Page 3 of Unmanageable

Before that, we were just friends of friends. My best friend Ivy is marrying his best friend Callahan, so we were friendly enough.

Okay, maybe we were a bit flirty.

But at least we weren’t crossing any professional lines.

Now? I’m the woman who knows he takes his coffee black with three sugars—which is a hate crime against coffee beans—and that he unironically listens to 90s country when he thinks the locker room is empty.

When I pull up to Talvi Ice, the lobby lights are dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows over the empty rink. I park and walk inside the rink.

At the center of the storm stands Iveline Talvi St. James.

Bride. Heiress. My best friend.

People forget that Ivy used to be terrifying—clinically precise, emotionally distant, a girl carved out of ice and uncured daddy issues. Then Callahan and the Boston Reign adopted her like a stray cat, and she… thawed.

She’s warm now. She bakes things that involve sprinkles and genuine joy.

She’s essentially a golden retriever with a high-functioning anxiety disorder, and I would fight God to keep her this happy.

Though, looking at her right now, “happy” is a stretch. She’s staring at a massive foam board covered in a mosaic of sticky notes and arrows like she’s trying to solve a cold case.

“Scottie, thank God,” Ivy gasps. “The florist is trying to kill me. Or bankrupt me. Tell me, is it possible to be murdered by baby’s breath?”

“Only if they stuff it down your throat,” I say, slamming my leather binder onto the table with a satisfying thud. “Step away from the board, Ivy. You’re hovering. Hovering leads to second-guessing, and second-guessing leads to us serving Taco Bell at the reception because you’ve had a total breakdown.”

“At least people like Taco Bell,” she whispers and then shakes her head. “I should have eloped. I had a plan. A 7-Eleven. I’d already picked out a Slurpee flavor. Blue raspberry. Very chic. Why did Cal talk me into a cathedral?”

“Because he wants to show you off,” I say, squeezing her forearm. “And because you are going to walk down that aisle looking like a literal goddess, and you’re going to say ‘I do’ without tripping, because I will personally sand down any uneven floorboards in the building.”

“Before you say anything,” a cheerful voice cuts through the tension, “this is a mimosa, and therefore socially acceptable. It’s practically orange juice. Vitamin C is a lifestyle choice, Scottie.”

Jenna Martin is perched on a folding chair, looking like she’s ready for a Vogue spread instead of a late-night logistics crisis.

“Nothing about you is socially acceptable,” I say, though I can’t suppress the smirk.

Jenna beams, taking it as a compliment. “So, how is our favorite goalie? Did he agree to the sensible training camp in New York, or is he still acting like a nomad?”

I sigh. “He gave me a PowerPoint, Jenna. With transitions. And clip-art. He wants to go on a road trip across the country in a van and train with random goalie coaches.”

Ivy perks up, her eyes clearing for the first time all night. “A van? Like… together? Just the two of you in a metal box?”

“It’s professional,” I say, the words feeling like a lie the second they leave my tongue. “He’s at a crossroads. He needs the support.”

“Uh-huh,” Jenna says, swirling the pulp in her glass. “And does this ‘support’ involve you sharing a bed with a man who looks like he was carved out of granite and pheromones?”

“He’s my client,” I snap. “And he’s annoying. He’s a giant, athletic child.”

“He’s a child who looks very good in a tuxedo,” Jenna adds. “I saw the fitting photos Callahan sent. Cash has that ‘I might ruin your life, but you’ll thank me for the experience’ energy.”

“Do you ever hear yourself?” I ask.

“Constantly. I’m delightful.”

I groan, turning my attention to the board. My fingers start itching to organize the chaos. “Why is Aunt Lorraine anywhere near Uncle Evan? I thought I moved them.”

“Ivy said they only tried to kill each other once,” Jenna says with a wink. “And I say time heals all wounds. Or at least scabs them over enough to survive a three-course meal.”

“Once is enough. Attempted homicide is not a hobby, Jenna. You don’t collect them like stamps.” I slide two sticky notes across the board. “There. Aunt Lorraine goes next to the florist. They can talk about peonies. Uncle Evan goes next to the DJ. If he starts a scene, he’ll be drowned out by bass drops.”