A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom

Eli

I wake up having been run over by a bus and then spat out of a trash compactor. I am a tiny, trash-compacted cube of throbbing pain.

“You’re not a cube, you’re a drama queen, that’s what you are,” a familiar voice tells me.

Did I say that out loud? At most, maybe I mumbled it. My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and I have only hazy memories of being taken off the ice, riding in an ambulance, and having a bunch of bright lights in my face. Voices waking me up, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, beeping monitors. Someone—a doctor?—telling me I have a concussion but will be fine.

I crack open one eye and hope it effectively conveys glaring. Probably not, based on the way Alec chuckles.

“Too loud,” I mumble, closing my one eye again. Darkness is a relief. And this hospital room is practically glowing. “And I’m not being dramatic. I’m concussed. Can we turn off the lights?”

“They’re off. That’s called the sun, dude. Good morning.”

Great. So, Van is here too. Doesn’t the hospital have a limit on visitors? Or, at least, smart-mouthed hockey players?

“I’ll work on the blinds.”

Guess the limit is at least three, because that’s Felix. And the grunt I hear sounds like Nathan.

“Thanks. Are we having a team meeting in here or what?” I ask. “Did you decide to vote me off the island?”

“Can’t we check in on our favorite and most concussed player?” Logan asks.

“How many of you are in here?” I groan. “It’s like a clown car. But a hospital room full of hockey players.”

“I’m here too,” Parker chirps. Then, probably noticing my wince, she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Sorry. We all just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“And that you don’t have amnesia,” Van adds. “I was kind of hoping you did, just so I could mess with you.”

“Thanks? I remember you guys—maybe a little too well. But I don’t … I don’t remember exactly what happened.”

“It was my fault.”

This voice I don’t recognize as much, and I crack open the same eye again, zeroing in on Wyatt, standing next to a poster about healthy blood pressure. He looks grim. Not that unusual, as he’s like Nathan’s second-in-command with regards to grumpiness. But Wyatt looks darker now, his eyes shadowed.

“How was it your fault?” I ask.

“It wasn’t,” Alec says. “He’s got a guilt complex. It was as much your fault as his.”

“My fault?”

Van sits down on the end of my bed and gives my foot a squeeze. “Don’t worry, cowboy. You were just defending your wife’s honor.”

Before I can ask another question, Alec jumps in, explaining how I was in a bad mood today, though no one could figure out why, and Wyatt got on the wrong side of the other team’s right winger, who then made a comment to me about Bailey and⁠—

“What did he say about her?” I growl, trying to sit up even though it makes the throbbing ache in my head more of a slamming chisel to the skull.

The reminder of Bailey has me suddenly feeling an urgent tug in my chest. And an ache of longing. It’s as nice as it is annoying to have all the guys here, but they’re not the ones I want.

No—the one person whose face I’d like to see—need to see—is across the country.

“Calm down, big boy,” Van says, lightly pushing me in the chest. “No need to get testy.”

“We took care of the guy,” Logan says, and Parker rolls her eyes.

“You’re all a bunch of idiots,” she says, and then when Logan bats his lashes at her, she adds, “Lovable idiots. But still.”

“How did I wind up with a concussion?” I ask, settling down again with a scowl.

Though I have some memories of after filtering in, I can’t remember before. The last memory I have is … gearing up? Or maybe skating out from the tunnel? Trying to remember makes my head throb.

“Your helmet came off in the fray, and you took a knock to the head, then hit your head again when you went down on the ice,” Felix explains.

“Good thing you’ve got a thick skull,” Alec says.

“Where’s my phone?”

I need to call Bailey. Especially if she happened to be watching. Does she know I’m okay?

Also: I missed our talk last night. The one when I was planning to actually tell her how I feel and hopefully get confirmation she feels the same way. It feels oddly ironic the way I finally planned to stop holding back—and then got held back by things outside of my control.

If anything, absence has made my heart surer. More sure? Whatever. I know Bailey is the woman I want, and I know I want to tell her.

“You’re not allowed to be on screens for a while. Doctor’s orders,” Logan says.

“Someone get me a phone,” I seethe. “I need to check in with Bailey.”

“I sent her a message,” Parker says. Then her smile tightens. “But I didn’t hear back from her.”

I clench my jaw, then groan and stretch it. Every little movement hurts right now. But I need to talk to Bailey. I need to⁠—

There’s a commotion out in the hallway. Some shouting and a scuffle.

“Sounds like you’re not the only troublesome patient,” Van says, patting my foot again. I give him a little kick in response.

“You can’t go in there!” The voices are getting louder now, and that one definitely belongs to a tired member of the hospital staff. She sounds like she’s about half a second from calling security.

A male voice, getting closer now says, “Ma’am. Stop. I don’t want to forcibly remove you.”

Or … maybe she already called security.

All the heads in our room swivel toward the door as the first woman yells again, “He already has too many visitors in the room, and you can’t just⁠—”

“I am his wife.”

The grin stretching across my face hurts, but I don’t pull it back. Because I know that voice. And as Bailey appears in the doorway looking like some kind of warrior, ready to take on the evils of the hospital staff with her bare hands, warmth spreads through my chest, gliding right to the tips of my fingers and even my toes.

Doesn’t dull the headache at all, though, which is going to really make it a challenge to kiss Bailey the way I want to. I can’t even get myself out of the bed right now.

“Wife,” I say, and refuse to be embarrassed by how much emotion is in my voice. The crying kind.

Van doesn’t miss it, though, and must open his mouth to remark on it because I see Wyatt darting away from the wall and hear an oomph from Van. But I’m not looking at them. Only Bailey.

“Hockey player,” she says.

This time, Wyatt doesn’t move quickly enough to stop Van from saying, “Which one?”

I’m the one who kicks him—right off the bed and onto the floor. Which really doesn’t do good things for my head, but I regret nothing.

“Everybody out,” Alec says, clapping his hands. When I wince at the sharp sound and the way it tunnels through my head, he lowers his voice. “Sorry, Hop. Everybody out.”

Parker hugs Bailey, who’s still hanging in the doorway, and a few of the guys pat her shoulder or back. Alec manages to sweet-talk the nurse and security guard who were trying to stop Bailey, and in a few seconds, everyone is gone.

But Bailey is still standing in the doorway.

“After all that bravery, telling off the hospital staff, and making marital declarations, you’re scared to come in here?”

I pat the bed next to me, unable to really scoot over for her because I just know that kind of movement will kill my head. Kicking Van almost made me puke. Throwing up is the last thing I want to do right now.

“I just … need a minute,” Bailey says, and I frown. Which, like everything else right now, hurts.

Don’t I even get a morphine drip in this place?

“What do you need a minute for?” I ask, as she finally, finally walks fully into the room, pushing the door closed softly as she does.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I needed to see for myself that you were okay. I’ve been traveling all night, and the last thing I saw was you on the ice, not moving.” She stops just short of the bed, and I don’t miss the way she’s twirling her rings or the way her lips tremble. “Seeing that on a YouTube livestream was …”

“Come here. Please.”

I tug her toward me, trying to move slowly but still wincing because my stupid, stupid head feels like someone is hitting it repeatedly with a rubber mallet.

“Does it hurt to move?” she asks and when I nod, she narrows her eyes. “Then stop moving.”

“Then get in this bed with me.”

“There’s no room.”

“Get in the bed, wife.”

“So bossy,” she says, carefully settling herself next to me. “Are we having our first fight?”

“Only if it means we get to make up later. Ow.”

“Does it hurt to smile?” With gentle fingers, Bailey traces my lips.

“Everything hurts,” I groan, and she shifts, running her fingers through my hair. “Except that. That feels awesome.”

“Then I’ll keep doing it. Even if you didn’t score any points.”

I close my eyes, trying not to laugh. Groaning instead because her fingers feel so good on my scalp. Forget a morphine drip. I need a Bailey mainline. “Did you fly all the way here to tell me how much I sucked in the last game?”

“Yep. That and to tell you I love you.”

“Aw, you—wait. Hang on. Did you just say you love me?” I stare at the shy smile on Bailey’s face, wishing my brain felt less mushy so I could be one hundred percent sure she said⁠—

“I love you.”

This time, I get the full effect. Because I’m watching her as she says it, and I’m slightly more prepared than I was a few seconds before.

“You love me?” I know I sound incredulous, and Bailey’s face dims slightly—not what I wanted. At all.

“I know it’s soon, and we still barely know each other but⁠—”

“I wasn’t aware love had a strict timeline,” I say. “Or that you had to exchange social security numbers or something before you could say it. Because I don’t know everything about you, and I don’t know your social security number, but I love you, Bailey Hopkins.”

Her grin stretches wide, and her fingers press harder on my head, making me moan as my eyes flutter and try to shut. But I don’t allow them too. I can’t stop looking at Bailey. Who loves me.

“You don’t know my last name, either,” she says. “Because I haven’t changed it yet. It’s still McKinney.”

I frown. “Why haven’t you changed it?”

“There hasn’t been time, hockey player. But I have the paperwork and plan to do so. Until then, just so people are sure …”

She spins, moving her hair out of the way. I didn’t even notice she’s wearing a jersey, but she is. And it’s mine. I trace the letters of my name across her shoulders.

“I love you, Bailey not-yet Hopkins,” I tell her. “And it may be soon, but I’ve known for longer.”

Bailey turns and puts her hands right back in my hair. This time, when my eyelids flutter, I allow them to close. “How long, hockey player?”

“At least a week.”

“That’s like … a third of our relationship,” she says with a giggle.

“Depends when you start counting. I mean, if you consider when I first came into the shelter⁠—”

“You did not have feelings for me then.”

I open my eyes and, despite the ache it causes, I lift my hand to take Bailey’s, then press a kiss to each of her fingertips. “But I loved coming to the shelter for more than the dogs. I made it a personal challenge to see if I could get you to talk. And I loved making you blush. Just like now.”

I let go of her hand to trace over her pink cheeks, dipping to her mouth, where I drag a fingertip over her lower lip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” I say. “I wasn’t sure how you felt, and I didn’t want you to feel pressured or stuck. I wanted to win you over without overwhelming you.”

“Can we talk about that?” Bailey asks. “And then, I want to do some not-talking, and then I think you need to rest.”

“Okay,” I say agreeably, mostly because I like the idea of not talking very much. And I’m also exhausted.

“You do not overwhelm me, Eli. You aren’t too much for me. The last thing I want is for you to hold back.”

“Good.” A tightness I wasn’t even aware of loosens in my chest, and I slide my hand around to cup the back of Bailey’s head.

And then I kiss her, not holding back.

Not holding back the depth of emotion I feel for her or the hopes I have for us, not holding back because of fear or worry or uncertainty.

It’s only the pain in my head that forces a groan out of me—not a happy kind—and has me flopping back against the pillows.

“Sorry,” I say, a little out of breath.

Bailey smooths her finger across my forehead, then goes back to my hair as I let my eyes close again. “Don’t be sorry,” she says. “Rest. You’ll need it. Because”—she leans closer and brushes her lips over mine—“when you’re recovered, I don’t plan to hold back with you either.”

It’s with this promise and the knowledge that Bailey is fully, finally, actually mine, that I drift into sleep and happy dreams.