28. The Wet Blanket Kind

28

THE WET BLANKET KIND

Maeve

Asher flies down the ice, hellbent on chasing the puck on Monday night, flipping it back and forth with Wesley and my heart slams against my rib cage.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I shout, urging him to score. “Get it, Asher!”

I rise to my feet.

When Asher winds up the stick and slams the puck past the goalie, I go wild, arms in the air. “That’s how you do it!”

Asher and Wesley skate past the bench for fist bumps—or glove bumps, really—then glide past me. I’m behind the glass a few rows back, wearing my one-week anniversary gift—a Number Twenty-Nine jersey. He locks eyes with me and blows me a kiss.

In front of the entire rink. I catch it. It’s part of our game—the public kissing game. But still, I feel giddy, even when he hops over the boards for the line change, and I sit down next to my aunt.

She’s a hockey fan, but not the way I am. She’s pragmatic to the core. “The game’s not over yet,” she warns me.

Yup. Like I said. She’s the worst kind of fan. The wet blanket kind.

“I’m still happy they scored.” I won’t let her, or any other fans, get me down—like the women holding up signs offering to be Asher’s second wife even though I’m right here.

But I’m the only one who made him come in his pants, so really, I think I’m winning the wife wars.

When the team goes on to win the game a little later, “Tick Tick Boom” blasting through the arena, I grin at Vivian. “See? My optimism paid off.”

She shakes her head. “I can never cheer till it’s over.”

And that makes me a little sad for her.

Asher, Vivian, and I grab a post-game bite at a bar next to the arena. Asher keeps a close watch on the time. He needs to catch the bus with the team in half an hour, heading out to the Sea Dogs jet for a long road trip.

He orders a chicken sandwich, Vivian picks a burger, and I opt for a tofu scramble.

“You need more protein,” Aunt Vivian says, tutting after I order.

“Tofu literally is protein.”

She hums doubtfully. “Still, it’s a good idea to have more,” she says, her gaze drifting down my torso.

That’s odd.

She shifts quickly, flashing a smile at both of us. “So, dinner is on me. A celebration. Now that you’re building a family.”

Asher wheezes. “Excuse me?”

I blanch, then raise my hand in protest. “Nobody said anything about building a family.”

Vivian shoots me a look that says, Don’t be ungrateful. Then her eyes soften as she glances briefly at her own belly. “Well, you should try…before it’s too late.”

Children? That’s not even remotely on my radar right now—or ever, honestly. There are too many things I still want to do.

“Don’t you think, Asher?” she asks, turning to my husband.

His face is ashen. He parts his lips. But nothing comes out. I don’t blame him.

“Vivian, we’re not trying to have kids,” I say.

“But you probably will. Someday.” Determined, she turns to Asher and peppers him with questions about his career, his health, his injury status, his contract status, his standing with the team, and a million other things.

It’s exhausting, and after thirty minutes, I feel like we’ve lived a thousand years.

He checks his watch and gives an apologetic smile. “I have to go. But thank you so much for dinner, Vivian.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure,” she says.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her and walk him to the door of the bar. I step closer to him, so only he can hear. “Sorry about that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. She just wants to know someone can take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” I say.

“I know, but maybe she doesn’t know you like I do,” he says, then drops a quick, firm kiss on my lips .

A kiss that I feel in my toes.

When he breaks it, my heart aches a little bit, then a little more when he says, “I guess we made it through our three performances. ”

“I guess we did,” I say, a little wistful. I enjoyed them, stumbles, fumbles, and all. Perhaps there’s even a part of me that hopes for more.

But isn’t that like me? Always wanting more. Enough is never enough. I hold on to everything too tightly, so before I do that to Asher, I smile brightly and wave goodbye.

“Bye, wife,” he says softly, and I feel that in my knees. They’re a little weak.

He heads down the block, then turns the corner, out of sight and on his way to a plane that’ll take him across the country.

I sigh, feeling the pang of missing him already.

I run my finger along my bottom lip, remembering that kiss. Then, as I return to the table, I remember the kiss from earlier last week.

The one he’d hoped Eleanor would see. Well, I can make sure she does.

The next day, while working with Eleanor in her office at the arena, I show her some sketches on my phone—which happens to be open to that kissing photo from last week. Her eyes widen. “Great picture,” she says.

“Isn’t it?” I say with a happy, newlywed sigh. “Sometimes, he can’t keep his hands off me.”

“Well, that’s clear,” she says with a conspiratorial smile .

She waters the seed I planted, reposting the photo that afternoon with the caption: For every repost, I’ll donate one dollar to any one of these three charities our team supports.

Then she lists a food bank, an animal rescue, and the Friends of the Library Association. When I tell Asher about it that evening, he says, “I’ve always said you were a good luck charm.”

Or maybe I just wanted to give him what he wanted.