Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Van

My ears are ringing. My head throbs. And the chaos breaking out in the room around me only makes it worse.

There's shouting, a crash, and a few outraged screams, like I've been dumped into the set of a Real Housewives filming. Minus the housewives.

But I can't say exactly what's unfolding because my eyes are squeezed closed as I breathe through the pain.

It felt like I took a puck to the face with no helmet. Or maybe a boulder. A wrecking ball?

"Here," a soft voice says.

A hand cups the good side of my jaw. Something solid and cold lightly presses against my cheek.

I crack open my eyes, and the first thing I see are red lips, curved in a smile. A blinding white wedding dress. And pale blue irises, like the sky in early spring when there's still frost some mornings.

Amelia wears her emotions like they're a flag unfurled, visible for anyone to see. I remember that about her the night we met—the unguardedness that made me feel like I could be vulnerable too.

Right now, her eyes hold an apology with a side of gratefulness. And if I'm not mistaken, there's a glint there too, telling me she didn't forget the way I ghosted her.

Amelia. In the midst of all this drama, centered around her wedding day, she's checking on me . And pressing ice—no, I realize as I finally tear my gaze away from her, a bottle of champagne—to my face.

"Thanks," I say, then wince, because talking doesn't feel so great.

I've been hit in the face more times than I can count. But there's a difference between taking a hit on the ice when I'm prepared for the possibility, with adrenaline and endorphins pumping through me, versus a random blow with whatever hit me.

I glance down. See a small statue on the floor.

Of course—I would get knocked in the face by an angel.

Feels like a colossal sign that maybe I should have minded my own business.

But no, I think, glancing at Amelia again, who's watching me while keeping the champagne pressed to my cheek. I would do it all over again.

I start to speak, but Amelia shakes her head. "Shhh," she murmurs, and it doesn't grate the way it might if a normal person shushed me.

It's soothing, and as she lifts her other hand to my hair, running her fingers gently over my scalp, I hold back a groan. Because if I'm being perfectly honest, I've imagined this exact thing.

Amelia with her hands in my hair, I mean. Not so much the scuffle happening behind us or the cheating groom.

I'm suddenly yanked backwards and away from Amelia. My normally good reflexes are clearly on break, and I land hard on my butt.

"Take your hands off my fiancée!" the groom shouts, looming over me.

This guy.

How did he end up with not one but two women hooked on his line?

I glare up at the man whose name I now know is Drew. Which is just so perfect. He's a total Drew .

" Former fiancée," Amelia says, stepping in between us, hands on her hips and eyes blazing.

"Will someone please have the decency to tell me what the hell is going on here?" Coach shouts.

That's Coach. And he's pulled out the rare voice he uses when we're all being stupid on the ice and about to lose a game if we don't pull it together. Everyone in the room goes still. He has that effect.

I finally take in the scene around us. The cheating maid of honor is caught mid-tussle with the other bridesmaid a few feet away. A man with the same round baby face as Coach—his brother, if I had to hazard a guess—seems like he paused in the middle of trying to break up that fight. He's got a bridesmaid in each arm.

The short, white-haired church lady with a stopwatch around her neck takes a sip from a silver flask with a cross on it.

Okay, then.

Coach's gaze lands on me, and his eyes narrow. "This can't be good if you're involved, Van."

Great. Appreciate the vote of confidence, Coach .

I know I'm not the guy's favorite, but seriously?!

"It's not him you should be mad at," Amelia says, and Drew's eyes start darting around the room, clearly looking for an escape route.

Amelia holds out her hand to me, the one not still curled around the champagne bottle. Not that I need her help, but I let her pretend like she pulled me to my feet.

Drew surges forward again, and Amelia wields the bottle like a cattle prod, shoving him back.

"It's over. So, don't call me your fiancée and don't you touch him ."

She punctuates this by shoving the bottle into his chest again.

This is a side of Amelia I only saw slivers of the night we met. Like when she and I argued over whether rereading a book should count toward your reading goals for the year. She nearly took my head off arguing about keeping your reading tally "pure" with only first-time reads.

Probably the only other person I could argue something like that with is Felix. But our bookworm of a goaltender has no idea I read as much as I do. He's got a massive library at his place, while I mostly stick to ebooks and audio. I definitely never had fighting about books in a restaurant bar with a beautiful woman on my bucket list.

And she's wrong, by the way. Rereads totally count. So do audiobooks—but at least we agreed on that point.

Amelia's grip tightens on the champagne bottle, and I start to worry. Because I get the sneaking suspicion Drew is the kind of guy who would sue for assault if she takes a swing.

I gently pry the bottle from Amelia's fingers.

She glances up at me in surprise, then offers me a small smile before turning a glare back at the idiot posturing in front of her. He puffs up even more seeing Amelia smile at me.

Coach glares at Drew and me in turn, like I hold an equal—or any —responsibility for this mess.

"It's just a misunderstanding, sir," Drew says, and I snort. He shoots me a withering look.

"I still don't understand why you're here," Coach says, his gaze hard on me.

I've always known I'm not Coach's favorite player on the ice. Maybe off the ice too. Just one of the reasons I ran from Amelia the night we met. It saved me from being chased out with a barstool by her dad.

I get it. I'm too mouthy. I start things. Don't walk away when I should. Play around sometimes when I should be serious. Coach's approval or lack thereof never bothered me.

Until now.

Maybe I should step away from Amelia and walk right out of this room.

But I don't.

"Robbie—or Van , I guess," Amelia amends with a quick narrow-eyed glance my way, "is the one who made Drew come in here and confess he's been cheating on me." She winces as she adds, "With Becky."

"Becky?" Coach rears back.

" My Becky?" the maybe-brother echoes. Becky's dress is ripped at the shoulder, one strap limply hanging down.

The other bridesmaid looks like she has a small clump of bleached hair in her fist. Good for her!

"I didn't mean to, Daddy," Becky says, bursting into dramatic tears.

"It sure didn't look accidental when I walked in on the two of you earlier."

Like I said: too mouthy.

Coach blinks rapidly for a few seconds, his gaze bouncing between me, Amelia, Drew, Becky, and Becky's father, whom she's cowering behind. The other bridesmaid is now sharing the flask with the older woman.

"I can't believe this," Coach says, and I feel for the guy. Not as much as I do for Amelia, but it would totally suck to have your niece be the one ruining your daughter's wedding day by sleeping with the groom. "And you ."

His voice takes on a hard edge when he rounds on Drew. I recognize the look in Coach's eyes. I've never seen this expression on his face, but I've seen it plenty of times on the ice. And it means someone's about to get a reckoning.

Before Coach can throw a punch, I push past Amelia and attempt to get between him and a decision he may regret.

And for the second time today, I take a blow to the face. This time, it's Coach's fist.

"Daddy!" Amelia exclaims, stepping forward and curling her hand around my elbow tugging me backward.

He looks dazed, like this moment totally got away from him.

Amelia turns to me. "Are you okay?" She lifts her hands to gently touch my cheeks, both of which have now taken a pounding. I'll have matching black eyes in a few days.

"Are you okay, Van?" Coach asks. "I didn't mean to hit you."

Amelia bristles when her father steps closer to me, shoving me behind her, which is really adorable. She can't be more than five-and-a-half feet, which is almost a solid foot shorter than me. But I like the way she keeps trying to protect me.

"He'd be better if you hadn't just hit him in the face, Daddy. The only people in this room deserving of any kind of punch are Drew and Becky. And I'm not even sure they 're worth it."

Out of nowhere, Becky's dad jumps in. "Now, wait just a minute. Don't drag my little girl through the mud just because you're having wedding-day jitters or whatever this is."

No offense to Coach, but his brother seems about as smart as a bag of rocks. He and Drew are cut from the same cloth, purchased at the store that sells stupid by the yard.

"Maybe you should add another name to your list of punchable people," I mutter.

"It seems so," Amelia says.

Becky peeks around her father's bulky frame. "I really didn't mean to hurt anyone. And I'm hurt too. Drew said he loved me."

"Drew said a lot of things," Amelia grumbles.

Coach's face has been growing redder by the second, and he steps closer to Drew. This time, keeping his fists by his sides. "You need to leave. Now."

"But I?—"

Coach ignores Drew and stomps over to his brother. "I don't want to hear a single word from you in her defense. There is absolutely none. You've spoiled your daughter since the time she was knee-high, and it's time both of you take responsibility for your actions."

Clearly, some old wounds have been opened. As the two men begin yelling with Drew stepping in the middle, I'm made more aware of the pounding in my head.

I groan, and Amelia turns to face me again.

"I'm so sorry you got dragged into my family drama," she says, glancing over her shoulder where there's a veritable brawl happening. "Though I guess you did insert yourself."

For a moment, she looks like she's going to ask why, but then the non-cheating bridesmaid steps close, holding out the old woman's flask.

"You might need this. Not too much though since you haven't eaten. Can't have you going all savage on us."

Amelia takes a dainty sip, then wrinkles her nose and coughs as she hands it back. "What is that?"

"I think Fireball? Cinnamon whisky." Her friend takes a bigger swig, then turns to me. "Hi, I'm Morgan. Milly's best friend. Single. And not a cheater, for the record."

"Van."

"Also known as Robbie," Amelia says.

Morgan's eyes take on a knowing look. "Robbie as in Restaurant Robbie? The guy who—" She makes an oomph as Amelia elbows her. "Right. Nice to meet you, Robbie . Or Van."

Clearly, Amelia has talked about me. I'm dying to know what she said, but this isn't the time to ask.

Amelia lifts a brow. I never knew a single eyebrow could hold so much judgment. "Apparently, he's a man of many names."

Before I can explain myself, Morgan takes Amelia by the shoulders.

"Listen. I can handle things here. Do you want to go?"

"As soon as humanly possible."

"Great," Morgan says, then groans. "Hang on. Neither of us drove to the church."

"I've got a car."

Both women swivel to face me, Morgan with a growing smile, and Amelia looking doubtful.

"Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"Nope." I did drive Tucker and Dumbo, but there are a bunch of guys from the team who could get them home. They'll get over it.

"Van," Morgan says, turning to me, face serious even as her eyes still dance. "Or Robbie. Whatever your name is—you've heard that with great power comes great responsibility?"

I chuckle. "I've seen Spiderman a time or two."

"The quote comes from Voltaire," Amelia corrects, reminding me of our long-ago book debate. "Not Marvel."

Again, Morgan glances between us. "Okay, then. We're all familiar with the quote. Good. Van—will you take responsibility for Milly while I make sure they don't set the church on fire?"

I glance behind her, where Drew and Becky are now shouting at each other. Coach and his brother are embroiled in an all-out brawl. I should care more than I do.

Maybe if Coach hadn't thought the worst of me and then accidentally decked me, I'd help him out.

But I'd rather stay with Amelia.

There's a crash as Coach and his brother fall through a coffee table, now rolling around on the floor throwing ineffective punches. It's the worst fight I've ever seen. And that includes the time I saw two players get into it after one licked the other one's face.

"That's our signal." Morgan ushers us toward a door at the back of the room, which appears to lead directly to the parking lot.

"You might want to grab some of my teammates from the sanctuary," I tell Morgan. "They'll keep Coach from hurting someone—or himself."

"Are any of them single?" Morgan asks.

"Plenty."

"Great." She grins, gives Amelia a quick kiss on the cheek, whispers, "Love you, Milly. You're going to get through this."

"Take care of my dad," Amelia says. "And the grandmas. And Aunt Sally."

"Will do. But I'll let your dad beat up Uncle Bobby a bit first, okay?"

"Agreed."

Morgan gives Amelia a quick hug before giving Drew a sharp kick to the shins as she heads out into the hallway.

Amelia snorts, then turns her ice-blue eyes up to me. For someone whose life just imploded and is literally standing among the fallout, she seems way too calm. But it's there in her eyes—a gathering storm.

"Are you sure you don't mind helping me escape?" Amelia asks, and the way she bites her lip has me thinking things I shouldn't be thinking. Not when she's wearing a wedding dress.

And not when there has to be a whole maelstrom of emotions underneath the surprising calm she's wearing now. I hope by the time the storm comes she has someone with her to walk her through.

I wish it could be me.

Unlikely.

Especially not when she's gone from pressing a champagne bottle to my aching face to looking suspicious when she heard Coach call me by a different name.

At some point, I'll explain why I ran out like a coward that night. But first, we need to get out of here.

Especially before Coach sees her leaving with me. I have a feeling he would not approve. Even if I'm just playing the chauffeur.

I force my gaze back up to her eyes. "I always wanted to be someone's getaway car."

When she hesitates, hazarding a gaze toward the chaos behind us, I take her hand. "Come on. I've got you."