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“You’re one of my best friends.” Troy’s voice becomes surer as he gains confidence. “You’ve always been there for me, no matter what I needed or when I needed it. If I could choose my own brother, I would have chosen you. So, yeah, you’re my best man. If you want to be.”
“Of course, I want to be.” Corwin tells him, voice cracking slightly. When he steps toward Troy and pulls him into a hug, Troy presses his face into his shoulder and holds on.
“Thank you.” Corwin mutters, running a hand down the back of Troy’s untamed hair.
“You’re invited, too.” Voice muffled by Corwin’s shoulder, Troy kicks a leg out and nudges my foot with his. He can’t see my face, but I smile at him anyway, charmed.
Sam and Lawson head our direction, Sam smiling so wide it looks like his face might split in two. Troy releases Corwin, only for Sam to take his place. I go to stand next to Lawson, who leans his shoulder into mine.
“He was never a hugger before you came along.” He mumbles over the lip of his beer bottle. I send him a knowing look, thinking of our earlier conversation. He raises his voice, including the others. “So, Cor is best man and I’m the officiant. Saint can be the flower girl.”
“You are not marrying us.” Troy tells him.
“Sam said I could.” Lawson waves his beer bottle at the grill, where he and Sam had been chatting earlier.
“Samuel.” Troy looks at his fiancé beseechingly, who laughs and kisses him.
Later—much later—I step inside the house after setting the backyard to rights and lock the door behind me. Corwin is in the kitchen, bent over at the waist and trying to make room for all the leftovers in the refrigerator. Hearing me come in, he calls out.
“We should have sent more food home with Lawson.”
“You made enough to feed a small army.” I peek over the refrigerator door. “Or enough to feed a hockey team, rather.”
Sighing, he straightens and closes the door. I look around at the immaculate kitchen, making sure there isn’t anything else I need to help him with. The clock on the oven reads 11:48, and I’m tired enough to sleep for days. Sliding my hand into his, I press our palms together and tug him around to face me. He smiles like he’s expecting me to pull him in for a kiss, instead of deliver bad news, which is what I’m going to be doing.
“My agent called, earlier.” I jump in, without preamble. I need to get the words out quickly—like ripping off the Band-Aid. “I didn’t get an extension for South Carolina, but L.A. did offer me a contract.”
Corwin’s hand tightens on mine, and his face falls. There is an unmistakably desolate look in his eyes when they meet mine. “I’d been afraid of that, when we hadn’t heard anything before playoffs.”
“Yeah.” I whisper. Needing the contact, I reach out with my free hand and run my fingertips over the crown of his ear, as though tucking the hair behind it.
“Is it a good contract?” He asks, about L.A.
“I don’t know, I didn’t read it.” I shrug, repeating the previous motion before resting my hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to sign with L.A.”
“Were there multiple offers?”
“I asked him to focus on the East Coast, but apparently L.A. was the only taker.” Corwin’s brow furrows in confusion. It’s adorable; in fact, every expression he makes beyond the usual vacancy is adorable.
“So, youaresigning with L.A.” He clarifies.
I let go of his hand, running it up his arm until I’m cupping his face. When I trace my thumbs over his jaw there is a hint of stubble. “No, I’m not going to sign with L.A. I’m going to retire.”
He jolts, eyes widening in surprise. His hands come up to grip my forearms. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m going to retire.” I repeat. Every time I say the words they sound more right. I love hockey, and I’ve loved playing. But professional sports are fickle, and my time is running out. I want to end things on my own terms, after playing my final season with this team.
“Nigel.” Corwin sounds panicked. “You can’t retire. You’re not old enough to retire.”
“I just turned thirty-five.”
“Exactly! Do you have the contract for L.A.? Let me look at it.”
“Chéri, I do not want to move to California. I do not want to live anywhere that isn’t here, with you.” He’s staring at me, hard, and I can practically feel his mind spinning as he tries to come up with something to say. “Do youwantme to go?”
“Well, I don’t want you to retire!” He tries to turn his head, but is prevented by my hands on his face. I rub a thumb soothingly over his cheekbone.
“Forget about retirement, and the NHL, and our careers for a moment. If none of those things were a factor, would you still tell me to go?”
