I gesture to my suit. “Yeah, wedding theme.”
He doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. “Exactly. Weddings are stupid, so I dressed the part.”
I take in his “I’m with stupid” T-shirt, the water wings, and his kilt.
“In that case, you nailed the brief.”
“Don’t you wanna know what it all means?” he asks innocently.
“I think you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“The kilt was as close to a dress as I’ll go, even for you, and it’s my family kilt. Only worn on special occasions. The T-shirt, because, duh. I think this whole wedding idea is stupid.”
“And the water wings?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He looks proud of himself. “They’re to stop me from drowning in all this commitment.”
Okay, that’s pretty funny, but I’m not going to let him know that. Not when he already looks so smug. “Thank you so much for being supportive.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I step closer and wrap my arm around his shoulders. “You always are.”
We approach the desk, and then it’s like a whirlwind as we sign some shit and I hand over my credit card. Even though this is all fake, I’m starting to sweat in my suit.
I still don’t know how getting married would somehow cure me of my irresponsibility, but I guess we’re about to find out.
My sister is proof that not all women want marriage, but all the ones I’ve ever dated do. It’s like they think that a ring on their finger is an ironclad contract, when my mother is proof that it’s not.
So if I want a woman of my own, I need to suck up all my issues and get over myself.
I’ve never been more grateful for Tripp. There’s no one I’d rather be doing this with.
We walk into the room where the actual ceremony will take place, and the sight of the short aisle makes my head spin. I tug at the collar of my shirt because it suddenly feels too tight.
Tripp’s hand finds mine. “You good?”
Am I? “I think so.”
“We can still back out.”
I clear my throat. “Nope. We’re here now. Let’s go.”
And even though my hand is clammy, he doesn’t drop it until we reach the front and things get started.
My knowledge of weddings is that they’re long and boring, which comes from sitting through all those enormous weddings my teammates have had. But in what seems like no time at all, the officiant is asking for the rings.
I reach for the pocket inside my jacket and pull out my Stanley Cup ring, just as Tripp holds up his own. He did say it was the only one he’d ever need.
The officiant says something ridiculous and mushy, and then he turns to me.
“Dexter, repeat after me.”
I hurry to put my game face on and take Tripp’s hand.
“I, Dexter James Mitchale, take you, Tripp Alexander Mitchell …”
“I, Dexter James Mitchale, take you, Tripp Alexander Mitchell …” The words feel so foreign.
“To be my husband, through the good times and bad. Through successes and struggles …”
I swallow hard. “To be my husband, through the good times and bad. Through successes and struggles …” At least that part is true. For us. Whatever we’ve been through in the past three years, we’ve been through it together.
“Through richer and poorer, and in sickness and health, I will treasure you for as long as we both shall live.”
And as I recite the words, the anxiousness inside me settles. Because everything I’m saying … well, it’s technically true. Rich or poor? He’s my guy. If he’s healthy, we’ll cause shit together, and if he’s sick, I’ll distract him until he’s better. I do treasure him, because I honestly believe there’s no one on earth who gets me like he does.
The idea of choosing one person to spend my whole life with is scary.
But as long as Tripp is always there, I know I can get through anything.
Four
TRIPP
When Dex suggested getting married, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So instead, I blinked at him like he was crazy.
Because this is crazy.
I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. Yet here we are, exchanging vows, and it figures that when I finally get everything that I want, it’s one hundred percent fake.
He’s doing this to try to convince himself he could get married if he was forced to, and I should’ve put a stop to it before now.
But there’s that part of me that wants this so much, I’m letting myself pretend. If only for a while.
The thing about falling in love with your best friend is that it doesn’t happen in an instant. And if someone asked me why I loved him, I’m not sure I could come up with any one answer.
He’s fiercely loyal. He cares about people, even if he doesn’t know them. His outlook on life might be naive, but fuck, everyone could use some naivety—to see the world through the eyes of someone who only sees the good in people.
From the moment I walked into the Vegas locker room, Dex was my best friend. He was the first to welcome me, the first to offer to hang out, and he’s been constantly by my side ever since. Somewhere along the way, my feelings just happened. One day we were on the ice for our warm-up skate before a game, and after I did my usual stretching and talking to my crossbar asking for cooperation, Dex skated up to me and held out his fist for me to bump.
It was our own pregame ritual, just between us. Fist bump, chest bump, hug, then a fake-out high five. In that order. Juvenile maybe, but the crowd who’s there early enough for warm-ups love it. It wasn’t supposed to become a thing, but it did.
And it was in that moment, doing something we had done together thousands of times, that I realized I was in love with him.
We lost that game in a shutout where I let in seven goals before Coach pulled me off and replaced me with Reeves, our backup goalie, who was a rookie at the time and couldn’t stop a bullet to save his life. I lost my game because I knew, without a doubt, I was already in too deep with Dex.
There was no falling out of love with him, and I hated myself for it.
“Tripp?” Dex’s brown eyes hold the kind of insecurity they usually do when a reporter asks about goal percentages, and he stands there with his lips parted and an “uhhhh” sound coming out his mouth. I swear some of them ask simply to make him look dumb.
“Right. Sorry. Vows.” The urge to run out of here is overwhelming, but I can’t do that to Dex. He’s too precious, and even though this feels real to me, like I’ve been transported into an alternate dimension and Dex is somehow in love with me too, none of it is.
We’re not even going to file the paperwork.
This is an experiment.
A goof.
It’s not real.
But as I say the words “I, Tripp Alexander Mitchell, take you, Dexter James Mitchale, to be my husband, through the good times and bad. Through successes and struggles …” I realize that I mean it all.