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Along with a rage problem, she’ll probably accuse me of being an alcoholic, too.
Fuck my life.
How the fuck did I get here?
I had one of the best preseasons of my career and had everyone singing my praises just a month ago, but now, withonly a few weeks before the hockey season starts, I’ve become some kind of leper, with no one wanting to come near me for fear of getting caught in the shitstorm that is my life.
Well, not no one.
At least my teammates still have my back.
Jack could have revoked the invitation to attend his baby girl’s christening after the bad press I’ve been getting, but he insisted I’d come.
Not that I didn’t find a way to fuck that up, too.
Shit.
I still can’t believe Piper suggested I see a matchmaker.
A fucking matchmaker.
Which fucking twilight zone episode did I get sucked into anyway, for my sports agent to think the answer to my problems is setting me up with some stranger?
I didn’t even think that matchmaking was a thing anymore.
I mean, I’m not completely ignorant. I know that in some cultures, matchmaking is still very much the norm and considered a proud tradition. But I was born and raised in Brooklyn, for crying out loud. The closest I’ve ever come to seeing any type of matchmaking being done back home was on my phone every time I swiped right.
Not only that, but my family’s traditions aren’t ones I want to keep.
Ordering Chinese food for Christmas dinner—after my father made sure to paint the walls with my mother’s cooking—isn’t exactly the type of family tradition I take pride in.
Nope. Not going there.
Time for another beer.
My feet move before I tell them to, weaving through the throng of people in Jack’s living room to grab a cold one from his kitchen fridge, since there is only hard liquor and champagne out here in the living room. I get some pats on the back along theway, added with a few smiles from my teammates as I pass them by, but I don’t miss how a few of their wives and girlfriends don’t return the friendly sentiment. Their icy stares and scowls spur me to hurry my steps and slip away from the celebratory mob.
When I finally manage to escape the crowd, I quickly run over to the kitchen, thinking it a safe place to hide, only to find Jack’s wife, Erin, preparing more food for the guests. My anxiety shoots up high enough to touch the ceiling, afraid that I’m going to need to find somewhere else to hide since I’ve probably managed to piss her off too.
“Hey there, handsome. You came right on time.” She smiles widely, surprising the fuck out of me with her warm greeting. “Mind stirring the pot on the stove while I get these lobster rolls underway?”
My shoulders instantly relax at how genuine Erin’s smile is, so I jump to do her bidding by picking up the wooden spoon on the marble counter. But like a deer caught in headlights, I just blankly stare at the four pots on her stove, wondering which one I’m supposed to stir.
“It’s the one with the meatballs, hun. Just stir those babies right up for me, will you?” She winks as she continues on with her own task.
I give her a curt nod, eager to do as she says, and begin to slowly stir the large pot of meatballs. The pot is filled to the brim with them, as if Erin intends to feed a small army instead of the fifty-odd guests she and her husband invited back to their home after the christening. With every stir, the rich aroma of the tomato and basil sauce begins to seep through my senses, my stomach instantly grumbling in protest for not having a home-cooked meal in ages.
“You know a liquid dinner isn’t exactly nutritious for growing boys like you. Have you eaten anything today?” Erin asks, not taking her eyes off the rolls.
“Does a microwave burrito for breakfast count?” I chuckle self-deprecatingly.
“Not really, no.” She laughs, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and walking over to me to take a peek into the boiling pot. “Good job, Nate. These babies look done to me. How about you grab a seat, handsome, and I’ll make you a plate.”
“I just came in here to grab a beer. I really don’t want to be any hassle,” I reply, taking two steps back away from the stove.
“You’re family, Nate. Hassling is what family does,” she retorts with a teasing grin.
“No. That’s okay, Erin. Really,” I try to insist.
