Kami

I should’ve known something was up when Alina arrived at my house to drive me downtown for drinks with my best friends before the Thrusters’ home game tonight. But I took her It’s your birthday, so you get a sober driver to heart, and now, after pretending everything’s fine the whole way into the heart of the city, I’m wishing I hadn’t.

Because now, Felicity’s hustling Alina, Maren, and me—all of us die-hard hockey fans—through the staff entrance at Mink Arena after Alina drove us here to game central instead of to the bar.

“I just forgot something in the office,” Felicity lies, and it’s clearly a lie, because she has that little lip quiver going on. It’s a Murphy thing. “We’ll head out for drinks after I grab it. Come on up.”

She works for the Thrusters in their headquarters. She’s one of those certified geniuses who can do anything and has something like eighteen degrees ranging from bowling management to marketing to physical therapy assistance.

Plus, she’s a ventriloquist.

There’s literally nothing she can’t do. Except paint. She’s a terrible painter.

She also can’t magically make her brother not be an ass.

So there’s two things Felicity can’t do.

Oh, she also can’t read my mind to know that I’m utterly terrified we’re going to run into her brother and so far past suspicious right now that my knees are turning to concrete.

“Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?” I whisper, because I can’t find a better excuse to get out of whatever is waiting for me inside the arena.

“Um, yes.”

“I stop by here all the time,” Alina assures me equally suspiciously, because I might’ve gotten a little squirrely when we pulled into the parking garage where she magically produced a staff parking pass. “It’s totally legit. They just don’t want us to touch the Cup.”

“I don’t want to touch it. I want to lick it,” Maren announces while we step onto the elevator. She’s decked out in jeans and a maroon Thrusters jersey with Zeus Berger’s number on the back, because she says it’ll be a collector’s item one day with this being his real final season.

Alina’s in a black sweater and full make-up, which means she probably spent all day working on her next YouTube video. She’s a rock cellist with a huge following, and she’s also halfway through a twenty-city tour, which means we only see her a few times a month when she’s home.

And Felicity’s in a custom Thrusters T-shirt with the rocket bratwurst logo—yes, rocket bratwurst, and yes, there’s a story there—and the phrase “I’m carrying Ares Berger’s Baby” printed across her chest and arrows pointing to her small but growing baby bump.

It’s been remarkably effective in discouraging the number of men who hit on her when we’re out in public.

I stifle a sigh. Felicity’s not only smart, she’s also gorgeous with her red hair and green eyes and gets hit on all the time even with the massive rock Ares put on her finger. And she’s having a baby with the man she loves. Maren’s an environmental engineer and one of the biggest Thrusters bloggers online. Alina’s job is so cool, and she’s famous in her own right.

And then there’s me.

The third-generation veterinarian who sometimes cross-stitches profanity-laced wall hangings when my siblings—also quite brilliant—annoy me.

No wonder Nick only wants the benefits. I’m really fucking boring.

“How’s thirty?” Felicity asks while the elevator rises.

“She’s only been thirty for a few hours,” Alina points out.

“But hopefully a few really amazing hours,” Felicity replies.

“Thirty’s happening,” I tell them, and I’m so far off the happy boat that I just belly-flopped into Cynicism Pond.

All three of my friends instantly go on high alert and crowd closer. Maren pulls me into a hug. Alina pats my back. Felicity can’t reach, so she settles for herding us out of the elevator on the sixth floor.

“Did that one difficult client bring in her biting hedgehog again?” Maren asks.

“Did your family forget?” Maren asks.

“Did someone drop a load of dick cookies on your front lawn?” Felicity asks, which would normally make all of us snicker, but not today.

“I took the day off,” I tell them.

“Whoa,” Alina whispers.

Felicity’s brows go high enough to arm-wrestle her hairline. Instead of turning toward the guarded door marked Thrusters Personnel Only, she steers us toward the hallway outside the private viewing suites for the rink. “Is everything okay? Not that you shouldn’t take your birthday off, you just seem…not happy about it.”

“Did Ares put a baby cow in Nick’s condo last night?”

“Oh,” Maren murmurs.

Alina rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding?”

Only Felicity struggles to keep a straight face. “No, we went straight home after the game. But I can guess who else might’ve been responsible. Want me to text Ares? He’ll find out where it came from.”

“Farm animals belong on farms,” I snap. “Not in the city.”

Her brows lift again. Alina’s eyes go wide. Maren squeezes my shoulders tighter, and I realize I feel like I’m being kidnapped. “Let’s get you a drink, and then we’ll come up with a plan.”

“I already have a plan. Well, one half of a plan.” Thank you, anger. “I’m working on the rest. There aren’t as many no-kill cow shelters as you’d expect, and I’ve run out of my normal zoos and sanctuaries to call. Felicity, where are we? I know this isn’t your office. It’s—”

She swings a door open, and my entire family shouts, “Surprise!”

Except that’s way more people than just my mom and dad in person, with my dad holding out a tablet to feature my brother and sister on a video call. That’s also—

Oh, shit.

While they burst into a round of Happy Birthday, I realize Muffy’s here. She’s grinning widely under her Thrusters bandana while she sings, her twin brown braids falling low on her impressive chest. Aunt Hilda’s here too. Some of the vet techs and office assistants from the clinic I run with my mom.

Felicity’s parents.

Some of the Thrusters’ girlfriends and wives.

Including Gracie, Manning Frey’s wife, with their four-month-old baby.

Oh, such a cute baby.

I want a baby. With green eyes and brown hair and that ridiculously charming grin.

But the one person who’s clearly missing is Nick.

He wasn’t playing dumb because he was coming to a surprise party, no matter what that little pitter of hope in my heart wanted to believe when Felicity flung open the door.

He forgot.

Because I don’t matter enough for him to remember.

My eyes water while I force a giant smile. The song ends, and my parents smother me in a hug. My brother and sister pile on the birthday greetings through the tablet, along with not-so-subtle reminders that I should treat myself to a phone of my own with a battery that will last longer than three hours. Everyone’s talking at once. Birthday balloons float overhead, including several shaped like 30’s, and a giant Happy Birthday sign is hanging over the glass that looks down on the rink where the Thruster Girls are doing their pre-game show.

“Isn’t this amazing?” my mom gushes. She and dad have had season passes in a private box for years, but they’ve never been in the Thrusters’ corporate suite. I’ve only been here once before, and only because Felicity needed to grab something. “What a wonderful birthday present. Did you have fun on your day off? I’m so glad you took some time for yourself today.”

“It was good,” I lie, and because Aunt Hilda is elbowing in, Mom doesn’t question my lackluster answer.

“There’s the birthday girl! I’m so proud of you, finally calling Muffy for help.”

The entire box falls silent, because even the Thrusters’ girlfriends and wives that I don’t know very well know who Muffy is, and they probably also know that I’ve been nursing a ridiculous crush on Nick for ages.

My friends know.

My family knows, and they’re all gaping at me, even my siblings on the video screen.

My coworkers know.

Muffy bumps Aunt Hilda out of the way. “I want another hug.” She squeezes me tightly and adds in a whisper, “Ignore her. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“New decade, new crush,” I whisper back.

“Look at her glowing,” Aunt Hilda says. “That’s what deciding to go after love will do for a woman.”

Alina scoots closer and squeezes my hand while Muffy leaves me to muffle her mother. “Muffy?” she whispers. “Kami. Even MisterGoodEnough.com’s dating service would be seventeen steps over Muff Matchers.”

She has a very valid point. “I’m trying them all, okay?” I whisper in a voice soft enough that no one else can overhear.

Also, I’m totally not trying them all. Even if she does have a valid point. I tried to make a profile for myself on Date to Mate and almost hyperventilated.

Asking Muffy to match me is basically like asking to not be matched at all.

And then I can slowly get used to the idea of dating.

For real.

“Are you trying just the ones for random hook-ups, or the ones for finding your soulmate?” Alina asks.

Before I can answer, Felicity’s phone blows up with a series of texts.

I freeze, and I probably look guilty as hell, because I have a feeling I know what that’s all about.

And that’s another reason I shouldn’t get mad.

Really mad.

I do some crazy stupid things when I get mad.

Everyone turns to stare while Felicity’s phone keeps dinging.

“Maybe you should check that,” Maren says.

“Or not,” I mutter to myself.

Is it possible to sink through the floor?

Because I’m coming down off the angry high, and now it’s possible I’m having regrets about all of my temper tantrum this morning after I got my phone plugged in at home.

My friends share another look, and Felicity whips out her phone.

Which is still dinging.

My birthday guests crowd around her screen.

I slink toward the bar and take a cautious glance at my own phone, which is—no surprise—already registering in the red on the battery line.

Maybe I shouldn’t get a new phone. Maybe I should totally disconnect and let the world happen.

The bartender has this gorgeous, curly black hair and sweet brown eyes and a dimpled grin that gets bigger as he watches me approach. “Fancy a drink, love?” he asks me in a British accent, and I want to kick myself, because why can’t I be swooning over that?

I tell myself that my problem isn’t that Nick’s the only attractive person in the world.

My problem is that guilt is preventing the swoonage over the bartender.

I’m a truly terrible person.

“Something strong,” I tell the bartender. “Really strong.”

My friends will probably all never talk to me again. Especially Felicity. Because she has this look like she’s starting to put things together.

At least I’ll forever have alcohol.

And pizza without mushrooms.

Everyone rushes to the window overlooking the ice.

“Oh my god,” Alina whispers reverently.

Maren tips her head back and laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs some more.

“Holy shit, I knew having Zeus on the team would bring more antics, but this—this—I have to go.”

Felicity spins, looking for me, and I drop my head to avoid her gaze and pretend I’m digging in my purse for money. It apparently works, because she’s suddenly giving me a quick shoulder hug. “Put that away. The drinks are free in here. I’m having a birthday do-over with you tomorrow. Or the next day. You tell me when you’re free, and I’m there. But this—I have to go get Thrusty. And a camera team. This is gold.”

I don’t ask, because I know.

It really is gold. And since Felicity—and her bratwurst-on-a-rocket puppet, Thrusty—are basically the Thrusters mascot, she needs to get down to the ice and use what she can for the Thrusters’ next promotional video.

I should feel proud, but I don’t.

“What the devil’s going on over there?” the bartender asks me.

I give him a bland I have no idea look and venture closer to the windows. Maren grabs me and pulls me up front. “Look! Kami! The Thrusters got you a birthday present!”

An entire flock of penguins has taken over the ice at Mink Arena an hour before game time.

They’re waddling all over between the nets. Someone’s tossed pucks out, and a few penguins are using them like soccer balls. Security swarms the ice. The thin but growing pre-game crowd is all gathered at the edge of the rink, pointing and taking pictures.

“Fifty bucks says that was Zeus Berger,” one of the girlfriends says.

“Probably Philadelphia sent a present!” My dad chortles.

“My money’s on Nick Murphy,” one of the wives says. “He’s the worst prankster.”

They’re all wrong.

Those penguins?

That was all me. Me and a zookeeper friend downtown.

Because yelling at hockey players?

Not effective.

Pissing off their coach and general management over their use of animals in pranks on the ice an hour before a game?

That cow will be the last farm animal I pull out of any of the guys’ homes this season.