Page 1 of Slapshot Bride

1

EASTON

Runaway Bride

The light’s been red for ninety seconds.

I know because I’ve been counting. Practice ended an hour ago. My hip flexors are screaming, my lower back has that specific knot it gets when Coach Brennan runs the breakout drill four times in a row like he’s punishing us personally for something one of us did in a past life, and I have nowhere to be except a quiet house in the hills that I bought because the realtor said it had good bones and I was too tired to argue.

I’m counting because if I don’t count, I’ll think. And I’ve been doing a real good job not thinking lately.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I don’t look. I know who it is. I’ve been ignoring her for three days now, which is either a new low or a new high, depending on how you measure these things.

For a moment, I could swear I’m in a sleep daze when the passenger door flies open.

A woman throws herself into my car.

In a wedding dress.

“Drive,” she says.

I don't drive.

I stare. Because there is a bride in my passenger seat. An entire bride. Tulle exploding across my center console, a veil half-attached to her head like it lost a fight with the wind, mascara smudged in a way that suggests either crying or sprinting or both. Her chest is heaving. There’s a sprig of something—baby’s breath?—caught in her hair. One of her heels is missing, and she’s holding the other, the pointy 5-inch weapon pointing at me.

She’s also, I notice in the small functional part of my brain that hasn’t short-circuited, very pretty.

“Drive,” she repeats, slamming the door behind her. “Please. The light’s about to—”

The light turns green.

The car behind me lays on the horn.

“— change,” she finishes weakly. “Cool. Okay. So. Hi.”

“Hi to you too,” I say.

“I’m going to need you to drive the car now.”

“Why?” My eyes lock on her green ones. She looks back, brows furrowed, panic settling on her features.

I take a minute to drink her in. She looks a mess. A hot mess. The train on her dress is tangled, the white now browning in some places, and her auburn hair, although still pinned, a few strays are out and about. A light sheen of sweat is on her temple. My eyes track the rest to her neck and chest. Her breathing is frantic. Her gaze returns to mine, pleading.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere will work. I just…” She glances back again, her fingers on the door. “I just need to get away.”

The horn behind me intensifies. I glance in the rearview at a man in a Tesla who looks like he’s seconds from having a stroke about it.

I look back at the bride. She’s gripping the door handle like she’s considering jumping out at the next light if I don’t comply. Her knuckles are white.

I press the gas, and we move.

For about half a block, neither of us says anything. I’m waiting. She’s catching her breath, which gives me a chance to actually look at her, the way I’d assess a player coming off a hit. Pupils normal. No visible injuries. Just adrenaline and what I’m now fairly sure is fear underneath the attitude.

The attitude is doing most of the talking, though.

“Okay,” she says, smoothing tulle down from where it’s encroached on the gearshift. “First of all, thank you. Second of all, I'm so sorry. Third of all, wait… that’s not correct,” she frowns. “Scratch that.” She heaves. “I promise I’m not a criminal. Fourthly, do you have water?”