I really don’t know.

My Katt Phone beeps, but it’s not my brother. The tone is the special sound reserved for management. My stomach rolls with dread, and I check the screen with great reluctance.

My fear grows when I see that the text is from Georgia, the publicist. Holy crap! What does she know? I tap the message with a shaking finger.

Hey Charli—can you bring your All Stars medal to practice today or tomorrow? And if you could be a few minutes early, I’d love to get some photos.

Oh. Phew. Sure. No problem, I reply.

I get up and tiptoe into Neil’s bedroom with the goal of stealing a pillow, but the giant king-sized bed beckons. I climb onto it, resting my head on a luxury goose-down pillow covered in a crisp linen case.

It’s much more comfortable here. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. But my stupid brain pokes me with the terrifying truth: I’m married to the man who owns this bed.

I’m his wi—

Nope. Still can’t do it.

SIX

Eggplant Jokes

Neil

It would usually embarrass me to be even two minutes late for a video meeting. But today my timing was perfect. I’d slipped into the back of the tape room just as the session was starting, leaving my friends no chance to razz me for missing the jet.

And no chance to ask awkward questions about last night.

Sure, several heads turned to give me the once-over. My friend Anton’s gaze had lingered the longest. You okay? he’d mouthed.

I’d nodded quickly. Nothing to see here.

Then the session had begun, with me sitting up straight in my chair and paying close attention. I’m the kind of guy who always shows up on time and does what’s expected of him. Last night was an anomaly, and I need management to know that.

Let the healing begin.

The meeting is pretty dull, though, and after a while, I take a surreptitious glance at my phone. This must be how criminals feel after the heist has been accomplished—uneasy, like they’re waiting for cops to show up.

Anyone could have seen us in that wedding chapel. Las Vegas was crawling with hockey journalists for the All-Star events. That’s why I’m nervous. Anton used to frequently find himself on the gossip rags. I’d like to avoid the same fate, thank you.

Luckily, none of my new messages are from the publicity department. There are dozens of texts from my teammates, though, and these are almost as scary. If I was drunk enough to get married last night, who knows what else I did or said?

One mortification at a time, please.

I skim through a series of emails where my teammates razz me over missing the jet. Dude, what happened? Anton says. I thought you were joking when we argued about the flight time.

Well, that’s embarrassing. But it’s only Anton. He’s done worse. For example, the captain tells every rookie that he has to get a Brooklyn Bridge tattoo on his ass to prove his loyalty.