“I knew it! You’re a hockey fan and you thought you could crash the wedd—”
“What? No!” I shout back but pause.
This is not how I want to behave here. I need my Zen.
Closing my eyes and trying to regain my self-control, I lower my voice to sound rational, “I followed you to the bathroom to apologize for walking into your room. I didn’t realize it wasn’t my room or that they were adjoining.” I open my eyes, feeling stupid but forcing the words out, “When I got to the hallway just now, I realized that standing outside the bathroom while you were peeing after coming into your room when you were naked wouldn’t improve things. So I chickened out and tried to duck into the ladies’ to hide from you.”
“Okay—well that makes sense. So you’re not a stalker groupie? Who the hell are you then?” he asks, losing some civility.
“Are you kidding me right now? Can you focus? I’m trying to apologize.” I also lose my patience as his accusations begin to land in my head. “And no, I’m not some puck bunny, you asshole! Not every girl prays for the day one of you perverts will grace us with your penis—”
“And yet you’ve seen mine twice in one day.” He laughs bitterly.
“I work for a PR company—”
“How did you find out about the wedding?” He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. He’s menacing this close up. The boyish good looks are gone and fury is left.
“Find out about the wedding? What is your problem? I was invited, you dick.” I blow past him, hurrying for the restaurant.
“Who invited you?” He isn’t letting it go. He grabs my arm and spins me to face him again. “Who?” His face is bright red, but I’m sure mine matches in anger and color.
“Sami Ford!” I tear my arm free, glaring and praying looks can kill.
“Why would Sami invite some fucking PR firm to her wedding?” He scoffs and there is almost no humor in the sound.
“Really?” I lift an eyebrow, ready with both barrels. “Can you think of no reason for PR to be at the wedding of the decade? How about the wet tee shirt contest in London?” I step into his face, snarling up at him. “What about the Clinton escapades? How about the time you got so drunk you let someone post a ten-minute video of you dancing in your underwear in a fountain in Spain? Even better, what about the time Matt Brimley got a blow job in the locker room while someone filmed it, only to be caught by TMZ at Sami’s later that night?” I tap my lip furiously. “Hmmm, such a mystery.”
His red face pales and he steps back but offers no apology.
“I don’t know why my firm was invited. My boss didn’t discuss it with me at length. If I had to guess, it’s in case one of you decides to shit the bed again, as you always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my beer’s getting warm.” I turn to stride away, my heart beating wildly.
But it doesn’t end there, of course it doesn’t.
I’m fired up and ready to go, over being called a stalker and a puck bunny, and the red rage is taking over. I spin around and offer my angry version of an apology, “And just so you know, Lawrence, I am really sorry I walked in on you naked, twice. Couldn’t be sorrier if I tried.” I flip him a middle finger and turn back toward the main house before he can respond. “Puck bunny,” I seethe and storm inside, finding my seat while ignoring all the staring faces of the hockey players.
“What was that?” Sukii asks, her voice is high-pitched.
“He called me a puck bunny and I saw his dick again. This time I watched him pee.” My voice cracks and I realize I’m close to angry crying but also laughing absurdly. The combination will be deadly if I don’t get it under control. I lift my beer and take a massive swig. The cool liquid slides down my throat, tasting like heaven and helping me calm down after the horrible encounter. It’s refreshing and exactly what I need to put the fire out. I drink the entire mug in one go.
“No,” Sukii whispers and shakes her head, her eyes wide. “Why? Why would you do that?”
Putting down my empty mug, I close my eyes for a second with my lips pressed into a firm line. After a moment, the words fall out, “I followed him to apologize for breaking into his room and shouting at him, but I’m not sure what happened. He went into the ladies’ room, it’s a single room. No stalls. He was peeing. The mirror—reflection—” I’m rambling and sweating again because, apparently, this is my fresh start. My new me. A sweaty awkward mess. “Then he accused me of being a stalker”—I wince and swallow hard before the next words—“and a puck bunny.” I take her beer and drink it too, also in one shot.
“Oh God, he called you a puck bunny? Oh no, he’s coming back.” She lowers her eyes on our table, and I freeze holding her empty mug and praying to the gods of all that is holy we don’t make eye contact. “Don’t look up,” she whispers, and I’m positive I catch a hint of a grin on her face.
“Don’t laugh!” I gasp.
Her lips press into a line, fighting the giggles.
“Remember when Stan’s grandkids’ bunny died and we had that funeral,” I say softly, trying to stop her from laughing. “And you were so sad.”
“I hate you,” she mutters and manages to fight laughing in his face as he stalks past us, taking his seat. Instead of being humbled by the entire thing, he lifts his beer in my direction and
