Worse than all that, though, is I now have to deal with this—a groom who seems to have everything but our upcoming nuptials on his mind.
Grrr…
This isn’t good.
Brent Oliver, my husband-to-be, who also happens to be the captain of the Las Vegas Wolves professional hockey team, is far too busy these days dwelling on his recent playoff loss.
The man tells me he has no time for weddings, cakes, dresses, or anything matrimony-related.
It’s true.
With Brent lately, it’s all been hockey, hockey, hockey. As in what could our team have done differently?
Now hear me out. I’m a good fiancée, not an annoying Bridezilla. I understand Brent’s frustration. He really, really wanted to win that second Stanley Cup. The Wolves won last year, so expectations were high.
Hey, I want him to win another also. The first time around was so sweet. But this just wasn’t the Wolves’ year to take Lord Stanley’s cup home.
Hockey works like that sometimes.
It did with the Wolves—they were knocked out of the playoffs in the second round.
Annnd there went the season, right down the drain.
But our wedding is still on.
And despite his protestations, Brent’s mind needs to be where mine is—on wedding planning.
We’re a couple, right?
Yes, we are.
The wedding is in June, only a couple of weeks away. Plus, Brent’s heading up to Minnesota early.
Oh, that’s where we decided to hold the wedding, by the way.
So can you now see why I need Brent engaged?
And I don’t mean just to me. I want him freaking “engaged” in this whole process. Hell, he got his way on Minnesota as the setting.
I relented only because that’s where Brent’s from and where his parents still live.
Well, okay, we have some history there too.
But that’s a whole other story.
What’s important is I can’t do this all by myself.
But there’s one good thing in all this mess. My sister, Lainey, has been around to help.
Well, mostly.
Right now, she’s being a real pain in the ass.
“You should have hired another wedding planner, Aubrey,” Lainey just snapped at me as she was rolling down the passenger window of Brent’s vintage 1969 cherry red Camaro.
He’s actually letting me drive it. Shocking, I know. He was so disengaged this morning when I asked if I could borrow his classic car—his baby that he never lets anyone drive—he said okay.
Clearly he wasn’t paying any attention to what I was asking.