so pretty!” Georgia says.
“Did you know this was coming?” Becca wants to know.
“Heck no. It still doesn’t seem real.”
“That makes two of us who got engaged in this hotel!” Becca’s smile is electric. “Isn’t Dallas a great town?”
“No,” O’Doul insists from a few seats over. “But we’ll agree to disagree.”
“I’m feeling some warm fuzzies about Dallas, too,” I admit.
“What kind of wedding are you having?” Georgia asks. “Big? Small? Are you going to wait for the summer break? Hang on—you could get married on your birthday. Ten years to the date you met! That would be romantic.”
“Well…” The question of starting the adoption clock is going to be a consideration. I love that Tank wanted to do that for us—that he’d leaped out of bed and bought a diamond ring to show me that he was onboard. “We might not wait,” I hedge. But I won’t go into detail until I get a chance to discuss it with my…
Fiancé. Wow. I can’t believe I have one of those.
Becca makes me get out my phone and pose with the ring as she takes some pictures. “Hold this coffee cup,” she says, framing another shot. “And now this flower.” She grabs a rose out of the centerpiece on the table. “Your manicure needs a touchup,” she clucks. “We’ll do that after breakfast. A girl can’t show off her new ring with chipped polish.”
Georgia rolls her eyes. “It’s really okay to ignore her. Becca, let the girl have breakfast.”
I look over my shoulder, and my inner Cinderella practically strokes out at the sight of Tank approaching the table, carrying a tray that’s loaded down with dishes, and wearing an expression that’s both happy and relaxed.
Jewelry may sparkle. But nothing beats the sight of a strong man carrying coffee and breakfast. Nothing.
O’Doul puts down his coffee cup and starts a slow clap. After a second, he’s joined by Silas and Leo Trevi. And then everyone joins in. Jimbo—the equipment handler—stands up and whistles.
“Thank you, thank you all,” Tank says, setting the tray down. “It was a beautiful goal last night. I’m glad you appreciate that.” He gives me a cheeky wink.
“Who knew?” Leo says.
> “I did!” Becca chirps. “I knew it all along.”
“I doubted him,” Castro says, shaking his head. “But I’m happy to be a little bit wrong about this.”
“A little bit?” Coach Worthington says from the end of the table. “Son, he’s making you look bad. Your girlfriend is probably wondering where she went wrong, thinking you were a catch.”
“Coach!” Castro gasps, looking over both shoulders. “Keep your voice down.”
Everyone howls. And then they give Castro even more shit about having the balls to propose. Poor Castro.
“Did Dave hear the good news, yet?” Georgia asks as Tank sets an omelet in front of me.
“Nope,” I admit, as Tank claims the seat next to mine.
“Dave is going to flip his lid,” O’Doul says with a chuckle. “His little sister marrying a hockey player. Can I be there when you tell him?”
“Sure, man,” Tank says. “You can ice my face after the punch.”
Everyone laughs, but I make a mental note to call Dave from the airport later and tell him the good news. Although it’s tempting to tell Zara instead, and let her cushion the blow.
I’m not that big a wimp. But it’s tempting.
“What about Henry?” Tank says quietly, his hand finding my knee. “Let’s take a picture for Henry.”
“Oh,” I whisper. “Let’s. Becca, would you mind taking one more?”
Tank hands over his phone, and then he wraps an arm around me, holding my diamond-clad hand in sight of the camera.
And we smile together.
After brunch, we head back up to the room to get our things. I’m going to Ottawa for that tournament, and Tank is headed to San Jose for another game.
When it’s time to meet the team bus, I go downstairs with him, even though I have another hour before I have to check out. I feel so happy, I don’t want to let him out of my sight.
“Oh, jeez,” he says under his breath after we enter the lobby.
I’m just about to ask what’s wrong when I see a pretty brunette straighten up and walk toward Tank. She’s wearing a stylish dress, heels, and delicate little pearls in her ears.
Jordanna.
On instinct, I put my left hand into the pocket of my jeans.
But she only has eyes for Tank. “Mark. Hi,” she says a little breathlessly. “Do you have a second?” She finally glances at me, and the glance wonders if I wouldn’t just get lost, please.
“I need to make a call,” I say stupidly. Then I turn away.
“No, Bess,” Tank says. “Hey—”
I disregard him and ferry myself over to a sofa that’s a short distance away. It’s not far enough. I can hear Jordanna loud and clear. “I’m sorry to interrupt your morning.”
“Then why did you?” he asks tightly.
“Because I have two things to say to you, okay? And you don’t answer my texts.” I’m watching her out of the corner of my eye, and she looks shaky and uncertain.
And, damn it, now I actually feel sorry for her. I want to hate her for breaking Tank’s heart. But if she hadn’t, all my wishes wouldn’t be coming true.
Also, I want to hate her for knowing how to walk in those spiky heels.
She takes a nervous breath. “Nice goal last night. You looked great out there. I watched on TV.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“And I just wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for everything. At the end, I told myself it was your fault that we couldn’t work through it. But it was never just your fault. And I’m sorry I made you feel like it was.”
I watch his back rise as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you. That’s nice of you. I probably could have handled it better, too.”
“We both could, maybe. But I said some things I regret. That’s all. I’ll let you get back to your teammates and your—” Her eyes dart over to where I sit.
“Fiancée,” he says slowly.
Jordanna gasps so audibly they probably heard it in San Jose. “Oh. Wow.” She looks at me again, and this time it’s not me who looks away. It’s her. “She’s not—” She swallows hard. Pregnant. She doesn’t say the word, but I hear it anyway.
“No, Danna,” he says with a shake of his head. “No.”
“Oh.” She takes a deep breath, and some of the color returns to her face. “God, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
I can hear Tank’s chuckle. “No, it isn’t. But, look, you need to get to a place where you can say that word without almost passing out, okay? Trust me, it’s the only way to move forward with your life.”
She brings both hands up to her mouth. “Okay. You’re right. I know. I lost my mind there for a second.”
“I understand why. I really do. But I hope you can find a way to make some peace with the way things turned out. You deserve that as much as I do.” He reaches out and gives her a quick, hard hug.
It’s so generous that I don’t even feel a stab of jealousy. Not a big one, anyway.
“Be well, Jordanna. Now I have to get back.”
“Goodbye, Mark. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
She walks away, as my poor little conflicted heart thumps inside my chest. I wonder how much it cost her to do that.
Tank comes over and sits wordlessly down beside me, his suitcase at his feet.
“Well,” I say. “That was…” I don’t even know what word to choose. Awkward? Sad?
“Ill-timed?” He laughs.
“Is this weird for you?”
“Getting emotionally mugged by my ex-wife? A little.”
“No, I mean doing it all for a second time. Buying a ring. Kneeling down and asking me to marry you. Do you have déjà vu?
He smiles, and tucks an arm around me. “No, honey. Not at all. It’s like, if we’d lost to Dallas last night…”
“Which you didn’t,” I put in gleefully.
“But if we did. I’d be sweaty and tired and demoralized. And the next forty-eight hours would have sucked, right? But eventually I’d want a rematch. I’d be ready. I’d be hungry for it.”
“So you’re going to kick marriage’s ass and make it cry? You’re going to win?”
“I already have, honey. This is what winning looks like.”
He cups my chin and kisses me.
Thirty-Five
Glass Slippers and Everything
Bess
It’s totally possible to plan a wedding in three weeks. And, honestly, I’d recommend a hasty wedding to anyone. You don’t have to fret over all the decisions, because there simply isn’t time.
“Take the first venue that’s open on your date,” my brother had suggested as soon as he got over his shock at my news. “Don’t look at the price, I’ll pay it.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to have my brother contribute to my wedding. But when I realized that the impulse was some kind of macho reaction, I let him get out his checkbook.
Besides, the man has a daughter, and he ought to know what he’s getting into in case he decides to have more.
The rest of my wedding planning happened at top speed, too. I selected the first invitations the printer showed me. Then I gave the florist and the cake baker free rein to exercise their crafts.
“This wedding will be small,” I told them. “It will be held in a Victorian-era mansion, and it’s two weeks from today. You do your thing, and I’ll love it, I promise.”
When it came to dress-shopping, though, I needed guidance. Becca swooped in to help me choose the gown in a single afternoon of shopping.
“It doesn’t have to be a bridal gown,” I’d said. “My only rule is that it can’t be strapless, or I’ll spend the whole night worried that it will plummet to my ankles as I accidentally flash the guests.”
“Noted,” Becca had said. Then she’d promptly found a long, white, velvet burnout dress in my size on the rack at Bloomingdales that made her squeal with delight.
I might have squealed, too, just a little, over its boho
vibe, empire waist, and un-fussy V-neck. The burnout pattern reminded me of antique wallpaper. In a good way.
Even as the dress was being wrapped, Becca had demanded that we go shoe shopping next. “They have to be fabulous.”
“I can’t learn to walk in heels in the next fourteen days, Bec,” I’d told her. “They can’t be that fabulous.”
“Fine. Your dress is a maxi length, anyway. Let’s see what they have in a ballet slipper style.”
Agreeing, I’d tried on a couple options. But then I’d spotted something shiny and weird on a display in the corner. “What are those?” I’d asked the young saleswoman.
“Oh, we call those the glass slippers. They’re made by an Italian designer, but they have a Cinderella look to them.”
“I want to try them on!” I’d said, sounding exactly like someone’s evil stepsister.
“Everybody does,” the saleswoman had said, retreating to find a pair in my size.
“Are they too weird?” I’d asked Becca as I’d strode around the shoe department in the strange, shiny slippers. But I was a little in love with them already, the same way I’d fallen for Tank across a steak dinner. “Am I crazy?”
“It’s your wedding, Bess,” she’d said. “And you’re going to look like a bohemian fairy sprite in this groovy dress. These shoes are killer. Although you’ll have to let me paint your toenails, because they will show through.”
I’d bought the shoes, and, of course, I’d let Becca work her pedicure magic.
And I am, just three weeks after Tank’s proposal, listening to the muted strains of a string quartet playing as my guests take their seats in the rented mansion’s ballroom. I’m sporting a pumpkin-colored pedicure and pale pink nails. My hair has been tamed into a loose, wavy knot at the back of my head.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a rehearsal before the wedding?” My brother takes a sip of wine and leans against the carved mahogany mantelpiece of the library where we’re waiting. “Will someone announce the starting lineup? Are we singing the national anthem? How will I know what to do?”
