“Nah,” Norris chimes in, shaking his head. “I don’t buy it.”
His words hang in the air as Will looks at me with panic in his eyes. I smile and thread my fingers through his, not betraying the fact that my heart is beating wildly. Our plan hinges on people believing that we’re a couple.
“I mean, come on,” Norris continues. “In what world does a woman like Mel end up with a doofus like Will?” He laughs and cuffs Will on the back of the head. “We must all be stuck in a fever dream or some shit,” he jokes as my pulse returns to normal.
“You’re forgetting one very important thing,” Ollie says, pointing his fork perilously close to Norris’ face.
“Yeah? What’s that?” Norris asks as he picks up his own fork. Now they’re dueling with borrowed silverware and I’m wondering if that fever dream Norris was talking about might be set in junior high or something. Sometimes these guys are adults. And sometimes they’re overgrown seventh graders.
Norris parries left, drops back, and spears a bite of grilled chicken, but it’s Ollie who has the last laugh. “You’re forgetting thatIset them up. And I’m like, the greatest matchmaker of our generation.”
“Really?” Van seems skeptical.
“Yeah,” Ollie answers easily. “My track record is flawless.”
Santos looks pretty doubtful, too. “How many couples have you set up?”
“One,” Ollie answers around a mouthful of hoagie. “But look at ‘em. They’re fuckin’ blissed out right now.”
“I think they might be more blissed out if we found our own table,” Santos observes, but nobody pays him any attention. And even though that’s exactly what I wanted a few minutes ago, now that I think about it, this works out well.
“No way, we’re all just one big happy hockey family,” I joke. “And you know how families spend quality time together…” I say, letting my words hang in the air.
“Theoretically,” Van jokes.
“Are you saying you wanna come hang at our place, Mel?” Ollie asks. “’Cause Santos is making us clean the place Sunday morning, and if you’re family, then surely you’ll want to pitch in, right?”
“Oh, hell no,” I say quickly. “I don’t mind cleaning up my own mess, but scrubbing one of the bathrooms you all share? No thanks.”
“If you’re not rescuing us in our hour of need, like family should,” Van coughs, “then what are you talking about?”
“I’m interning at the community center and the annual Fall Fest is in a couple of weeks. I found out yesterday that we’re short on volunteers, and I know you guys have to log so many service hours. I figured this would be a good opportunity for some community outreach before things get too crazy.”
“Yeah, we can definitely help out, as long as it’s not on a game day,” Santos says. “When do you need us? And how many guys are you looking for?”
“The last Sunday of the month. You have games against Clairmont Friday and Saturday, but Sunday’s your rest day. It doesn’t start until two, if that helps,” I say. “I’ll only need you there for a few hours and if you can get about ten guys to commit, that'd be perfect. Basically, you’re free labor, and you’ll help out with all the stuff we have going on for families and kids. There are hayrides, and there’s a not-so-haunted house. There’s a pumpkin painting booth, too. And if you feel like sticking around after the kiddie stuff is over, there's a pumpkin carving contest for adults. That part’s optional, though.”
“Count us in,” Santos says, tapping out a message on his phone. “For volunteering and for the contest. We’re athletes—born competitors. This shit’s gonna be awesome.”
“You’d better hope so,” I tease. “Because I am quite the pumpkin carver. And for the record, I drink bourbon, not beer.”
“You think you’re gonna win? Oh, you are on,” Ollie says, turning his attention and his fork on me.
“Bring it, Jablonski,” I scoff, and finish my fries. “Just let me know who’s in and who’s out, ok? And if you’re bringing anyone else along. Ineed a head count at some point. Santos, will you text the rest of the guys and let them know they’re welcome?”
Santos agrees and I make a few notes in my planner. “Ollie, you flying solo?”
“Way to rub it in, Mel,” he answers, and I laugh. This guy has no issue getting a date. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked someone up at the fall festival.
I turn my attention to the goalie. “Norris, what about you? Anyone special you want to bring?”
He looks stunned for a second but recovers quickly. “Nope, it’ll just be me. Well, me and my amazing pumpkin-carving skills.”
I nod then listen as conversation turns to next week’s game and the start of the new season. A couple other guys have joined us and they’re all making predictions, except for Van, who’s quieter than usual.
I know the answer to my question before I even open my mouth, but I ask it anyway. “You bringing anyone?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Uh…no,” he says, and I get the sense he wants me to drop it, so I do. But then, as it sometimes happens, Beckett Vandaele does the unexpected. He looks me in the eye and asks quietly, “Is she…uh..she doin’ ok?”
