I
t’s past midnight and we’re in the back of the limo. Just the four of us, because Tucker still believes this is going to be a small affair. For the past ten minutes he’s
been complaining that we “wasted money” getting a limousine, which he views as an “extravagance” for four people. Eventually Garrett has to shove a glass of champagne in his hand and say, “Oh my God, chill, we didn’t even pay for it. I asked the franchise and they arranged it.”
Tucker stares at him. “You just asked for a limo and they gave you one?”
Logan snorts. “Do you know who this guy is?” He jerks a thumb at Garrett. “That’s Garrett Graham, dude.”
I start to laugh.
“Right, I forgot,” Tuck says, laughing too. “So, are you finally gonna tell me where we’re going or what? I’m assuming some sort of strip club, but…”
“Even better,” Garrett promises.
Like the bosses we are, we sip champagne and lounge in the back of the limo while the city whizzes past us. I imagine onlookers seeing us drive by and wondering who’s inside. Boston’s a hockey town, so girls and guys alike
would probably lose their minds if they knew Garrett Graham and John Logan were behind these tinted windows.
“Yo, top me off,” I say, holding out my glass.
Logan leans over and pours some more bubbly into it. “We should be there soon,” Garrett tells Tuck. He looks
like he’s trying not to grin.
I’m also fighting my excitement. This surprise is next- level awesome. It took a lot of coordination and string- pulling, but miraculously we were able to make it happen.
“Oh, okay. Then before we get there,” Tuck starts, shifting in his seat so he’s facing me, “I need to talk to you about something.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “Sure. What’s up?”
“G said you were floating the idea of proposing to Allie at the wedding tomorrow.”
I instantly shoot Garrett an accusatory glare. “Seriously, dude?”
“Yeah, I’m not apologizing,” G says, unfazed. “I had to warn him in case you ignored our advice and went rogue.”
“Asshole.”
“Hey now,” Tuck interjects, his Southern drawl becoming more pronounced. “I’m not pissed. If anything, I think it’s a good idea.”
Garrett and Logan gawk at him. I blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He brings his glass to his lips, watching me over the rim as he takes a sip. I don’t see any bullshit whatsoever in his brown eyes. “It’s kinda romantic.”
“That’s what I said!” I exclaim, feeling vindicated.
He sets his glass in the drink holder beside him, then rests both forearms on his knees and leans forward, his expression serious. “I think you should do it.”
“Wait, really?”
“Why not? Sabrina and I would love to share our wedding with you. And it opens so many other doors, y’know? Think about it. All your great achievements, we
could share together. Like, when you and Allie get married? We’ll be right there with the announcement of our second child. And when you share Allie’s pregnancy? We’ll be there announcing our new house.”
Logan chokes on his champagne mid-sip. I narrow my eyes. “Point taken.”
“No, wait, it gets even better,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “When Allie gives birth to your first kid, guess who’ll be there! Me again, there to introduce you to our new dog, who I’ll name after your baby to honor you. And when your kid grows up, graduates college, gets engaged, and has a wedding of their own, I’ll be sitting there in the front row. Faking a heart attack.”
Logan shakes his head in utter astonishment. “Holy shit. Tuck is a sociopath. Didn’t I always tell you that gingers are crazy?”
Garrett breaks into hysterics. “All right, I get it,” I mutter.
Tucker’s smile is downright lethal. “Do you, Di Laurentis? Because if you upset Sabrina tomorrow by asking Allie to marry you, I will be there. I will always be there. At every corner, ruining every important moment of your life until the day you die. And then, when you’re on your deathbed, I’ll commit suicide right before you go, just to steal your thunder. What do you think, man? How does that future sound?”
Garrett gives me a smug look. “Told you so.”
Welp. He was right. And so was Logan, apparently. Like, Tuck is just sitting here now, drinking champagne and smiling at me as if he hadn’t just threatened to commit suicide on my deathbed.
Gingers are psychotic.
 |
Fifteen minutes later, the limo slows down as we near our
destination. When Tucker tries to peer out the window, Logan slugs him in the arm and chides, “Not allowed.”
“Are we going down a ramp?” Tucker’s forehead knits with curiosity.
“Don’t you worry about that, little man,” Garrett says mysteriously.
“Little man?” He snorts. “I’m as big as all you assholes.”
I reach into my shirt pocket for the bandanna I shoved in there earlier. “All right, blindfold on.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No fucking way.” “So distrustful,” Logan tsks.
Garrett grins. “We promise this won’t end with you being thrown in a pool of Jell-O or anything.”
Tucker appraises the group for a moment. He must decide he can trust us, because he nods and dutifully allows me to secure the blindfold. I tie it extra tight as revenge for his psychotic monologue.
After we hop out of the limo, Logan takes Tucker’s arm to guide him so he doesn’t fall flat on his face. As we walk toward the team entrance of TD Garden, I’m bouncing up and down like a kid on a sugar high. Tonight isn’t only for Tuck. It’s for all of us.
Voices bounce off the concrete walls as we head down the tunnel toward the locker rooms. We were given access to the visitors’ area, which was the best that Garrett could swing, but I’m sure as shit not complaining. The organization went above and beyond to grant Garrett this request. Clearly being the top scorer on the team has its advantages. I wonder what they’d give him if he was the top scorer in the entire league. Maybe the key to the city. But so far, the honor of the league’s top scorer this season goes to Jake Connelly over in Edmonton. There’s a reason Connelly’s nickname is lightning on skates. His rookie season has been explosive.
We reach the locker room door. When Garrett raps his knuckles in an elaborate knock, the voices beyond the door instantly go silent.
A blindfolded Tuck warily moves his head back and forth. “What the heck is going on…”
Chuckling, Garrett opens the door, and Logan and I guide Tuck inside. I almost squeal like a teenage girl at the sea of familiar faces that greet me. It takes all my willpower to stay quiet, and I see my excitement reflected in everyone’s eyes. I hold my finger to my lips, indicating to the group to keep their mouths shut.
“You ready?” Garrett asks Tuck. “Born ready,” he drawls.
Someone chuckles.
The moment Tucker pushes the bandanna down, leaving it wrapped around his neck, his breath hitches sharply. Gaping like a koi fish, he stares at the thirty-odd guys filling the locker room. Then he breaks out in the biggest, giddiest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Are you kidding me!” He slaps his knee and holds his hip like an old lady trying to hold herself upright, happiness rolling off him in waves. “How did you do this?” he demands as his amazed gaze sweeps over our former teammates from Briar.
Considering we played with dozens of guys over the years, it’s astounding we managed to get thirty of them to come to Boston. There’s Jake Bergeron, aka Birdie, our team captain before Garrett. Nate Rhodes, team captain after Garrett. Hunter Davenport, the current captain. There’s Simms, the goalie who won us three Frozen Four championships. Jesse Wilkes, Kelvin, Brodowski, Pierre. Our other goalie Corsen. Traynor, Niko, Danny. Colin Fitzgerald, who’s been dating my sister for the last few years. The list goes on and on.
“I can’t believe you’re all here.” A dazed Tucker begins to greet our old friends, some of whom we haven’t seen in
years.
Like Mike Hollis, who’s back from India where he lived for a year with his wife, Rupi. They moved back to the States recently and live in New Hampshire now, so Boston wasn’t a far trek for him.
Tucker hugs every single guy. It’s time-consuming and probably unnecessary, but that’s just who John Tucker is. He can’t simply throw out a “hey” to everybody in a blanket greeting. He needs to personalize each one.
He ends with Fitzy, who helped Tuck renovate his bar here. I know the two of them are pretty close. “So good to see you, man. You don’t visit often enough.”
“Work’s crazy,” Fitzy says ruefully. “And Summer monopolizes all my free time.”
I glance over with a chuckle. “Hey, I warned you she was high maintenance.”
“Worth it,” is his easygoing response, which makes me nod in approval. My sister might be a crazy person, but I’d still die to protect her honor and beat up anyone who disparages her, even Fitz.
Beside me, Tucker is now looking around the cavernous room, as finally it dawns on him where we are. “Holy fuck. This is TD Garden.”
“Yup.” Garrett’s answering grin is smug, and not entirely unwarranted. This is an incredible feat.
“Look at the lockers,” I urge Tuck.
He follows my gaze, eyes widening when he notices the lockers are filled with equipment. Most guys are sharing a locker, but Tucker has his own, and every single one has a custom jersey hanging inside, with our names on the back. That was Summer’s doing. She designed the jerseys and got them done up.
“This is…” I swear his eyes appear a bit watery now. “This is the greatest gift, you guys. I didn’t expect to see y’all here and—” He suddenly tenses, guilt crossing his face. “Aw, shit. Are y’all staying for the reception
tomorrow? You were all invited, but not everyone RSVP’d. Gonna have to call the caterer, and Sabrina, and…” He trails off, his mind clearly working a million miles a minute to troubleshoot this latest development.
A few guys snicker at his visible anxiety.
“It’s all taken care of,” I assure him. “We didn’t want you to know who was surprising you for the bachelor party, but don’t worry, Sabrina has all the RSVPs.”
“She knew all about it,” Garrett adds, so Tuck knows we didn’t just dump thirty extra guests on their wedding.
Relief loosens his broad shoulders.
“And now, no more wedding talk,” I say firmly. “Tonight is about the boys hitting the ice again.”
“Seriously? We’re going to play?” Tucker’s entire face lights up. “Here?”
I know exactly how he feels. The thought of skating on the same surface where the Bruins play gets my dick semi- hard. This is every hockey fan’s wet dream.
“We only have two hours,” Garrett tells the group. “So let’s gear up already and take advantage of every second before the overnight maintenance crew throws us out.”
Without delay, everyone marches to their lockers and clothes start hitting the floor. It’s chaotic and awesome, and I’m proud of myself for coming up with such a brilliant idea, which has been months in the planning. Garrett and Logan got us the rink, but I personally flew two-thirds of these guys out to Boston and put them up at a hotel. Not everybody could afford the weekend away, and although some guys protested about letting me pay their way, in the end I convinced them to swallow their pride for Tucker. Definitely doesn’t hurt having a trust fund, especially in situations like this.
Now I’m surrounded by old friends, teammates I skated with for four years, and I can’t imagine a better night. Forget naked strippers and cringey lap dances where one
guy inevitably comes in front of everyone. This is the best bachelor party ever.
