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

Bailey

I choke on a laugh. No—literally choke.

And I guess, technically, I’m choking on my own saliva, not laughter. Caught in the embarrassing and unlikely situation wherein a handsome man makes a statement—or a joke?—about marriage, then you inhale your own spit and almost die.

Maybe, I think as I hack uncontrollably, dying would be preferable to this current humiliation.

Eli is beside me in an instant, crouching inches away, Doris cradled to his chest with one arm. He reaches out to me with the other, grasping my shoulder and giving me the smallest shake. His eyes—the pure, crisp blue of Norwegian fjords, which I know because I googled Norwegian fjords once after he came in—are wide and panicked.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry. Bailey, I⁠—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand, trying to wheeze out something dismissive like, I’m fine, really, or Just leave me here to die.

But my words are unintelligible, and his concern increases as he tugs me forward, then attempts to slap me on the back. All while keeping a small dog tucked protectively against his body.

Doris must have seen some things in her little life because she seems totally nonplussed by my near-death experience. Then again, maybe she doesn’t care because Eli’s solid presence has lulled her into feeling secure.

This situation is utterly ridiculous. Eli is ridiculous. Yet still so very, very attractive. This image would make a good inspiration for a monthly calendar. The theme being: Hot Men Saving Women from Certain Death While Holding Dogs.

I’d laugh if I weren’t still attempting to clear my own airway. But I do manage to suck in a gasping breath. Finally.

How absolutely mortifying.

Then again, the payoff for my stupid choking incident is grand. Eli’s warm hand is now sliding up and down my back in gentle strokes. I’m sure it’s meant to be comforting and it is, but his touch also ignites something fierce and hot, a sizzling burn just below my skin.

The scent of him, which if bottled up and named would be something like Viking Warrior #3, has a dizzying effect, scrambling my thoughts.

Because did Eli really say something about marriage?

That can’t be right.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to … ah …”

“Make me choke on my own spit?” I wipe my eyes, which are brimming with cough-induced tears.

“Almost kill you with a marriage proposal.” Eli’s mouth kicks up on one side.

I blink at him. “You really did say marriage.”

“Ah, yeah. I did.”

Eli blows out a breath, and he’s so close, I feel it brush my cheek like the softest caress. One of his hands is still warm and solid on my back, the other holding Doris, who has gone back to sleep, her nose tucked into the front pocket of Eli’s forest green flannel shirt. The tips of his ears are pink.

“But you were joking, right?” I ask.

There’s no way this man needs help finding a fiancée. No way he’d be asking me, a person he’s had minimal interactions with. Someone he’s not even dating. My brain is whirring along, sounding like the old laptop I recently threw out, which sounded like an airplane taking off every time I turned it on.

“Yeah. But kind of no?” He gives his head the smallest shake, his smile sheepish. As I stare—because I’m totally staring right now—his cheeks turn the same pink as his ears. “It’s not—ugh. Not like a real marriage.”

“A fake marriage, then?” If my voice sounds flat, it’s because that’s how I feel. Like his words are steamrolling me into a pancake.

Are fake marriages even a thing outside of Hallmark movies and romance novels?

“I mean, it would be real on paper. But not like a marriage marriage. With all the, you know, marriage parts.”

“Marriage parts,” I repeat dumbly.

I have been reduced to Eli’s echo. But it is impossible for me to locate any fresh words of my own. My brain tripped over this whole marriage concept, and now I’m trying to scrape myself up off the figurative sidewalk.

“So, there’s this visa issue,” he says. His hand has come to rest on my upper back, his fingertips brushing the bare skin of my neck.

Does he know he’s touching my skin? Does it have anywhere near the impact on him that it has on me? Clearly not.

“The immigration kind, not the credit card kind. Complicated, long story. The point is, if I don’t get married in a month”—he winces at this, and I do too because WHAT—“I’ll be deported to Canada.”

He gives these words a moment to sink in. They do. Deeply, like the roots of an old oak. Deported? I think first, irrationally, of all the dogs who won’t get their pets. And of not seeing him, of having the bright spots in the otherwise dishwater gray of my life.

Selfish thoughts, I realize, when I should be thinking of the man who will be deported. Canada, I realize, feels as fictional to me as Narnia. Up North, snowy, a vast expanse on a map that’s never seemed real until this moment.

Eli clears his throat. “But I didn’t really think … I mean, you wouldn’t …”

He didn’t think what?

I wouldn’t what?

My thoughts have been tossed haphazardly into an industrial dryer where they’re tumbling around on high heat. Around and around. Mixed up. Heated. If Eli’s cheeks are rose-petal pink, mine must be Valentine’s red.

“Wow. I’m bad at this,” Eli says with a chuckle that sounds less humorous than a funeral dirge. “It’s not like you or anyone else would want to marry me anyway. For money or whatever reasons.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and I swear there’s an unspoken question: Would they?

Maybe even … would you?

I wish I could say this didn’t have some part of me standing up, jumping and waving while shouting, Me, me, me! You had me at For money! Yes! I do! Put a ring on it!

It’s the same part of me suddenly aware that I still have a letter poking me in the boob that very much has to do with money and my desperate need for it.

And would it even be a hardship to marry this man? The one snuggling a dog, whose face is inches from mine. The one with kind blue eyes and the kind of scent I’d like to wrap myself up in like a warm sweater.

“Can we, uh, just forget I asked you to commit fraud?” Eli asks, and his fingertips do a tiny dance at the top of my spine. I fight to keep still and not tremble. “I’m clearly beyond help.”

“I …”

My thoughts are still tumbling, but now it’s more like one of those lotto ball machines, and as I open my mouth to speak, I’m not at all sure what word will separate itself from the rest and pop out of my mouth.

And I’ll never know because that’s when the door opens, and Dr. Evie—aka Dr. Evil—walks into the room.

She freezes, one hand curled around the doorknob. Her blue eyes—which are not fjord-like but rather the gray blue of harsh slate—narrow at me first. Her delicate features manage to be pretty even when she’s glaring in disapproval. Professionally shaped dark eyebrows, lashes I suspect are extensions, and the kind of perfect lips that gave cupid’s bow its name. All of her deceptively pretty features might lead one to believe she is nice. One would be mistaken.

While her doctorate is in veterinary medicine, Dr. Evie has a secondary degree in finding flaws and pointing them out with clinical—and maybe joyful—precision.

All while looking just like a Disney princess.

“What’s happening here?” she asks, closing the door behind her with a decisively judgmental half-slam.

I scramble to my feet, eyes still slightly wet with cough-induced tears, cheeks still flaming from all the talk of marriage. This looks bad. I am not supposed to be hanging out with a prospective pet owner. Definitely not sitting practically nose-to-nose.

Absolutely positively not talking about marriage.

“Sorry, I was …”

The explanation—or excuse?—I was striving and failing to come up with completely leaves my mind when Eli stands, towering over us both. His presence doesn’t just suck all the air out of the room. It sucks everything out. Air, thoughts, words, feelings—all gone.

For half a second, I’m grateful for the reprieve. For the distraction of this giant man saving me from making up some kind of lie. I am a terrible liar. And it’s not like I want to tell Dr. Evil about the confusing conversation she just interrupted.

But then, I quickly realize my relief was naïve.

Because Dr. Evie’s eyes track up, up, up until they land on Eli’s face with surprise and then interest. The protectiveness I felt when Katrina was angling her body toward him earlier is nothing compared to how I feel now. It’s all I can do not to put myself as a barrier between Dr. Evil and the man, though I have zero claim to him. The urge only increases when her lips curl into a poison-apple smile.

“Well, hello,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

My stomach drops. She and Eli know each other?

But where her face shows familiarity, his expression is blank, borderline wary, though he doesn’t seem necessarily surprised that she recognized him.

Weird.

Dr. Evie’s eyes take on a predatory look I don’t like even a little bit, and her posture shifts from grumpy boss into siren mode. It’s subtle, but I don’t miss the slight arch in her back and the coy tilt of her head. As she steps around me and closer to Eli, her hips sway. She practically glides.

Like a gorgeous poltergeist.

When Beth and I aren’t discussing Dr. Evie’s penchant for biting criticism, we’re rolling our eyes at her uncanny ability to channel sex appeal while wearing a white lab coat. I swear, the woman has her scrubs and coat specially tailored to accentuate her figure.

I don’t like the woman, not even a little bit. But it’s imperative that I pretend to like her. Not only to keep this job, but also because I need her recommendation for vet school. Which means I can’t punch her for the way she’s looking at Eli.

“Hello, Eli,” she says in a sultry voice that does not belong in an animal shelter. “I’m Dr. Evie. Eli, Evie.”

She laughs, like it’s the funniest thing ever how both their names start with E.

I frown. Okay, so she definitely knows him. But if they know each other, why is she introducing herself? And why does he look so uncomfortable?

Eli circles his arms a little tighter around Doris—either in an attempt to protect her or use her as a canine shield—and takes the smallest step back.

“Hello,” he says stiffly. No smile.

Why does this make me so unreasonably pleased?

Doris gives a low growl as Dr. Evie steps closer. She pauses, eyes narrowing before they flick back to me, instantly shifting from sultry to sharp.

“Doris hasn’t been cleared for adoption yet,” she says. “And I wouldn’t think hockey players have the time to care for a dog.”

Busted! I wonder exactly how much trouble I’m going to be in for bringing Doris out. And for Eli’s visits when he’s made it clear he can’t adopt a dog right now. And for—wait.

Hockey player?

I make note of Eli’s broad shoulders and the way his thighs are testing the tensile strength of his pants seams. Professional athlete makes sense. Which I guess means his job is not bare-handed tree removal.

But wouldn’t I have heard about this? If Dr. Evie recognized Eli right away, Katrina and the other volunteers always drooling over him probably know who he is.

Come to think of it, they probably do know. I assumed they always congregated when he arrived because he’s attractive. Which could still be true. But I bet they just never mentioned who he is. And why would they? We don’t interact much. If they’re the cool girls, I hang with the other crowd—the shelter’s social equivalent of the band geeks or nerds.

Though they’re both decades older than I am, Beth and Cyn are the only ones at the shelter I really talk to. I’ve always felt a little bit more on the outskirts when it comes to the college-aged volunteers and staff. Losing both parents early will do that to a person. I feel infinitely older than twenty-three.

Hockey, huh? I study Eli again, trying to picture him in skates, a stick in hand, and … whatever hockey players wear. A jersey? Pads? A helmet? Try as I might, my imagination has very little to draw from when it comes to this—or any—sport. I’ve never seen a hockey game despite Harvest Hollow being home to the Appies, a wildly popular minor league team.

One which Eli apparently plays for. It totally tracks. Still, finding out this fact leaves me strangely shaken for reasons I can’t really explain.

“Are you hoping to adopt a dog?” Dr. Evie asks Eli.

Eli seems to shrink away from Dr. Evil’s attention. The expression on his face returns to the lost look he wore when asking for a dog in need of a hug.

He drops his gaze to Doris. “I, um …”

I clear my throat, which feels slightly raw from all the cough-trauma. “Eli was actually interested in our volunteer program,” I say, hoping he’ll play along.

“You want to volunteer?” Dr. Evie asks him with an arch of her brow.

“Yes,” Eli says quickly. “The Appies do a lot of volunteer work, and I was interested in …”

His gaze meets mine, and it’s strange how we suddenly seem able to speak soundlessly from across the room.

“Walking dogs a few times a month,” I say. “I was just about to get the volunteer application. To, um, keep things official. As we do.”

“Well, then—why don’t you scurry along and get it?” Dr. Evie says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

I may have covered for Eli—and myself—with the volunteer lie. But now I’m going to have to leave Eli alone with her. I shoot him an apologetic look, but his expression is still carefully void of emotion.

Thankfully, I know exactly where the volunteer applications are, and I’m back in record time.

Not a moment too soon, either. Doris is practically burrowing her face into Eli’s armpit, and Dr. Evil looks about ready to toss the dog out of the way to pounce on her prey.

She has one hand, with its French-tipped nails—far too pretty for someone in a hands-on job like hers—on Eli’s arm. He looks about ready to bolt, Doris in hand.

“Got it!” I say. A little too loudly. A little too brightly. “Paperwork.” I wave the single printed sheet for good measure.

Dr. Evie frowns and takes a step back, sliding her hands into her lab coat pockets. I swear, I can see her fists clench. “Oh, good.”

I set the paper on the bench seat and pick up Doris’s leash, holding it out to Eli. “Want to put this on her? First step in training. You just tuck the strap through this metal ring and slip it over her head.”

I demonstrate how to work the simple leash, hoping Dr. Evie will leave. She doesn’t. Which is a shame because Eli and I really didn’t finish our conversation.

At least, it felt very unfinished to me. My brain is now populated by a bright constellation of question marks.

Eli, on the other hand, just seems eager to get away from Dr. Evil. Smart man.

Doris allows Eli to loop the leash around her neck, staring adoringly at him the whole time. He leans close, murmuring something in her ear, and I do my best not to melt into a puddle.

When he carefully sets Doris down, Dr. Evil doesn’t even try to hide her blatant perusal of his body. I only hope I’m hiding how much I’d like to claw her eyes out.

Totally unearned jealousy, but there it is. Or maybe it’s somewhat earned. Don’t I get some kind of claim based on the pretend marriage proposal? And the fact that I liked him divorced of the knowledge that he’s a hockey player?

“I’m glad we’ll be seeing you again,” Dr. Very Evil says, stepping closer to Eli. “Hopefully soon.”

He barely gives her a nod, then catches my eye and holds out Doris’s leash. “Here you go, Bailey.”

Am I imagining it, or do his fingers linger on mine?

Probably all in my head. At least, based on the way he bolts from the room a moment later, volunteer application in hand.

Dr. Evil glances at me with narrowed eyes the moment the door slams behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me Eli Hopkins was here?”

I swallow, not wanting to admit exactly how often he’s been coming in. If she asks around, she’ll find out pretty quickly. I guess it’s a good thing most of the staff is afraid of her—or more likely sees her as competition—and wouldn’t say a word.

“I had no idea he was a hockey player until you said something.”

She laughs, then stops when she realizes I’m serious. “You didn’t recognize him?”

I shake my head slowly.

“You don’t follow him on TikTok?”

“I’m not on TikTok.”

“Oh, sweet Bailey,” Dr. Evil says with a cluck of her tongue. “You’re so young. If you’re not on TikTok, how do you spend all your free time?”

Her patronizing tone grates, but I remind myself I need to stay on her good side if I want a recommendation.

“Working mostly.” I clear my throat. This is a perfect segue. And I’ve got just the tiniest bit of bravery left over from my conversation with Eli. Just enough, it turns out. “I’m actually applying to vet school.”

“Oh.” She blinks as though surprised. “I had no idea.”

Of course, she didn’t. Despite it having been on my application to work here. And the way I drop hints every so often, hoping she might offer to write me a recommendation and I can avoid the ask altogether.

I take a breath, hold it, then let it out slowly. Nice and easy, Bay. Just ask her.

But she speaks before I can. “I’d be glad to write a recommendation letter if you need one,” she says.

“Really?” That was way too easy. It smells like a trap.

“Of course.” She gives me a sly smile as she puts her hand on the door. “It will be an even better recommendation if you can keep Eli Hopkins coming in.”

And … there it is.

She must see me blanch—because really?!?—and she forces a laugh. “Kidding,” she says. “Of course I’m kidding.”

I don’t get the impression she’s kidding. At all. Which now makes me feel all kinds of ick. Even though I should be focused on the important part: she said she’d write me a recommendation!

One step closer to vet school. Now I just need to get over the money hurdle. My stomach squeezes at the thought, and the letter in my bra reminds me of its presence.

Of course, then my mind zips straight to Eli and the mention of marriage and money.

“Thank you,” I say, the words sounding stiffer than they should.

“Of course,” she says breezily.

But I have to wonder if she would have agreed so easily without Eli.

As I’m putting Doris back in her kennel, my mind circles back to the professional hockey player I’ve been hanging out with a few times a month without having any idea. Why is this hitting me the way it is? Or … is it the hockey player info combined with the whole marriage idea?

I think about how he normally puts me at ease and the way he coaxes me to talk.

So, he’s famous. A big deal. With me, he’s just Eli.

Ha! The man isn’t just anything. Even without the fame, his presence is practically too large for a room to contain.

I wonder if he’ll come back in after this. Dr. Evil probably scared him off. Or maybe our conversation did. The idea of never seeing him again sends a wave of disappointment through me.

Way to ruin the highlight of my week, Dr. Evil.

But she’s not done yet.

She pops her head back in just as I’m about to start administering the various meds that go along with the evening feeding.

“Oh, Bailey—I almost forgot,” she says. “The reason I was looking for you was to ask for your help bathing one of the cats. He made quite a mess and rolled around in it.”

Her smile is as sweet as a honey-covered dagger. I don’t miss the way her eyes drop to the scratch on my arm. It’s no secret that I’m universally hated by cats. It also could just as easily be a volunteer’s job to bathe a cat.

Dr. Evil’s already gone when I mutter, “There’s nothing in the world I want to do more than give a cat a bath right now.”