Kami

The phone goes dead, and after checking to make sure it was Nick hanging up and not my battery—nope, I have twenty-three percent left, so it was definitely a hang-up—I pocket it while Maren gives me the you are in so much trouble glare.

“It was game time. If he’s calling at game time, something might’ve been really wrong.” I turn back to my Skee-Ball game and toss a ball up the wooden lane.

And totally miss even the biggest ring.

“Was something wrong?” Maren asks.

“Just the fact that he’d call me right before the game.”

There’s a huge shout, and we both glance over at the table of men at Wreck’n’Roll who are still arguing over the greatest football players of all time. Maren and I agreed before we got here that we’d pretend to be football fans tonight, because it seemed safer than getting dragged into another Thrusters conversation like at the wedding Sunday night.

But we sold it a little too well, especially Maren with the trash-talking, and now all the men we were supposed to be speed dating are bonding over beers and yardage statistics.

“Maybe we should become domestic partners and both head to sperm banks,” Maren says.

“Will you buy me a farm in the country and let me have pygmy goats?”

“Can I install solar panels and wind turbines and a satellite wifi receiver?”

“Of course.”

“Done.”

We finish up our game, sneak around the guy who wanted to show us pictures of his ceramic clown collection—hello, childhood nightmares—and head for the door.

“If Nick pulled his head out of his ass and realized he loves you, would you take him back?” Maren asks nonchalantly, as though she’s not inspiring that stupid hope that pokes its head up like a baby bunny out of a fluffy blanket in spring.

“Why would you say that?”

She eyes me.

I eye her back, but harder, which means I’m totally going to win, because none of my friends can stand it when I’m not sweet and congenial.

She totally breaks first and looks away while we troop into the parking garage. “It’s just—he doesn’t apologize. Ever. To anyone. And he keeps sending you presents. And calling. And putting in effort. Nick doesn’t do effort. And if this season is any indication, he’s about done with hockey. Because it would be too much work to get better.”

“That’s not fair. He works hard.”

“Doing the bare minimum. He’s getting old for a goalie. He can’t skate by on natural talent anymore.”

“Hockey is his life. He’s not going to fade into obscurity because he’s getting older.”

I’m not arguing because I think she’s wrong. Not exactly, I mean.

It’s more that if I start to consider that Nick could be approaching retirement, and if he’s realizing it too, he’ll need something in his life to fill the void.

And maybe that’ll mean he’s finally ready to settle down.

But if I let myself think there’s hope, then I’ll quit looking for someone else. I’ll put my own dreams of a family on hold, and he’ll stay in the league another five or six years, and I’ll be approaching forty before we have any babies.

I know it’s not trendy or modern city woman-ish or whatever to want babies, but it’s biological to want to belong, to want family, and I refuse to apologize for wanting something beyond my career. And my pets. And my friends.

And now I feel guilty for wanting more when I actually have a really good life.

Maren shakes her head. “This would be so much easier if there were some legitimately interesting men in this dating pool.”

“You don’t know anyone at work?” I ask her.

“Nope.”

I mentally run through my patient list. Just because I don’t want to date someone who brings their pets to the clinic doesn’t mean I couldn’t set Maren up.

But the only person coming to mind is a client with a particularly testy cat, and Maren’s allergic.

A red sports car screeches to a halt next to Maren’s Bolt. The driver rolls down his window, whistles, and then flicks his tongue at us.

“Dude, you’ve got broccoli stuck in your teeth,” Maren says.

His eyes go wide and he flings himself back in the car to check himself out in the mirror.

She passes her Bolt and heads down the aisle, possibly on her way to pretending like the jacked-up truck is hers, but more likely, just hoping the dick will get bored before we head back inside.

Felicity dated enough weirdos before Ares that we all got a little paranoid about even letting guys know what kind of car we drive.

Luckily, this guy actually does have something stuck in his teeth, so he speeds off before we’re more than two cars past Maren’s.

“I’m getting more serious about that domestic partners thing,” she tells me.

I squeeze her hand. “So long as you don’t sing in the shower.”

We both laugh, but I’m not feeling all that light-hearted.

The sad truth is, I miss Nick.

And hearing the hesitation in his voice tonight—I think he misses me too.

But how do you find forever with a guy who doesn’t even know it’s an option?

We climb into Maren’s car, and she starts the electric engine. “You going to the game Friday night?” she asks me.

“I…kinda have really great tickets,” I admit. “You want them?”

She studies me with a wry smile. “How many tickets?”

“Four.”

I have thirty sets of four tickets to Thrusters games. All courtesy of Nick.

All practically front-row.

He had to have paid a fortune to resellers to get them. It would be absolutely shitty of me to not make sure they got used.

“How great?” Maren asks.

“Close enough to smell their blood in a fight.”

She studies me for a minute before she turns her attention to backing out of the parking spot. “I have not-so-great tickets. What say you give yours to Muffy and your Aunt Hilda and those two guys you met at the wedding the other night, and we hang out in the nosebleed section?”

I contemplate the conversation between Muffy, Aunt Hilda, Josh, and Sean, and then I contemplate Nick watching it all, since the seats he got are practically extensions of the Thrusters’ bench, and I crack up. “I love you,” I tell Maren.

She smiles. “May we someday find men who love us as much as we love each other.”

“Are you sure that’s not aiming a little too high?”

“Have you seen the way Ares looks at Felicity?”

I sag in my seat, because yeah, I have.

And I’ve seen the way she looks at him.

And even if Nick does miss me, I can’t see him ever falling so desperately in love with me that he ever thinks of me before hockey.

“Maybe we’re looking too hard,” I say quietly.

“Or maybe we’re not looking hard enough.”

Or maybe we’re just not the kind of women who inspire men to fall that hard.

Maybe I should settle for being number two in Nick’s life.

It’s not like I’m going to get a better offer.