Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Van

People say when one door closes, another one opens. And maybe that's true.

But I wanna know what people say when one door opens and you find the groom hooking up with someone who's not the bride—less than an hour before the wedding.

In a church, no less. Classy.

There's some special ring of Dante's Inferno set aside for people who cheat on their wedding day . This guy—whose name is so forgettable, I don't remember it, though I probably should—is like whatever insect belongs on the ladder rung beneath cockroaches.

And he's supposed to be marrying my coach's daughter.

Amelia . Even just her name sends a disturbing twinge of something through me—something I'd like to ignore. An unfamiliar emotion landing somewhere between jealousy and an irrepressible—and maybe irrational—longing.

Whatever I shouldn't be feeling regarding Amelia, I think I'm pretty safe experiencing rage at the sight of her fiancé with someone else while wearing his wedding tux.

Some guys might have walked right back out of the room.

Pretended they saw nothing.

Kept their mouths shut.

I am not some guys .

All I wanted was to take a leak before the ceremony in case it was one of those long ones with a lot of readings and singing. I've been dragged to my fair share of weddings, and long ones are the worst if you need the bathroom.

Then, I planned to avoid making eye contact with Amelia for the duration of the wedding, enjoy the open bar, and go home alone to sulk. Or move on. Whatever.

But then, I saw Coach walking toward me in the hallway, eyes on the phone in his hand. He hadn't seen me. Yet.

Considering the fact that I'm always on his naughty list, never on the nice list, I didn't really want to open myself up to a lecture. Had I stopped to think about it, I might have realized Coach isn't concerned with his least favorite player on the day of his daughter's wedding.

But I didn't stop to think. I ducked into this office—and a situation I can't ignore.

"Guess this isn't the bathroom. Sorry," I say, not sounding sorry at all.

I lean casually on the doorframe, not taking my eyes off the dirtbag adjusting his tux. The woman he was kissing dove behind the large mahogany desk when I walked in, and I can hear her shuffling around back there. Probably trying to fix her dress. Or maybe digging herself a hole to climb into. Solid plan.

The dude has the decency to look sort of apologetic, though it's more like sorry I got caught than the sorry for being a trash human . Quickly, though, his expression quickly turns to irritation.

Like I'm the one doing something wrong here. Classic cheater's projection.

"The door was locked," he says. "You shouldn't be in here."

I cock an eyebrow. "It wasn't locked. And you're going to blow by apologies and excuses and skip straight to blame-shifting? Huh."

"I don't owe you an explanation. I don't even know you."

"True. You don't owe me anything." I slide my hands into my pockets. Deceptively casual. "Now—as for what you owe Amelia …"

His face pales at the mention of the woman he's supposed to marry in less than half an hour. So, there's at least some shred of humanity in this guy. I remember the way he clasped Amelia's hand last night at the rehearsal dinner, all emotional and moved during the toasts.

He's a good actor—I'll give him that.

I am not an actor, which is why my teammates kept giving me a hard time, asking why I was so quiet last night. Why I wasn't drinking. Or flirting with any women.

Guess they haven't noticed it's been a long while since I've actually dated.

Anyway, I told them all nothing was wrong; that I don't have to be ON all the time. That my smart mouth isn't always running.

Which is true. It just wasn't true last night. My real reason for being in a mood isn't one I plan to tell them.

Amelia also looked happy last night. But jittery too—unless I was imagining it. It's not like I really know her. I did keep my eyes on her, and I couldn't help but notice the way she kept fidgeting with the stack of bracelets on her arm, never sitting still.

And whenever she wasn't smiling, her face looked … hollow.

Unlike her douche of a fiancé, Amelia didn't seem emotional during the toasts. Not until Coach got choked up talking about how Amelia's mom would be so proud. Which had just about everyone in the room crying. Tucker blew his nose so loudly a woman at the next table dropped her champagne flute.

Thinking about Coach, about Amelia, about this guy pretending to care last night has me clenching my fists in my pockets.

"Amelia deserves better than this," I grit out.

"How do you know Ames?" the dude demands.

Ames must be his nickname for Amelia, and it burns that he thinks he gets to still use a pet name for her. I'm pretty sure he forfeited the right to say her name at all the moment he first hooked up with this woman. Or whatever woman came before her. Because I doubt this is the first. There's usually a long line behind every cheater.

As for how I know Amelia … it's a simple story.

We met randomly. Talked. Thought she might be my soulmate.

Then I realized she was my coach's daughter.

The quintessential Romeo and Juliet story. But with more hockey and hopefully with less death and mayhem.

"How I know Amelia is irrelevant. Consider me the good angel on your shoulder, here to make sure you do what you need to do."

The idea of me as an angel is laughable, but whatever. I can imagine Alec and Tucker and the guys on the team howling over this comparison.

He scoffs, and I study him. He's got that whole clean-cut, white-collar thing going on. Neatly trimmed hair. White teeth. Eyebrows that look like they get regularly manicured. And he's wearing enough projected anger to fill a stadium.

Is this the kind of guy Amelia likes? The kind of man Coach would approve of?

As opposed to me—a tattooed hockey player with a reputation.

"This is a private matter," he says.

I'm sure he'd love to keep it a private matter. As in, a secret, hidden thing.

Protectiveness surges within me. It's an emotion that comes standard with any decent guy who has sisters. I've got three, which amplifies my sense of outrage.

Why can't I remember this guy's name? It starts with a D, but I can only think dude.

But dude is too nice.

Douche . I'll go with that. Douche the Groom. Or, more likely about to be Douche Formerly Known as Groom. I don't want to be so happy about this because it means Amelia will be crushed.

Single again. But crushed.

And single.

Irrelevant. Because she's off-limits, dummy. She's the coach's daughter.

The woman hiding behind the desk chooses this moment to stand, smoothing down her dress. Her bridesmaid's dress. I'm not super knowledgeable about fashion, but the dress is almost the same style my sister, Alexandra, picked for her bridesmaids a few years ago.

Talk about a cliché. The groom and a bridesmaid in the church office—like a game of cheating Clue.

The woman touches his arm with familiarity, telling me this isn't the start of something. Not a first-time or one-time thing.

Maybe he's the kind who told himself this would be the last time, that once he said I do , this would all be in the past. Faithfulness from this hour—clearly not day —forward.

Yeah, right. Cheaters gonna cheat, and they're gonna keep on cheating. Unless someone steps in and stops it.

Someone like me.

"So, how's this going to work?" I ask.

"How's what going to work?" Douche snaps.

"Do I need to escort you physically to tell Amelia about this, or can I trust you to walk yourself?"

"The door was locked," he stammers, going back to his original response. Like the main problem here is faulty hardware. Not his actions.

I snap my fingers. "Catch up. We've moved on, and you're burying the lede. The headline is Douchebag Groom Cheats Less Than an Hour before the Wedding with a Bridesmaid ."

"Maid of honor," the woman corrects, almost like a reflex. Immediately, she seems to realize what she's said, or maybe what she's done . Her eyes go wide, and then she bursts into tears.

Normally, I'd hate seeing a woman cry, but in this case, I have zero pity for either of these two.

"Don't cry, baby. We'll figure this out." Douche the Groom has the audacity to pull her into his arms. "Like I promised."

"Just a hunch, but I'm not sure I'd trust any promises he makes," I say.

"You don't know anything," Douche says.

"You made her promises"—I point to the woman sniffling in his arms—"but you're about to make vows to Amelia? I guess the plan was to keep on cheating after the wedding with your fiancée's best friend?"

"Her cousin," the woman says, again like the words just kind of escaped without her meaning for them to.

I suck in a breath through my teeth. Cheating with a friend is bad. Cheating with family is worse.

"And how do you think Amelia's dad will feel about this?"

That sobers them both right up.

"You're one of the hockey players," the woman says through a wet sniffle.

Douche appraises me, suddenly looking less confident. Hockey players are a brutal bunch. Though the Appies are less so than most. We rely on skill, not sheer force or dirty plays. I don't take my gloves off if I can help it. But I won't run away from a fight either. If they come my way, they come my way.

Okay, and maybe I've been known to instigate sometimes. Whatever. It's part of the game.

"This is all just a misunderstanding," Douche says.

"Cool. Then let's go clear it up with your fiancée ."

"You can't tell her," the woman whispers. "It will kill Milly."

Milly —another nickname. How many does Amelia have? And why do I hate both of the ones I've heard? Maybe they're tainted by the people saying them.

I open the door and gesture for them to walk out.

"This would probably go down better if she hears it from you both ." I tilt my head toward the hallway behind me. "Come on, lovebirds. No time to waste. I think I hear the string quartet warming up."

"Where have you been?" Alec whispers as I slide back into my pew with my teammates.

I shrug, giving a little twist of my lips that hopefully hints I was somewhere more fun than marching Douche the Groom and the Maid of Dishonor down the hallway. I left them right outside the door of the bridal room, both of them looking like they were going to hurl.

Maybe I should have gone in with them. But I couldn't risk seeing Amelia. I don't think I could have walked away, not when I knew she was about to hear devastating news. And it's not like I'm the person she'd turn to for comfort.

Douche was right about one thing: I barely know Amelia.

"Van probably found a woman," Tucker whispers, leaning down from his spot at the end of the aisle.

"And a coat closet," Wyatt mutters, shaking his head. The man is a monk, rarely going out with us and, as far as we know, never dating. But this means he always assumes everyone else is hooking up.

"Nah," Dumbo says, eyeing me. "He doesn't look happy enough. My vote is diarrhea."

Alec snorts, and Parker turns around to poke me in the shoulder with one of her pink-painted nails. "Hush!"

"Ow!" I whisper-shout. "I'm not the one who said diarrhea ."

"You just did," she says. "Now, pipe down back there. All of you. They're about to start."

They aren't. But I'm the only one in this room who knows that right now, so I mutter "Yes, Boss" along with the rest of the guys.

Parker may be the social media manager, not our actual boss, but she keeps us all in line. Partly because we like and respect her. Partly because she can be surprisingly scary for someone so upbeat. Beside her, Logan tilts his head enough for us to see his smug grin. I think he gets intense pleasure from watching his fiancée force us into submission.

I smooth a hand over my hair, which will go right back to being messy in two minutes. Any minute now, someone will be walking in the sanctuary to announce that the wedding is canceled. Glancing around the room, everything still seems to be normal.

My gaze stops at our group. I'm seated by Tucker, Dumbo, Wyatt, Camden, and Alec, our captain. The single guys. The row in front of us has all the couples: Eli and Bailey, Logan and Parker, and Felix, who's saving a spot on the end for Gracie, who's playing in the string quartet. Nathan is also up there, even though Summer, his new girlfriend and the newest member of the Appies' legal team, is out of town.

The influx of serious relationships—and one marriage in Eli's case—this season has shifted things a bit. Now our team has an adult table and kid table vibe going on. I know which table—or row, in this case—I'll probably never be in.

And what I witnessed a few minutes ago is exactly why. I've had a front-row seat to my parents' unhappily ever afters proving what I already know: monogamy isn't easy. Vows are too often broken.

My whole childhood was like a cautionary tale against marriage.

No shade to my teammates, who all seem like they're in good, healthy relationships. But I know how it goes. First comes the sunshine and rainbows and heart-eye emojis. Then comes the fighting. The cheating. The inevitable, messy breakup. The aftermath.

It's the circle of love. And it's one ride I doubt I'll ever get on. Not unless I meet someone I couldn't imagine living without. Someone worth risking it all for. So far, no one's come close.

Except maybe one woman—the very one who should never have made me entertain those kinds of thoughts.

Tucker leans close. "Dude. Did you know how hot Coach's daughter is?"

"Probably why he kept her away from us," Dumbo says.

"Stop talking about her," I grumble.

Alec eyes me with a little too much interest. "When do you ever not want to discuss a hot woman?"

The comment bugs me. Maybe I've leaned into the bad-boy image a little too hard. It bothers me to think my closest friends might really just think of me as some superficial womanizer.

"It's Coach's daughter," I say, going with the only explanation that won't beg more questions. I clench my jaw and face forward.

"Do you know her or something?" Alec asks. "You're being weird. Even for you."

"No."

It's not a lie. But it's also not the truth.

Amelia and I met exactly one time before this weekend. I was picking up a to-go order at the restaurant bar. She was meeting her dad for dinner, and he was running late.

I'll be honest—I started talking to her because she was hot. Honey-colored hair in a perky ponytail, striking blue eyes, and a smile that tugged me to a stop where I stood.

But I stayed and kept talking to her because she made me laugh. I wish I could remember now what she said. Whatever it was, I choked out a surprised guffaw, the kind of laugh that sounded like some kind of weird drunk donkey. It made her giggle.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting beside her at the bar, sharing my burger and fries right from the styrofoam to-go container. We talked like we'd known each other our whole lives. I talked about my favorite sci-fi books, and she mentioned secretly wanting to be a writer. I touched briefly on my parents' messy divorces and she told me how hard it was losing her mom.

We laughed. We flirted. I started to think maybe this could be something—the kind of something I'd never had.

I mean, it was way too fast and definitely stupid to think about that, but Amelia stirred to life the kinds of feelings I've never had. The kind of easy enjoyment mixed with potent attraction that left me feeling woozy.

My parents' excessive failings at monogamy might have left me barricaded behind a No Entry zone for relationships, but Amelia hit me like a runaway truck barreling down a mountain road with cut brakes.

I went to the bathroom and dunked my face in the sink, hoping cold water would settle me. It didn't. So, I decided to march back out there and ask her out. Only one way to see if this could be something real.

And then, I walked out of the bathroom and saw her with Coach.

Her dad . My coach .

And like a total coward, I hid in the hallway until they went into the restaurant area, grateful I'd introduced myself as Robbie, not Van. If she didn't recognize my face, which she obviously didn't, she might have heard her dad mention my name. Probably not in a good way.

Only my sisters call me Robbie. But when I met Amelia, that's how I introduced myself for some reason.

The only topic I avoided was playing hockey for the Appies. It was kind of nice to have that be an epilogue and not the opening for once.

Except in this situation, we happened to be connected through hockey in the worst possible way. The last thing I need is Coach catching wind of me with his daughter.

The one he'd said in no uncertain terms none of us were to go near. Ever.

So, for months I tried to forget her. I tried dating her out of my system, but it's like meeting Amelia altered my brain chemistry. I compared every woman to the one with the sweet smile who stole my fries and made me feel like I was the living embodiment of a Taylor Swift song.

One of the happy ones, not the breakup ones.

Whatever. I never told anyone. I hoped that watching Amelia marry some other dude would finally get her out of my system. Factory reset me back to standard settings as a guy who kept things casual and didn't ponder things like instalove with my own personal Juliet.

Instead, this week and the weeks leading up to it have been torture. I've played like crap, and Coach actually switched Dominik to my place the last few games. Whatever. I figured this weekend would be the end of it. I'd get her out of my system, get my spot in the line back for playoffs, and go on with my life.

But now …

Guests are still buzzing in the sanctuary, the anticipation practically visible in the air. They're waiting for the typical processional music: Pachelbel's Canon in D Major . This is the kind of factoid I picked up by my parents' third respective weddings.

And as I'm thinking it, those familiar notes begin playing from Gracie and the other musicians. The hairs on my arms stand at attention under my sleeves. A prickle of unease washes through me. Uh-oh .

"Oh, good—they're starting," Alec says, leaning close as a man in a black robe walks from a side door to the front of the room.

Not good , I think.

"The faster we get through this, the sooner we get to the open bar," Dumbo says. Tucker gives him a fist bump. Parker turns and glares.

My gut is twisting uncomfortably. Because the officiant doesn't announce that the wedding is off like I hoped he might. He stands there at the front of the room, smiling. His is the face of a guy about to pronounce two people man and wife .

There's the smallest chance Amelia would have said her groom's unfaithfulness didn't matter and decided to get married anyway. I don't know many women who would stand for that, though it's a possibility.

But there's a bigger chance that after I left, Douche the Groom tucked tail and ran away without confessing the truth. I should have dragged him into the room myself.

Maybe it's not too late to do just that.

I'm on my feet and heading out of the sanctuary before I can think twice about it.

"Where are you going now?" Alec hisses.

I don't miss the way Parker's head whips around, Exorcist -like, her eyes narrowed. I know I'll get an earful later.

But I'm doing the right thing. Whether it's for Amelia's sake or selfish reasons or both, I'm not about to let her marry Douche the Groom.

The last thing I hear before I push out of the room and into the hallway is Dumbo smugly saying, "Told you it was diarrhea."