There are few things less dignified than a loud pee in a cavernous marble restroom. Somehow, a slinky sequined gown hiked up around my boobs doesn’t
make this any more glamorous. It was a mad dash from the lobby of the auditorium to this bathroom stall. The entire twenty minutes on the red carpet standing between Garrett and Logan, a smile plastered on my face against shouting reporters and camera flashes, was an agonizing exercise in endurance while every muscle in my body clenched in desperation. I knew that bottle of water in the limo was a bad idea. Lately, I even look at liquid and I’ve got to pee like a racehorse.
The blogs and articles said this was coming, but I thought, come on, how bad could it be?
The answer: bad. Awful.
Humiliatingly inconvenient. Pregnancy blows.
The last place I want to be right now is this exclusive hotel in downtown Boston, but I tell myself to suck it up. Tonight’s a big moment for Garrett’s career, and I can’t let anything dampen the celebration.
Which is just another one of the countless excuses I’ve been spoon-feeding myself for the last eight weeks.
First, I hadn’t wanted to take the test because it was our best friends’ wedding weekend. Then I took the test and it was positive, but I certainly couldn’t tell Garrett and distract him at such a pivotal moment at the end of the regular season. Couldn’t break the news to him while the team was concentrating on the playoffs. Then they busted out in the first round, and Garrett was so crushed, it didn’t seem like the right time to announce he better spend the off-season painting a nursery.
I’m going to tell him tonight, though. After we get home, when he’s got a few drinks in him and the stars are still shining in his eyes. I’ll ease him into it gently.
“Can you believe it’s a cash bar?” Two pairs of stiletto heels clack across the shiny floor past my stall and stop at the sinks. “LeBron’s wife doesn’t put up with this shit.”
“LeBron’s wife married a basketball player.” “I thought there’d at least be a gift bag.”
“Ha! It’d have a can of Molson Ice and a gift certificate to Applebee’s.”
I swallow a laugh. Women who date or marry into the NHL expecting they’ll be rolling around South Beach with Gisele and Victoria Beckham tend to get a rude awakening. The hockey scene is an acquired taste.
Tonight is the NHL Honors, an awards ceremony recognizing achievements in the past season. While it’s not exactly the ESPYs, it’s a big deal that Garrett is taking home an award for Goal of the Year. This man never stops working to improve his game. Every single day, he puts his body under incredible stress. Pushes himself past the mental barriers that have held him back. The least I can do to watch his dreams come true is suffer one night in a fancy dress and pretend everything’s normal. And with Grace in Paris visiting her mom for the summer, I’m pulling double duty as the arm candy. I just can’t eat or drink anything for
the rest of the night if I don’t want to be running for the toilet every ten minutes.
“Did you see Garrett Graham shaved his beard?” one of the women says while I’m fixing my dress. “He cleans up nice.”
He sure does. The team got on some superstition kick about not shaving when they were on a winning streak to clinch the playoffs. Garrett looks hot with some scruff, but this went beyond that. He wouldn’t even allow himself to keep the damn thing tidy. It was scraggly and unkempt, and it took all my self-restraint not to mount him in the middle of the night and go at him with a pair of clippers. I love that man, but the beard was nearly the end of us. If I ever see that thing again, I’m lighting it on fire.
“Have you seen his dad? The genes in that family are ridiculous.”
“Phil Graham’s here?”
“Yeah. Saw him on the red carpet. He’s giving out the Lifetime Achievement award.”
A dreamy sigh. “I’d go there. Ride the little blue pill jackhammer all the way to Orgasm Town.”
“You’re demented.”
“You know that lucky bitch Garrett showed up with has thought about it. I would.”
I bite back a sudden surge of vomit as I exit the stall. I stand beside the two dark-haired women at the sink to wash my hands. I think they’re around my age, but one is wearing such heavy makeup, it ages her greatly. The other is a fresh-faced type in a gorgeous red dress.
“Might get a little crowded in that bed,” I say lightly. “I saw her show up with the other one too.”
“Who?”
“John Logan,” I tell them, meeting their gazes in the mirror. “We go way back.”
As recognition dawns on their faces, they stare at me with wide headlight eyes.
“Lucky Bitch,” I say by way of an introduction. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh my God, this is so embarrassing,” one of them blurts out. “Sorry about that.”
“I love your dress,” the other says meekly, her version of an olive branch.
I shrug. “No worries. You’re right, Garrett cleans up nice.”
“How long have you been dating?” Red Dress asks. “Since junior year of college.”
Their eyes not-so-discreetly drop to my left hand.
“Not married,” I confirm. “Just living together in sin.”
Red Dress giggles. “Sinning with Garrett Graham. Not a bad way to live.”
Not a bad life, indeed.
When I’m done, I dry my hands and leave the bathroom with a wave. I’m not at all bothered at overhearing them gush over my boyfriend. Truth is, I’m more concerned about the revelation that Garrett’s father is in attendance. No one told us he would be. If Garrett runs into Phil unprepared, it’ll get ugly.
An usher helps me find my seat where Garrett and Logan are near the end of the row. I squeeze in between the guys, who are discussing Logan’s upcoming trip to Paris. He’s leaving in a couple of weeks and will be gone for a month. Lucky Grace. I don’t know how Logan managed to weasel out of a month’s worth of off-season team activities. Garrett hates doing that stuff.
“I can’t wait to see the ol’ ball and chain,” Logan says.
I give him a saccharine smile. “I’m telling Grace you called her that.”
He pales. “God, please don’t.”
Next to me, Garrett is now visibly sulking. “I still can’t believe you got married without me,” he accuses his best friend.
I fight a laugh. “It’s not a team sport, sweetie.”
He ignores me. “I was supposed to be your best man.” He leans past me to glare at Logan. “You realize this means when Wellsy and I have a wedding, you’re not best man number one anymore. I’m giving it to Dean. Dean, Tucker, then you.”
Logan leans forward too. “No, you’re not. It’s going to be me first.”
Garrett sighs. “It’s going to be you first.”
“You two want to get a room?” I ask as they practically hang over me, making googly eyes at each other.
“Shhh, Wellsy,” Logan chides, as if I’m the obnoxious one. “It’s starting.”
Sure enough, the house lights dim. A moment later, a presentation begins playing on stage, a highlight reel of the last season. I take the opportunity to shift closer to Garrett’s broad body, bringing my lips to his ear.
“Did you know your dad was going to be here?” I whisper.
His expression falls flat. The same thin lips and dead eyes I see every time he’s forced to play nice with that man at some press function. As much as I hate ruining his good mood, it’ll be worse if I don’t alert him.
“I had no idea.”
“I guess he’s presenting an award?”
“Landon should’ve warned me,” he mutters, referring to his agent.
His hand tightens around mine, and I know he’s battling all his simmering rage. Nothing flips his switch faster, casts a darkness over him, than having to be around his father.
Sympathy mingles with the lingering nausea in my belly. Tonight was supposed to be another big milestone in Garrett’s career, a proud moment for him. Instead, he’ll spend it being forced to smile and pose for the cameras with the man who used to beat the hell out of him.
