A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom

Bailey

Though I spent an entire evening with him the night before and woke up with him outside my apartment door, the sight of Eli walking into the shelter has my nerves buzzing like a neon sign. Maybe because the last time he showed up here, it was as Hot Puppy Guy.

Now he’s Hot Agreed to Marry Him Guy. I’m suddenly grateful to Katrina for taking a break at this moment so I’m the one at the desk.

Eli gives me a lopsided grin, shakes his hair off his face in a way that could scream Justin Bieber circa 2011 but instead just looks boyishly adorable, and slides some papers toward me.

“I did my homework,” he says. I don’t miss the way his fingertips drag over mine as I take the stapled pages. “Do I get a gold star?”

“We don’t have gold stars. Only dog treats. Want one for being such a good boy?”

Dog treats, Bailey? REALLY?!?

Those words sounded outrageously more flirtatious—and possibly stupid—than anything I have ever said.

I immediately wish someone would pull me out of the room with one of those giant hooks that seem to always be lying at the ready in cartoons to drag terrible singers off the stage. I would also accept a giant version of the cranes in those rigged machines in arcades. If one dropped into the room right now, I’d grab it and hold on for dear life to be pulled out of this situation.

Eli laughs, looking absolutely delighted with my answer. “I’ve been a very good boy.”

I dip my head to hide my blush, pretending to scrutinize Eli’s application. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. I would have expected a messy scrawl, not neatly masculine block lettering.

Can handwriting be sexy? Skimming the page, I decide that yes, yes, it can.

Already, I see several interesting pieces of information on the form (his middle name is Hagrid?), but I’m not going to read the whole thing in front of him right now. Definitely later. Maybe with a highlighter and a stack of multicolored notecards.

“Our application is only one page.” I frown, running a thumbnail over the three staples in the top left corner before I start turning pages. “Why are there⁠—”

Eli’s big hand curls around mine. He links our fingers together, settling our hands on top of the papers so I can’t look. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but I’m not complaining. I like the way my small hand looks wrapped in his, seeing his neatly trimmed nails next to mine with their chipped pink polish and chewed off ends. I like the warmth and steadiness of him. Maybe a little too much.

“Those pages are for later,” he says. His smile hits me like a sunrise, starting off slightly warm and building until I’m slammed with the full force of it. He gives my fingers a playful squeeze. “And I’ll take a rain check on the dog treat.”

It takes me several seconds to make sense of his statement, which goes back to my earlier question. “Oh. Cool. Um.”

If I thought conversation with Eli would be easy after spending an evening with this man, having him literally carry me in his arms to my front door while I hoped the way I was inhaling his scent wasn’t totally obvious, I was dead wrong.

In truth, I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe if I’d known he was coming in today, I would have done some kind of mental prep work, but I didn’t. Now I’m frustrated with myself for making things weird. First, by my solid C+ attempt at flirting, and then by being unable to string together words with multiple syllables.

This whole marriage thing will have zero chance at believability if I can’t speak to Eli with some degree of normalcy. Maybe it’s like exercise, and I just need some time to warm up my figurative muscles.

Maybe not.

Eli releases my hand and taps the papers. “Is there some kind of approval process? A waiting period before I can start officially volunteering?”

“You can jump the line a bit since I can vouch for your character.”

I mentally give myself a pat on the back for formulating a full sentence that landed somewhere between friendly and flirty. And didn’t mention dog treats.

Eli leans his elbows on the counter, angling forward and batting his eyelashes at me. “You like my character, Leelee?”

That nickname again! I went to sleep remembering how it sounded in his deep voice, amazed by the fact that he thought about giving me a nickname at all.

And the flirting! I used to think Eli flirted because I was in his safe category. But it feels very different now. This doesn’t feel like general friendly flirting. Starting sometime last night, his flirting switched gears. It feels real. Arrow-sharp, aimed right at me with a precise eye and steady hand.

His previous flirting was like child’s play. Junior level. Now, I’m getting his A-game, and he’s playing to win. I can’t even begin to keep up. The number of things that have changed in the last twelve hours is dizzying.

Guess I better get used to all of this. Eli showing up out of the blue. Holding my hand. Nicknames. Flirting with me. Even if it’s for show.

Which it is, right? A show?

The realization immediately pops the bubbles of happiness fizzing up inside me. Then he smiles at me again, sending a whole new wave of effervescence through me.

Oh, who cares why. Eli is here and smiling at me, and I’m going to just bask in it.

No, I decide. Basking is not enough.

I’m going to be like Roscoe, the toothless dog with the nasty attitude who, just today, saw a sunny patch of grass and went for it. He dove and rolled and shimmied on his back, tongue hanging out with the pure enjoyment of the moment.

Only when Roscoe finally got back on his feet and shook off did I realize he’d been rolling on a dead bird. (What is it about dogs wanting to roll on dead things?)

This comparison is officially crowned the very worst of all the analogies I have ever thought up. It might even be the worst in the world, the most horrifically terrible analogy ever imagined.

Still—despite the dead bird and the fact that in this comparison, I’m the toothless dog rolling on it—I want to relish every moment with Eli with that level of enjoyment.

Dog on a dead bird enjoyment.

“Bailey?”

Eli’s voice startles me, and I realize my derailed thought train has left me standing here for an uncomfortable stretch of time. My cheeks burn, but he only looks amused.

I clear my throat. “Officially, you have to go through training. It’s minimal. But I might not have enough time today.”

“So,” Eli starts, a smile lifting one side of his mouth before moving to the other, “I’ll have to come back and see you again, then.”

“You will.”

If possible, Eli’s smile grows wider as he leans even further over the reception counter. If possible, my brain just exploded, leaving only a cloud of pink dust and tiny pieces of heart-shaped glitter.

“Do I get to be trained by you?”

“I usually handle that part, yes.”

“Then I definitely need training,” he says. “Lots of it. And Leelee?”

“Yes?”

If Eli leaned any farther over the reception counter, he’d fall in a heap at my feet. “I am a very slow learner.”

Volunteer training is the last topic I thought could make me twitterpated, but my heart is absolutely doing some twittering and pating. It feels about ready to leap out of my chest and straight into Eli’s arms.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” I tell him.

“I’ll happily prove myself to you.”

The way he says it, voice gravelly and firm, it sounds like a promise for something greater, something I really, really want.

Even though at face value, he’s promising to show me how slow he is at learning.

I shake my head, biting back a smile. “You’re kind of ridiculous. You know that?”

His smile doesn’t dim in the slightest. I think it actually jumps up in kilowatt usage. “Thank you.”

Beth appears from the back, whistling a vaguely familiar song. She’s tone deaf but loves music, so she is always whistling or singing something no one can recognize. Whenever Cyn and I work together, we try to guess the songs. We’re never right.

Beth’s eyes widen when she sees Eli. “Hockey player!” she says, beaming with delight and hustling around the counter to squeeze him so tightly, a little oomph wheezes out of him.

I’m jealous I didn’t think to hug him. And of how tightly she’s holding him and, for the love of Christmas, how long this hug is going on. Is she going for some kind of record?

I also don’t know that I like Beth calling him hockey player. It’s my nickname for him. Which I guess I must have used a lot last night. Now that I’m thinking about it … yeah. I did.

Hey, hockey player—watch your elbows.

Nice gutter ball, hockey player.

Can I steal a French fry, hockey player?

I blush again thinking back over my boldness last night. Who even was the woman who said those things?

Is that what one beer, a birthday, and a late hour does to my confidence—sends it skyward like some kind of rocket? Maybe there’s another version of me. Nighttime Bailey, who wears ugly nightgowns while bowling and flirts shamelessly with a famous hockey player.

Anyway, back to the point at hand—I suppose if I wanted to have a nickname that’s just for my personal use, I should have chosen more creatively. Not the man’s actual profession.

But … I’ve already claimed it. I kind of love calling him hockey player. It’s so obvious and literal that it feels edgy. And in a weird way, like I’m jokingly taking him down a peg somehow. He’s not Eli Hopkins with the bazillions of followers on social media, all of whom seem to assume this weird familiarity with him, like cozying up in his comments gives them some corner of the Eli market.

To me, he’s just hockey player. And though it’s the weirdest arrangement ever, one I’m still very unclear of in terms of details, I can safely say I’ve claimed more than a corner of him.

When we get married—I try to swallow and find my mouth totally dry at this thought—I guess I’ll really claim all of him.

Technically and legally speaking, of course. Not in the other … marriage parts—to quote Eli’s phrasing—ways.

Right? I mean, I’m assuming. But then I look at Eli, still trapped in a Beth hug, and realize we need to sit down and clarify some things.

Although I might opt to send a surrogate. I’m already filled with pre-shame at the idea of talking to Eli about the specifics of what our married life—another attempt to swallow—will entail.

Eli catches my eye over Beth’s white curls, clearly signaling he needs help. I walk around the counter, ready to yank Beth back by the neckline of her scrubs. But she finally lets go and pats his cheek, going from extended bear hug to grandmotherly affection in the span of a few seconds.

“Good to see you again. Hope you had fun last night with Bailey. She seemed a little grumpy this morning.”

I did? Honestly, waking up to find Eli sleeping outside my apartment might have been the best event that’s ever happened to me before eight in the morning. I’m surprised I wasn’t glowing when I came into work.

“Hey,” I protest weakly.

“Kidding,” Beth says, then mouths to Eli, So grumpy.

“I can see your lips moving,” I tell her. “And I wasn’t grumpy. Just tired. I was up late.”

This is the wrong thing to say. That is, if I don’t want Beth to get the wrong idea. Too late! She’s already got the wrong idea. I can tell.

“Mm-hm,” she says. “I’ll just bet you were.”

“Oh!” Eli says suddenly, and I could give him a medal. Best Timing or maybe Best Distraction or Best Non Sequitur. “I have something for you in the car. Be right back!”

He takes off like a shot, the bell above the door almost ripping right off with the force of it. Beth looks me up and down like I’m the tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. Only she’s not trying to read my future, but my very recent past.

“Up late, huh? Do we need to have the talk?”

Beth has to know I know about sex, so I’m not sure what talk she means. I only know I probably want to preempt it at all costs. And now I’m blushing at just the idea of talking about sex with Eli right outside.

“Eli filled out an official volunteer application!”

I practically scream the words and then snatch the stapled pages off the desk, waving them in her face.

“Why is it so long?” Before I can stop her, Beth takes it from me, flipping through to the pages Eli told me to save for later. “Oh,” she says with a chuckle, then presses a hand to her heart. “Oh.”

I don’t know what that means, and I don’t get a chance to ask because Eli bursts back in. This time, the little bell does fly off, coming to land by the fake potted fiddle-leaf fig.

“Oops,” he says.

But I’m distracted by what I can only call a candy monstrosity in his hands. “Is that for me?” I ask.

“What, this?” He holds it out, then pulls it back before I can touch it. “It might be for you,” he says.

I’m still staring, head tilted. Looks like a drinking glass with a whole bunch of candy exploding out of it. “A candy bouquet?”

“Yep.” He’s so unabashedly proud and it makes a ribbon of pure joy roll out like a red carpet inside my chest. “Here.”

I take it from his hands, not missing the way our fingers brush but distracted now by his present. I hold it as carefully as a newborn kitten.

He made it, I realize, seeing the wispy strings of glue hanging off the candy bars like shiny cobwebs. One of them catches on my wrist. Eli made this.

For me.

I will not be a grown woman crying in the lobby of an animal shelter over candy. I will not.

“Don’t look too closely. It was my first time wielding a glue gun.”

“You used a glue gun? For me?”

“First and last time.” He chuckles, then leans forward to tug away a strand of glue, twisting it around his finger. “I stopped by a florist and a gift shop on the way here, but neither had what I wanted. So, I went to Walmart for a vase. They all looked like they were vases from Walmart, so I bought a box of pint glasses instead—the rest are in a box in my car if you want them—and a dozen different kinds of candy bars. I don’t know what you like yet.”

The yet is my favorite part of the whole string of sentences that just flew out of his mouth. But it’s a toss-up because I like them all.

Eli is babbling, the way I sometimes do. Does he realize? It’s really adorable. Beth must think so too because she still has her hand pressed to her sternum, the other clutching his application.

He rocks back on his heels and starts listing things off on his fingers. “Then I got dowel rods and a glue gun from the craft section. An adapter for my car when I realized I was going to have to put this together in the parking lot. My SUV looks like a crime scene. I’m not sure who the victim was—other than my interior—but the weapon was definitely a glue gun.”

I brush my fingers over the candy bars. The basics: 3 Musketeers, Twix, KitKat, Butterfinger, Hershey (regular and special dark), Snickers, and Crunch. And then some out-of-the-box choices: Symphony, Whatchamacallit, and a Bueno.

“My favorite,” I say, tracing my fingers over the last one with a smile. “I love hazelnut.”

“Got it.”

The way he says it makes me think that from now on, Eli is going to buy me every single hazelnut thing he sees. I’ll probably have a hazelnut tree sitting in a pot tomorrow outside my door where I found Eli this morning. Do hazelnuts even grow on trees?

I hug the glass to my chest, still hoping I don’t embarrass myself and ruin the moment by becoming a weepy mess. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Hey.” Eli frowns, his eyes bouncing across my face. “It’s just some candy. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I say fiercely. “I love it.”

Eli reaches out and gently loosens my fingers from around the pint glass. “Don’t break the glass, Leelee. I don’t want to have to take you in for stitches.”

I don’t love the idea of breaking the most favorite thing I’ve ever been given. But the idea of Eli taking me to the hospital does something to me. Since my parents died, I’ve had trouble with forms. Specifically, the emergency contact part. Shannon is my best friend, and so she’s the one I pick, but she also has a big family, and she’s probably the name on twenty other forms. And has twenty people to put on hers.

I don’t have a person, as Meredith Gray and Christina Yang called it.

And why do forms have so many blanks for emergency contacts? Do other people really have that many people for their list? I just want one.

“I have something else for you,” he says, and I have a ridiculous desire to tell him he needs to stop. It’s too much. But maybe I’m feeling greedy today because I say nothing. “It’s digital.”

Suddenly, Eli looks nervous, shifting his weight and giving me a sheepish smile. “Are you free the night after tomorrow?”

I don’t want to confess I’m almost always free. “I think so.”

“Good. I have tickets for my next game. Enough for your friends to come,” he adds quickly, like he expects me to say no.

Beth makes a little squeak, and both of our heads whip her way. Clearly, I’m not the only one who forgot she was there.

“Ignore me,” she says, and I swear, she’s crying, fat tears falling on his application. “Go on! Pretend I’m not here again.”

“Good tickets,” he says. “And I have a jersey for you. Can’t have you showing up in scrubs.”

“Hey! What’s wrong with my scrubs?”

Eli gives me an assessing look that I swear is like a laser heating through me. Never mind that over my baggy blue scrubs I have on a too-big zippered hoodie.

“Not a thing. You look adorable in scrubs. But if you’re coming to an Appies game, you need Appies gear.”

“But whose name will be on the back of my jersey?” His face darkens, and it only makes me push more. “Maybe Van? He’s a fun guy.”

Eli’s heated look turns molten, and he shakes his head slowly. “Mine,” he says firmly, his low voice wrapping like a fist around my heart. “You can only wear my name.”