“We could skip it,” he suggests, pulling me close despite my protests about wrinkles. “Order pizza, watch a movie...”
His phone chimes with the notification that the car is here. I grab my purse, check my lipstick one more time. The green dress I’m wearing is fancier than anything I’ve worn in years, but Dex’s expression when he first saw me in it made the splurge worth it.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The bar is downtown, the kind of place that requires a reservation and actual dress codes. Security at the door, guestlists, the works. Inside, it’s all dim lighting and expensive liquor, filled with people who look like they stepped out of magazines.
I spot the other hockey wives scattered around—some I know, some I recognize from team photos. They all look comfortable here, like they were born knowing which fork to use and how to make small talk with millionaires.
“Golda!” Elliot appears beside me, looking stunning in red. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d chickened out.”
“He tried to talk me into staying home,” I admit. “But I reminded him you’d hunt us down.”
“Damn right I would. Come on, drinks first. Brody’s got news about that house.”
My stomach flips. We’ve been looking at places in their neighborhood—not seriously, exactly, but keeping our options open. There’s one house that caught my eye. Big backyard, separate wings for the kids, close enough to Elliot and Brody that we could borrow cups of sugar and babysit each other’s hypothetical future children.
“It’s back on the market,” Brody tells us when we reach the bar. “Financing fell through this morning. Listing agent called me directly.”
Dex looks at me, eyebrows raised. “The one with the tree house?”
“And the finished basement,” Brody confirms. “Perfect for a certain volume-challenged kid and her hockey-obsessed brother.”
I take a sip of wine, trying to slow my racing heart. “We’d need to see it again. With the kids this time.”
“Already called. Tomorrow at two?”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” I tell him.
Before I can argue, Roman appears at my elbow, right arm in a sling and scowling like someone stole his favorite stick.
“Don’t,” he warns before anyone can speak. “I’ve heard enough today.”
“About what?” Dex asks innocently. “Your tragic practice injury or the physical therapist who relocated your shoulder while insulting your intelligence?”
“She was unprofessional,” Roman growls.
“She called you an ‘overbuilt, under-brained hockey stereotype with a hero complex,’” Brody recites cheerfully. “Right before she popped your shoulder back into place. In front of the GM. During her job interview.”
“Someone with that attitude shouldn’t be working with athletes,” Roman insists, but there’s something in his voice that doesn’t quite match his words.
“Funny thing,” Brody continues. “Barrett just told me they offered her the job. She starts in two weeks.”
The look that crosses Roman’s face is priceless—part alarm, part something that might be interest if you squint.
“That’s... unfortunate,” he manages.
“For you, maybe,” Elliot laughs. “For the rest of us, it’s going to be entertainment gold. Dr. Marnie Walker, the only person who’s ever made Roman Varga look genuinely rattled.”
“I’m not rattled.”
“Sure you’re not. That’s why your ears are red.”
Roman mutters something in Russian and stalks off toward the bar, protecting his injured shoulder from the crowd.
“That was mean,” I observe, though I’m trying not to smile.
