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“It’s Cami!”
Shit. Now she was pissed. I picked up the pace, making it to the front door and getting my hand on the handle before I felt the thunk of something hitting my back. A black shoe with a high heel landed on the ground next to me.
“Asshole!” Cami cried. “Get out of here.”
“I’m trying, but”
The fucking dead bolt wouldn’t open. I pushed and pushed, but nothing. Briefly, aMisery-situation with a woman who wanted me to marry her to avoid being maimed flashed through my mind. I had to stop falling asleep like this.
“It sticks,” Cami said with a huff, pushing me out of the way.
She pushed on the door with her shoulder and slid the dead bolt open. I opened the door and darted out without another word, keeping my head down.
“I don’t even like hockey!” Cami yelled at my back. “Real men play football!”
That was a low blow, but I still didn’t engage. I had to get my ass home and get ready for Coach’s daughter’s wedding. I couldn’t risk inviting his ire by being late.
* * *
An hour later,I was shaved, showered, and dressed in a charcoal suit paired with a light blue dress shirt and a navy tie, turning into the parking lot of the church in Ladue, a St. Louis suburb where the wedding was being held.
Hopefully this wedding would be short and sweet and we wouldn’t get stuck waiting hours for the wedding party to take photos before we could eat. I was ravenous—borderline hangry.
With so many teammates getting married the past couple of years, I had the wedding routine down. Show up, smile, eat, dance, possibly hook up with a bridesmaid. And don’t cheap out on the gift.
Jolie Gizzard’s parents had plenty of money—Coach Gizzard was very well paid—so I’d gone with a gift of $500, which was what most of the other guys on the team were giving. I had a stack of wedding cards in a drawer at home so I never had to run around at the last minute picking one up. Totally my assistant’s idea. I never thought about that stuff.
The parking lot was packed and I didn’t see anyone walking from their car into the church.
Shit. I was late. I had to find a spot quickly and get inside.
I was circling the lot a second time when the sight of a woman running toward me made me slow down. Was that…?
Oh hell.Fuckinghell. It was Jolie Gizzard, the bride. I’d only met her a couple of times at team events when she was with Coach, but I recognized her bright red hair immediately. Also, she was likely the only woman here wearing a wedding dress.
Why was she running toward my car, though? I slowed to a stop and looked in my rearview mirror to see if maybe she was running toward something behind me. There was nothing, though.
I rolled down my passenger window and leaned over as she arrived at my car, breathless. She tried the door handle and found it locked, her eyes widening in panic.
“Open it, Boone!” she said.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s no time! Open the fucking door!”
She was frantic, the tears streaming down her face tinged with black eye makeup. Christ, this could only be one thing—a runaway bride situation. And I was sure as hell not going to be seen driving away from this church with Gizzard’s daughter in my car. I needed a trade to Nashville, so staying on my coach’s good side was imperative.
“Calm down,” I said, putting a palm up.
Jolie narrowed her eyes at me. “Youcalm down, asshole. I said open this door. Open it right now!”
She kept pulling on the handle of my Range Rover, which was making me feel as panicked as she looked. My car was my most prized possession. After saving nearly every cent I made my first four years in the NHL in case I got injured and couldn’t play anymore, I’d splurged on this car.
“Hey, let up on the handle,” I said.
“Then open it!”
Jolie was usually mild-mannered, smiling and making small talk about hockey. I’d never seen her like this.
