Page 2 of Proposal Play
I clear my throat. Fucking raspberries.
“So,” I say to the crowd once more, “let’s get this party started!”
I set down the mic and try to dismiss these new thoughts about Maeve. I’ve known her for eight years. Met her in grief counseling. She’s not only my best friend’s sister—she’s myotherbest friend.
In all that time, I’ve never thought of her lips. I mean, not much. No more than the average number of lip-related thoughts a straight guy would have about a straight woman.
This is just a passing thought. And passing thoughts…pass.
Bet it goes away right now as the bride and groom hitthe dance floor, urging everyone to join them while the upbeat pop song plays.
Maeve’s heading toward me in a black dress that hits right below her knees and hugs her hips. “Want to know what’s never a bad idea?” she asks when she reaches me.
“What’s that?”
“A dance,” she says, and yes, of course. That’s a perfect reminder of our long-standing friendship.
We dance to a few tunes, all fun and friendly. It’s enough to erase those errant thoughts from before. We roll into the cake-cutting and then the toasts from the bride’s relatives. Then another slow song begins, and Beckett grabs the mic and points to us. “And now it’s time for the traditional best-man and maid-of-honor dance.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say.
Maeve rolls her eyes at my retort. “I don’t bite,” she says as she nears me.
Butdoesshe bite? In bed? Does she like to be bitten?
Ah, fuck.
What is happening to me? I could blame Frank Sinatra, singing about foolish hearts. Or maybe it’s the wedding messing with my head. I’m a big fan of weddings—my dads took me to a million of them when I was growing up. In the years since, the dates were always plentiful, the times were always good. I’m simply a wedding kind of guy.
That’s all.
Relieved that I finally get what’s going on in my brain, I take Maeve into my arms, my hands curling around her soft waist.
That’s nice.
A friendly kind of nice though.
The way my palms fit around her figure is very,veryfriendly, I’m sure. I’m not distracted by her bare shoulders and the freckles dotting her fair skin. Besides, we’re a respectable distance away from each other. Several inches, probably. Studies have shown that several inches is a platonic amount of space.
“Question for you,” Maeve says, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the speech.
“Hit me,” I say.
“Do you remember something else that seemed like a good idea? Like the morning you thought it’d be a good idea to do a Zoom interview with The Sports Network whilenotwearing pants?”
“The team publicist almost didn’t forgive me,” I say, laughing as I recall theare you kidding meshock on the publicity director’s face when I showed up at the arena later that day.
“But of course, you had to get the Pop-Tart out of the toaster in the middle of the interview.”
“It would have burned,” I say with zero sarcasm. No remorse either.
“Thank god you saved that Pop-Tart. If not, the whole world wouldn’t have seen your…wait for it…best hockey butt ever.”
I’m not even embarrassed that I’m known for having a great ass. “I had on compression shorts?—”
“Tight, nearly see-through, white compression shorts,” she corrects.
“That made my ass famous,” I counter. “And now I have a great underwear sponsor. So really, the ass paid off.”