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

Eli

I know I can’t be the only guy who dreamed about his wedding as a kid.

It’s not like I went so far as to try on tuxes the way girls might try on dresses. I’m not even sure where my concept of weddings came from—cartoons, maybe?—but for me, this involved setting up the guests, who were primarily stuffed animals and action figures. Sometimes a few tanks or race cars. The officiant was an oversized nutcracker Mom kept out year-round on the kitchen counter. For a long time, I thought it watched over the kitchen, particularly the sweets I tried to sneak out of the pantry.

The main part of this pretend wedding for me was the wife. Who I decided was too important to be played by any of my stuffed animals or things we had around the house. My wife was always invisible—an imaginary, backlit blur of white. I didn’t picture hair color or eye color or any clearly defined features. My pretend wife was the kind of vision you’d see if you were squinting with water in your eyes.

Now, that blurry vision moves into startlingly clear reality as Bailey steps out of a curtained dressing room.

I don’t mean to gasp. Hopefully only Mom heard me.

Forget it. I don’t care who heard me. Or who sees me stumbling to my feet as Bailey hesitantly takes a few steps toward me, her smile soft and slow like a whispered secret.

“Wow,” I breathe. “You look …”

Words fly behind my eyes like the numbers on a stock ticker, too fast for them to make their way from brain to mouth. I’ll be honest—I don’t even see the dress.

A giggle bubbles out of Bailey, and her eyes shift to the floor. “I look ridiculous.”

“No.” The word fires from my mouth, a single machine gun round.

Bailey stops just in front of me. Close enough to touch, but I have my hands closed into tight fists and can’t seem to loosen them.

Would Bailey want me touching her anyway? What’s the protocol here? Is she even big on physical touch like I am? The list of things I don’t know about my fiancée is growing like some endless scroll. I wish I had more of a sense of what she wants from me.

I wish I knew more clearly what I want from her. From us.

But seeing Bailey in a wedding dress …

It’s like all those childhood moments of playing pretend are finding their culmination here. Even though this isn’t the actual wedding but a bridal store. And even if the actual wedding won’t be the normal, actual wedding. Even if we’re saying vows and Bailey is wearing a dress.

For the first time, I actually look at the dress. Then frown. Then realize I’m frowning and attempt to smooth out my expression.

“Oh. It’s …” I trail off, trying to decide how to describe what Bailey’s wearing. Which is very … “Fluffy. Like a down comforter.”

I hear a snort from behind me and am not sure if it came from Mom or one of Bailey’s friends. Bailey bites her lip, but she’s holding back a smile.

“Not that it’s a bad thing! Comforters are great! Soft and puffy and you just kind of want to snuggle up in bed with them⁠—”

The snorts become full-on guffaws. Sweat prickles along my hairline and the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

When Bailey touches my arm, my mouth clamps shut. Even through the fabric of my shirt, the brush of her fingertips has an immediate impact. I stand up straighter and my shoulders pull back. I feel like even the little hairs on my arms are standing at attention.

“It’s okay, hockey player.” Bailey’s smile is easy and genuine. “I knew what you meant. And it does look like a comforter.”

She looks down, then presses both hands into the skirt of the dress. They disappear inside the fabric. She giggles. “I wonder how many things I could hide in here? Probably a lot. So, that’s a plus. Like a Mary Poppins dress.”

“But do you like it?” Mom asks, and Bailey glances up, still smiling.

“No,” Bailey all but whispers, like we’re holding this conversation in a library or inside of a church. “I really don’t like any of them.”

“This is an improvement over the bird of Frankenstein dress,” Shannon says, circling Bailey and giving the puff of white on her shoulder a little pet, like it’s a dog.

I raise my brows. “A bird of Frankenstein dress?”

“You don’t want to know,” Bailey says. “Just picture a dress this terrible but … feathery.”

“Um.”

I rock back on my heels, suddenly feeling unsure what to say or do next. The thing is—I don’t care about the dress. I mean, this one is definitely a little odd. But when Bailey walked out, I wasn’t paying any attention to the dress. The mere idea of Bailey wearing a wedding dress to marry me, thinking of Bailey walking toward me down an aisle just like all my stuffed animal scenarios—that’s all I care about.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bailey says quietly, her eyes flicking past me to my mom, then back to me, color rising in her cheeks. “It’s just a dress.”

Maybe. And I know what Bailey’s not saying since my mom is here: it’s just a fake wedding. Or, since the paperwork will be real, a marriage on paper.

I suddenly find myself wanting to pull Bailey aside, to ask her if she wants it to be just that. Or if maybe it could mean something more. If this could be something real. I know she was the one who said she wanted to keep kissing … but that doesn’t tell me everything I want to know. It’s not an answer to a question. More like a clue on a scavenger hunt. And I’m not sure exactly where it’s leading or how to decipher it.

But I won’t put her on the spot like that. At least not with my mom in earshot or even her friends, who I know know. More because I don’t want to put Bailey on the spot. To risk her face looking stricken as she finds a kind way to let me down easy and tell me it’s just about the money or just about helping me.

About anything but ME.

Even so, even if it’s just on paper, it’s a wedding. And she should have exactly what she wants.

“It does matter,” I say fiercely. Maybe more fiercely than I intended because Bailey flinches, then smiles again. The placating kind.

“We don’t have a lot of options,” she says. “Just with, you know, the time frame.”

“Elvis.”

I turn when Mom says my name—or rather my not name—and she’s scooting forward in her chair. Immediately, I walk over and pick her up. I know she could stand. She can walk. But I also am adept at reading her pain levels and can recognize when the pain is bad. When she’d rather I carry her, even if she won’t ask. Today is one of those days. Even after the chiropractor and massage therapy.

I walk her over to Bailey, trying not to notice how Mom feels lighter in my arms, like she’s lost more weight. Is she okay? Have I been so busy and preoccupied with my own issues that I’ve missed what’s going on with her?

“I know we don’t know each other well,” Mom says to Bailey. “Permission to speak freely?”

Smiling, Bailey nods.

“You’d make a gorgeous bride if we wrapped you up in white kitchen trash bags and used cheesecloth as a veil. But a wedding dress is about how you feel in it. And I don’t get the sense that you feel good in this one. Is that a fair assessment?”

“Pretty much. But I don’t want to be picky or ungrateful, and I’m on a budget. If we had more time⁠—”

Bailey stops herself, and I know she realizes she’s stepping onto the thin ice of our lie. Because the reasons we’ve given everyone for rushing this wedding—the upcoming Appies tour, the fact that we just know, and also, no, Bailey’s not pregnant—wouldn’t hold if anyone put their full weight on them. They’d crack right through.

Thankfully, my mom doesn’t focus on the time aspect of it.

“Please don’t try to tell me it doesn’t matter or that it’s picky to want the right wedding dress.” Mom pauses and purses her lips. “I have an idea,” she says, and a tiny stab of worry goes through me at those words.

When Mom says those words—and also when my sister says them—there is usually a very risky thought on the other side. Knowing Bailey, she won’t be able to say no.

“How would you feel,” Mom asks slowly as Bailey’s hands disappear again into the poufy fabric of the dress, “if money weren’t an issue and if you could have the dress of your dreams?”

I’m not sure where Mom is going with this, but I’d gladly pay anything for Bailey to have a wedding dress she loves. One which doesn’t look like a bird or a duvet.

I mean, unless that’s what she wants.

“I would love that,” Bailey says. “But⁠—”

Mom waves a hand, and for a moment I worry she’s actually going to cover Bailey’s mouth. Instead, she plucks Bailey’s hand from the depths of the dress and gives her hand a squeeze.

“Do you trust me?”

I see the struggle on Bailey’s face. She seems to be a people pleaser, much like I can be. People pleasers get a bad rap, but unless pleasing others comes at your own expense or you’re unable to ever say no, it’s a great characteristic. One of the things that draws me to Bailey, actually.

Her burnished honey eyes meet mine, as though looking for permission. I nod. Whatever idea this is might be a little out there, but I have no doubt that whatever my mom has cooked up will be amazing.

I can see the moment Bailey decides to say yes. It’s in the way her eyes soften, the tentative smile, the way she clutches tighter at Mom’s hand.

There’s something about my mom and Bailey, hand-in-hand, that just about does me in. I clear my throat, glancing away, only to find myself looking at a set of angled mirrors showing a reflection of us a thousand times.

“I do.”

Laughing, Mom gives Bailey’s hand a little shake. “Save that talk for your wedding day. Now, I can’t make promises, but why don’t you get out of that Bed Bath and Beyond monstrosity while I make a phone call.”

Half an hour later, we’re pulling up in front of an A-frame house tucked away in the hills west of Asheville. Shannon and Jenny apologetically bowed out because Mom couldn’t give a solid time estimate for this mystery outing. I have no clue, other than the address she plugged into my GPS.

Bailey insisted on taking the back seat to give Mom the more comfortable front. I’m starting to see a pattern here. Though I admire it, I want, with as much force, to protect Bailey, to be the one to make sure she’s getting what she needs.

But saying yes to whatever dress thing my mom concocted isn’t a terrible thing, so for now, I won’t step in and try to make sure Bailey is prioritizing herself enough.

More than once on the winding drive, other drivers honked at me because I got distracted looking at Bailey in the rearview mirror. I’m grateful when the GPS—which Mom reprogrammed to sound like a sexy bloke, her words—directs me to pull into a circular gravel drive. I park behind an ancient Toyota truck with half the letters scraped off so the tailgate simply reads Toy.

Dashing around to the passenger side, I open Bailey’s door before scooping Mom up in my arms.

“Whose house is this?” I ask, looking up at the house.

“A friend,” Mom says sagely, sounding like a fortune teller looking into her crystal ball, a black cat twining around her ankles.

“Is it someone from book club?” Bailey asks.

I wonder if her shyness extends to meeting new people in smaller groups. I’ll have to tack this onto the ever-growing question list. Maybe I need to take a page out of Alec’s book and make a spreadsheet, maybe two: Things I know about Bailey. Things I want to know.

“Nope.”

I don’t like the smug note in Mom’s voice. Forget a fortune teller. She’s like the fortune teller’s cat who just ate the cream and the canary.

“Cute house,” Bailey says as we climb the front steps. “Almost looks like a Swiss chalet.”

“Just needs snow on the roof, some flower boxes, and a herd of mountain goats,” Mom agrees. Bailey still looks unsure, hanging back a little until I move so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. I wish both of my arms weren’t needed to hold Mom so I could take Bailey’s hand. She looks like she needs a little dose of solidarity about now.

Though she didn’t seem happy at the bridal store, we showed up, derailed her whole plan to try on dresses with her best friends, and now are at some stranger’s house for reasons Mom won’t say but hopefully have something to do with finding Bailey a dress she doesn’t hate.

Mom presses the bell, and what sounds like a miniature dog chorus starts up inside the house. Shrill barks. A lot of them. It gets louder before the door swings open, revealing a woman who, even in bare feet, is taller than me. She’s wearing black joggers topped with a silk kimono-style robe, her multicolored braids twirled in what almost looks like a crown on her head. Her height is surprising and maybe a little intimidating, but her smile is wide and welcoming. She also looks familiar, but I’d remember if we’d met.

The dogs, all ankle-biters—some actually nipping at my ankles—spill across the porch, a blur of brown and white and gray and black.

“Maggie,” the woman says, reaching out to give Mom’s hand a soft squeeze. “I’m so glad you thought to call.”

“I’m so glad you had time for us. Zella, this is my son, Eli, and his fiancée, the beautiful—though she’ll blush and deny it—Bailey.”

Bailey absolutely blushes, the color deepening when her gaze snags on mine. Someone should really name a crayon or a paint color after the exact shade of pink in her cheeks. I’m not a huge pink fan, but I could see painting whole rooms in this color.

“Lovely to meet you, beautiful Bailey.” Zella clasps Bailey’s hand, the sleeves of her kimono falling down her arms, revealing tattoos of vines curling up her forearms.

For a moment, Bailey seems unable to speak, and the color in her cheeks deepens. Maybe I need a whole swatch of paint colors or a whole box of crayons inspired by Bailey’s blushes. From the first pale kiss of pink to the deep sunset red now.

Pink might be my new favorite color.

“Don’t be strangers.” Zella steps back and opens the door wide. “You! Dogs! Inside!”

The dogs immediately obey, and I almost trip over two of them as I make my way inside. I count at least ten, but with them moving, it’s hard to know if that’s on the low side, or if I accidentally counted some of them twice.

Inside, the house’s high ceiling, walls, and floors are all the same dark wood. Despite that, it’s filled with light, the whole back wall composed of windows. The large open room is part living room with two mismatching couches facing each other, a coffee table made of a turquoise door between them.

The other part looks to be a seamstress’s studio. Not that I’ve been in one before. But with a large table covered in swatches of fabric, a few headless dress forms draped in rich purples and greens, and two different sewing machines, it’s a safe bet. Off to either side of the main room are doorways, a closed one likely leading to bedrooms and an open one giving a view of an ultra-modern kitchen that’s all white and doesn’t match this main room at all.

Reminds me of Zella herself, with the flowy robe on top and athletic pants on the bottom.

“Make yourselves at home,” Zella says, urging us toward the couches. “I have tea.”

There’s an intricately carved wooden tray at the center of the table with mugs and a large ceramic teapot, steaming. I settle Mom on a couch next to Zella. The dogs snake around our ankles like cats, and Bailey looks like she’s trying to pet them all.

I take a seat next to Bailey on the couch, leaving almost a cushion between us without thinking. But a fiancé wouldn’t leave a cushion of space. Heck, I wouldn’t leave a small throw pillow between me and a real fiancée. And I absolutely don’t want space between Bailey and me. I scoot over until I’m practically in her lap, then take her hand, lacing our fingers together. That’s what a fiancé would do.

Actually, I’d do more. But maybe not with Mom and Zella in the room. This is a start.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” Bailey says. “I mean, I’m a huge fan. I watched your whole season, and you totally should have won.”

“Won what?” I ask, and Zella laughs when Mom tosses a pillow at me. I catch it in my free hand—no way am I letting go of Bailey—and set it next to me.

“Oh, my sweet son,” Mom says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t watch Sew Strange.”

“Is this related to Dr. Strange?” I ask, knowing full well it probably isn’t.

Zella laughs, Mom groans, and Bailey leans close, saying, “Sew Strange is a design competition. Zella was the runner-up two seasons ago.”

“Sorry, Zella,” I say. “I don’t follow fashion.”

“I don’t follow hockey. We’ll call it even.” She winks.

“You and Bailey both,” I grumble. “Though I’m working on Bailey.” I give her fingers a squeeze. Because I CAN.

“Hey!” Bailey protests, nudging me with her elbow. “Now that I know you play hockey, I’m happy to support you.”

And she has. The last two nights, she was there in the stands beside Mom. Wearing my jersey. Red-faced from shouting every time I glanced up, which was often.

Me? I’ve never played better.

“You didn’t know he played hockey when you met?” Zella leans forward, sliding steaming mugs our way. I’m not a tea kind of guy, but it doesn’t smell half-bad. Like cinnamon and some other spices I can’t name.

Bailey shakes her head. “No idea. I’m probably the only one in town who didn’t know and didn’t follow him on TikTok.”

“Didn’t?” I ask, grinning. “As in, you do now?”

Bailey bites her lip, but it doesn’t hide her smile. “Maybe.”

The idea of Bailey watching my TikToks makes me ridiculously happy. It also makes me want to do a whole new series. Shirtless, maybe.

“You two are adorable,” Zella says, lifting the mug of tea to her lips with a smile. “Now, Bailey—how can I help? What I hear is that you need a wedding dress—and fast.” Before Bailey can protest, and it’s clear she’s about to, Zella holds up a hand. “And before we get started, please know that we’re friends here. Friends don’t talk about money, and they don’t apologize. Understand?”

It’s more of a challenge than a question, but Bailey shifts next to me, and I can feel the tension radiating from her, through her hand. I squeeze her fingers and offer her a reassuring smile.

“I—yes. But—” she starts.

“Also no buts,” Zella says. “That’s rule three. Here’s how this will work. You’re going to tell me what you want, and I’m going to make you a dress. As for payment, Maggie and I have an arrangement, so it will not even be discussed. Is this clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bailey says.

Zella levels her with a teasing glare. “But if you call me ma’am again, I’ll rescind this offer and the payment will be walking all my monsters once a day for a month.”

“Yes … Zella.”

“How’s Annie, by the way?” Zella asks, taking a sip of tea.

Mom beams. “You know Annie. Bouncing around, living a loud, philosophically nomadic life.”

“Philosophically nomadic?” Bailey asks.

“It means my sister changes jobs, apartments, and boyfriends every few months. She never lands anywhere long,” I explain.

“But she does always land on her feet,” Mom adds. “She’s coming for the wedding. But, of course, I don’t know when.”

This is news to me. But then, maybe it wouldn’t be if I’d called my sister back. Her flurry of texts and voice messages slowed to a slow drip and then stopped altogether. Which means she’s probably gearing up for something.

A surprise trip down for the wedding, sounds like. Just when we least expect her—a very Annie move. I’ll be looking for her behind every door. I should probably check under my bed tonight.

“I’ll get to meet her?” Bailey asks, sounding excited and also a little like she might throw up.

I squeeze her fingers. “She’ll love you. Probably overwhelm you a little too.”

She looks unsure, and I’d bet it’s because Annie will be one more important person Bailey has to lie to. I get it. This is the same reason I’ve avoided my sister for almost a week.

“Hey,” I say softly, hoping Mom and Zella don’t hear over their own conversation, which has carried on without us. “We’ll be fine. Okay?”

Bailey nods, still a little hesitantly. I’d love to have a few minutes alone with her, to maybe kiss some confidence back into her.

Or is that just because I want to kiss her again? Either way. Both.

Leaning closer, Bailey lowers her voice. “This all feels like so much. Like, the lie is snowballing. Meeting your sister. And getting a free designer wedding gown?” She shakes her head, and her hair brushes against my arm.

I glide my fingers along the lock of her hair, giving it a little tug as I smile. “Hey. I get it. I do. But it’s okay to enjoy it,” I tell her, even as I’m telling myself the same thing. “You’re making Mom happy. Zella too. Annie will be so thrilled she’ll probably steamroll you into getting matching tattoos or something.”

“And you?” Bailey asks, looking down at our clasped hands. “Are you happy?”

More than I feel ready to admit. “Yes, Leelee. I’m happy.”

An understatement, really.

Zella claps her hands, making us both jump a little. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for in a wedding gown? Actually, let’s get hands-on. Come over here and let’s talk fabrics.”

Still looking like she has half a mind to run away or apologize or call Zella ma’am again, Bailey stands. I don’t let go of her right away, playfully tugging on her fingers before releasing them slowly, letting my fingertips drag lightly over her palm. She looks back at me once, and I wink, flashing her a smile. Ducking her head, she follows Zella to the large table by the back windows.

I can’t stop watching Bailey. The way her brown hair glints gold in the sun streaming through the windows. The way she leans down to pet the white fluffy dog actively trying to climb her leg, while still not missing what Zella is saying. Every movement feels somehow beautiful or significant, carrying more weight than it deserves.

“I love seeing you like this.” Mom stares smugly at me over the rim of her mug.

I stretch out, sliding my legs down until my feet are right next to Mom’s. Tapping her foot with mine, I raise my brows. “Seeing me like what?”

“In love,” she says.

In love.

Two little words. One big lie.

Isn’t it? Love for sure is a stretch, though my feelings for Bailey just keep growing. But knowing this started as just a way to keep me and Mom in the country makes guilt rise like bile in my throat. I hate not being fully honest with Mom. But there is no way she can know about the agreement Bailey and I struck. Or why.

And if things progress like I hope they are—and will—Mom never needs to know. Or maybe years down the road if things work out and the marriage becomes real, we’ll tell her and all have a good laugh about how it started.

In an attempt to detract from the guilt, I take a big sip of the tea and immediately burn my tongue. How is Mom drinking this? It’s way too hot.

“You’re so in love you can’t even admit it,” Mom says with a laugh. “See—I told you the right woman wouldn’t ever think you’re too much.”

She scoffs those last two words, and my throat goes dry. I really want that to be true of Bailey.

My eyes find her across the room. She’s laughing, and so is Zella, who has a tape measure out and a pencil between her teeth. As though she feels my gaze, Bailey turns my way. I expect a shy look, but instead, she raises her brows and gives me a goofy smile that has me chuckling.

“You really should call Annie, you know,” Mom says.

“I know.”

But there are big reasons I haven’t called or texted Annie back. Lying to my sister is harder even than lying to my mom. Less because of the guilt and more because I don’t know if I can pull it off. My mother is a smart woman. But Annie is devious. Where Mom might not ever suspect I’d do something like this, Annie wouldn’t put anything past me. Probably because she’s right.

“In lo-o-o-ve,” Mom singsongs, just as a small white dog with a blue bow tie attached to his collar jumps up in her lap. Mom strokes the dog’s back as it licks her chin enthusiastically.

Could Mom be right? If I’m not in love, am I heading in that direction?

Is Bailey?

I watch as she says something animatedly to Zella, a flush in her cheeks. “Can you blame me?”

Mom pats my knee. “Not even a little bit.”