“I can’t go to the game tonight. I can’t face that kind of mob.”

“It’ll be fine. We already have a plan to get into the arena tonight. And you don’t have to worry because we’ll be in a box and reporters can’t get to us; plus, now that I’m pregnant with sextuplets, no one is going to care about your divorce from Douchey McDickface.”

“I can’t believe Bishop did that. You hate media drama.”

“I hate it when they use baseless facts to railroad people more. Let them have a heyday with that. I’m sure I’ll get knocked up sooner than later, and someone will say it’s someone else’s baby.”

I want to stick around and make sure Queenie is actually okay, but I’m out of time and I need to head to the arena, so I’m forced to leave her in Stevie’s capable hands. So much for a relaxing afternoon for her.

Obviously I’m worried about Queenie, and distracted. I check in with Queenie after I get to the arena, and she assures me she’s okay, sends me a shot of her team-color-themed manicure, and tells me that she’s still coming to the game, which is a relief. I’m grateful for Stevie and the other wives, because today has been tough enough for her as it is. I just want things to go smoothly tonight.

Most of my family has already arrived in Seattle, apart from Hanna, who’s coming in through LA because of a conference she was attending, and her flight was delayed by a couple of hours, so she’ll miss the first half of the game.

I check my messages on the way from the parking lot into the arena. Based on the family chat, they’ve already dropped their stuff off at the house, fought over rooms, raided my fridge, and made fun of my lack of exciting beverage options for anyone but toddlers. They obviously haven’t found the liquor that Queenie brought over. Or the stocked beer fridge in the garage.

I have a new message from Hanna letting me know she’s finally on her way to Seattle and that she’ll see me after the game—that one was sent about ten minutes ago.

There are private messages from my mom telling me she has a very special surprise and that everyone is very excited to see me. “Special surprises” are not a rarity and often take the form of a hand-knit sweater, or a beanie, or a scarf. I have a closet full. I message back to let her know I’m excited to see everyone and that I look forward to the surprise before I pocket my phone and push through the doors to the arena.

I pass the hall leading to the offices and use the back entrance to access the locker room. Normally Bishop and I would have ridden in together, but with my family coming it made more sense for us to come separately.

Bishop is already there, in his underwear. They have a strange print on them that I don’t want to inspect too closely, because it looks like there’s a woman hugging his junk, and it’s magnified thanks to the cup he’s wearing under them. The woman actually looks like Stevie when her hair is pastel purple.

I drop down on the bench in front of my locker. “Thanks for helping us out earlier.”

“Least I could do. It was my fault the media showed up in the first place. Ten fucking minutes after I posted about getting my junk waxed, a million freaking reporters showed up, being assholes, asking stupid questions. I shoulda known better, considering what’s been going on today.” He nods in Corey’s direction.

He’s sitting on the bench on the other side of the room, looking rough. He was quiet during pregame skate, which was highly unusual.

“I saw him in his car earlier; looked like he was getting chewed out by the fiancée about something. You’d think she’d be happy now that there’s nothing standing between her and his bank account anymore.” Bishop slides his feet into his skates and starts lacing them up.

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the actual divorce?”

“Based on how she tried to blackmail Rook back when he started out, and the number of players she’s been on the arm of over the years, there’s a good chance she’s looking for an easy meal ticket. Besides, you’ve been in the shower with him: there sure isn’t anything to get excited about.” He motions to his crotch.

He has a point. Corey is about as well endowed as a Chihuahua.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Rook reaches around Bishop and steals his deodorant out of his locker.

“Hey! What the hell, man?”

“I ran out. I’m borrowing. You’re family.”

“Uh, no, in-law is not the same as a blood relative. And even if you were my blood, I would not lend you my fucking deodorant.” Bishop tries to snatch it back, but Rook’s on his feet and Bishop’s skates are only half-laced.

He pops the cap off, and it hits Bishop in the chest. He grins as he lifts one arm high in the air and rubs the stick all over his armpit.

Bishop makes a gagging sound, then smiles right back. “Reverse cowgirl.”

“What?” Rook frowns.

I elbow Bishop in the side before he can repeat himself, aware that this conversation isn’t going anywhere good. “I have a brand-new one in my bag. Rook, you can keep that one.”

Rook’s eyebrows pop as he finally digests what Bishop’s said. “You son of a bitch!” He hurls the deodorant at Bishop, who ducks out of the way. It ricochets off the wall behind him and lands on the floor.

“I’m fucking kidding, man, but you asked for it. Borrowing deodorant is like borrowing underwear or a toothbrush. The only person who gets to do that is the one whose tongue is routinely in my mouth, and that person happens to be your sister.” Bishop is still grinning, aware he’s skating near the edge.

“Even that was more information than I needed.”

“Well, maybe you’ll think twice before you go around borrowing deodorant.”

“Winslow, Bowman, you’re worse than a couple of toddlers fighting over the last cookie. Give it a goddamn rest or I’ll change the starting lineup, and one of you isn’t going to be happy about it.” Jake has the uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere, generally when those two are in the middle of one of their bitchfests. Since Queenie made the suggestion, they’ve been putting them on the same line for home games to change things up, and so far the results have been highly favorable. While Queenie might not always believe it, it’s clear that she has good instincts and she sees solutions or possibilities that others might miss.

“Rook used my deodorant.”

Jake grimaces. “That’s just wrong.”

“He divulged personal information about my sister’s sexual-position preferences.” Rook thumbs over his shoulder at Bishop.

“I was joking, and I only said it after you used my deodorant.”

“Just get your asses dressed and game ready.” Jake turns to me. “King, you good?”

“Yes, sir.”

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s been a rough week; thanks for sticking by her,” he says quietly.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”

He nods, then continues on over to Corey, expression stoic. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it’s been for Jake to deal with him through all this.

Bishop and I finish getting game ready. “Hey, check this out.”

He shows me his phone. There’s a picture of Queenie with Lainey and Stevie, hair done and dressed in my jersey and a pair of jeans, and she’s smiling. It looks genuine.

Once we’re on the ice, I scan the arena, look for the girls, and find them up in a box. At least Queenie is here, even if she’s not close enough to steal a kiss from. I find my family in another box on the other side of the arena.

I shift my focus away from my family and Queenie—the latter is more difficult than the former—and get my head in the game. It’s intense since we’re playing one of the best teams in the league, but I manage to keep the puck out of our net during the first period, and Rook scores a goal. In the second period our opposition gets lucky with a rebound off the bar, but Bishop scores for Seattle, keeping us ahead in the game. In the third Corey gets back-to-back penalties, putting us at a serious disadvantage. Offense has to work twice as hard to keep the puck on the other end of the rink, and the defensemen are all over it, protecting the net. We take the game 3–2, so it’s still a win, but I blame Corey and his chippy playing for the close score.

Regardless, we won, my family is here, Queenie’s divorce is finalized, and we’re in a good place, which I’m taking as a positive sign.

Half an hour later I’m showered and dressed in my suit, ready to meet up with everyone. Bishop and I arrive at the bar together. My phone is blowing up with messages from my family, and I have a bunch from Hanna, which I assume is her letting me know she’s here. I hear my family before I see them.

“Oh, man, you ready for this? Sounds like Gerald is already three sheets to the wind.” Bishop’s expression is somewhere between a cringe and a smirk.