“Yeah, like how long are we going to stay married? How long are we going to keep this charade going?”
I run my hand over my jawline, scrubbing at the stubble that’s formed in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t typically keep any facial hair because it draws too much attention to my scar, but I couldn’t be assed to shave this morning. Now I’m glad for the distraction.
I really haven’t thought this far ahead. I just figured we’d ride out the social media storm for a few months and then figure things out from there, but dealing with everything during hockey season…well, I can’t do that.
“The season maybe? I have to focus on hockey, and I can’t deal with a divorce and other drama in the middle of that.”
She scoffs. “You say that like I’m going to drag you through the mud and take you for all you have like some kind of gold-digging monster.”
I don’t refute her claim because I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried about that. I know Ryan, but I don’t know Ryan. I have no idea what she’s capable of, and people do some sketchy shit when they are desperate. Since I don’t have a way out of this situation other than seeing it through, I’m going to protect myself as much as I possibly can, which means focusing solely on my divorce when it comes time for that.
Divorce. The word tastes awful in my mouth.
It’s crazy to think we just got married last night and we’re already talking about it like we’re discussing what groceries we need to buy.
But that’s what we have to do, isn’t it? We have to keep this professional and businesslike. The last thing we need to do is bring any sort of emotions into this mess.
“And if you make it to the playoffs? That’ll be like a year…”
Doesn’t she know she’s going to jinx it by implying we won’t make it?
“When,” I correct her. “If you’re going to be married to a hockey player, you should know we’re a bit superstitious. So, when we make the playoffs, we’ll reevaluate things.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Reevaluate things. I can’t believe that’s how I’m talking about my marriage.”
I can’t either.
“What are we going to do about our families?” she asks.
I groan just thinking of how my mother is going to go full-blown batshit. “Make them believe it, I guess. What about your parents? Will they care?”
“They aren’t…part of my life. It’s just me, my older brother who is off doing Marine things in Okinawa, and Grams.”
The nonchalant way she says it makes me feel uneasy and a little sad for her. My family isn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I couldn’t fathom not having them in my life.
My mom is loud and a little overbearing at times, and my dad can kind of get on my ass about my hockey stats, but they love me and support me. I don’t know where I’d be without them.
“All right,” I say. “We lie, then.”
“We lie,” she agrees. “Other than Harper and Collin, nobody can know this is fake. We have to play it up if we want to make it believable. Your family, teammates, your coaches—nobody can know the truth. Can you handle that?”
Handle that? Please. I’m the king of faking it until I make it.
“The GM might kill me, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Maybe you should get my name added to your life insurance policy before we go back, just in case.”
Oh look, she’s got jokes.
“Do Lowell and Miller suspect anything?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to them. Lowell certainly isn’t stupid, so I’m sure he knows something is up. Miller, on the other hand…well, he’s Miller.”
I love the rookie. He has some seriously sick hands out on the ice and is a big reason our team won the Cup, but he can be a bit dense sometimes.
Ryan laughs, understanding what I’m getting at, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from her since we got into this mess. I don’t hate the sound of it.
“If we’re going to pull this off, I think it goes without saying we won’t be seeing other people during this whole sham of a marriage.”
She eyes me, waiting on my answer anxiously. I want to be annoyed that she would even suggest I’d step out on her, but to be fair, with the way we got married, it’s clear I’m not the best at making decisions.
“Of course not.”
“Good, good.” Her shoulders sink with relief, and she clears her throat. “And our living situation? What about that?”
“We’ll live at my house, of course.”
The look she gives me says she wouldn’t share a room with me even if she had to.
I don’t know why I say that last part. It just comes out, but I realize I mean it.
“You have a house?” she asks, and I drag my eyes away from her body. If she noticed me staring, she doesn’t call me out on it.
“Yeah, where did you think I live? In a box somewhere?”
“Or hell.” I ignore her jab and her proud smile. “Possibly even in an apartment. Some bachelor pad for sure.”
“No apartment. No bachelor pad. I just bought a three-bedroom house over in Grandview Hills.”
She lifts her brows at the name of the neighborhood, which is known for being a bit ritzy. I didn’t choose the place because of that; I just liked the privacy that came with it.
I’m not the type to have my business and my name splashed across the headlines. For someone who plays a professional sport, I live a low-key life. With this scar marring my face, I already give people enough reason to pay attention to me. I don’t need to add to that, which of course makes this whole situation even worse. I have a feeling I don’t even want to know what they’re saying about us online right now.
“What do you need three bedrooms for? It’s just you, isn’t it?”
I lift my shoulders. “I like having the space, especially when my family comes to visit.”
Which they do often, and that’s going to suck.
“Are you close with them? Your family, I mean.”
“Yes. They gave up everything for me. I owe my entire career to them, and I make sure they know it, flying them out for games as often as possible.”
She nods once, her eyes full of something I can’t quite place my finger on. “Your place it is, then.”
“All right. Any other stipulations?”
“Yes. I want my own bedroom, there will be no PDA, and I’m not taking your last name.”
“Even if this were a real marriage, I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s your name—you do what you want with it.” Her eyes widen at my response, surprised by it. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I just thought you might argue. That seems to be your thing with me. I say something, you say something snarky back, then walk away all hot and grumpy.”
I lift a brow at her choice of words. “Hot and grumpy?”
She rolls her eyes and sinks lower into the tub. The bubbles are nearly completely gone, and if I were standing any closer, I could see everything.
I really want to see everything.
“If there’s nothing else, you can leave now. I’d like to finish my bath in peace.”
“Actually, there is one other thing I’d like to discuss.”
“Of course there is,” she grumbles, closing her eyes and relaxing into the water that I’m sure is cold by now.
I stalk across the bathroom, not stopping until I’m hovering above her. I was right; I can see everything. Every dip and every curve.
My fingers itch to reach out and touch her because I can clearly remember how every inch of her feels under my fingertips. How my rough palms dug into her soft flesh when I wrapped my hands around her waist and held her against me.
She’s fucking stunning.
From the way her breathing picks up, I know she can feel my eyes on her body. And with the way her nipples pebble just under the surface of the water, I know she likes it.
“S
ex.”
Her eyes fly open. “Excuse me?”
“Sex. We’ll be together for a year. You’re going to want it.”
She snorts, turning her nose up at me. “With you? Not likely.”
Her words sting, but I’ll never tell her that.
I lean down, resting a hand against the side of the tub. “Trust me, you will.”
I place a few fingers on her knee that’s poking out of the water. She gasps just from the miniscule touch. I laugh darkly as I walk my fingertips down her thigh and underneath the bath water, not stopping until I’m dangerously close to her pussy. So close I can feel the heat coming off her.
Her legs part, begging me to touch her, and I’m not even sure she notices it.
“But, Ryan?”
She makes a noncommittal noise, her eyes drifting shut as I inch closer and closer.
“It’s not going to happen.”
Without warning, I yank my hand from the water and flip the button on the drain.
I shake my wet hand over the tub and grab the nearest towel, tossing it at her.
“We have lunch plans. Get dressed, wife.”
7
RYAN
Are you allowed to hate your husband when you’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours?
If so, I’m pretty sure I hate Rhodes.
I hate the way he stood over me, staring down at me with those hungry hazel eyes of his. The way he drank in my body that I know he could see through the cloudy water.
But what I hate most of all is the way my body reacted to his gaze.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s not a good thing that my husband is hot.
He’s right—a year is a long time to be celibate. It’s going to be hard, but after that little stunt he just pulled, I’m determined to prove him wrong.
I won’t want him. I can’t want him.
Ugh, I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this. I have to be crazy, don’t I?
It was hard to tell him no when he was looking at me like he was. I know he’s worked hard for this career. Hell, he took a damn skate blade to his face and still kept pushing to make his dreams happen. I don’t want some drunken mistake—especially since it’s me—to put all that at risk for him.
He’s not the only person I’m doing this for, though.
My grandmother took me in and raised me when she didn’t have to. She gave up so much in her life for me. The least I can do is give up a year of mine to repay her and make sure she’s comfortable living out the rest of her life.
One year, and he’ll be gone most of it because of hockey season. I got this.
I can see him from where I’m at. He’s currently sitting on the end of my bed, scrolling through his phone while waiting for me to finish getting ready for lunch.
I get where he’s coming from when he says we need to go, need to show a united front. But I don’t want to go. I don’t want to face my mistakes from last night. I suppose since we’re going to be running this farce for an entire year, we might as well start now.
“That video is…wow.”
I poke my head around the bathroom door. “You’re looking at my Instagram account?”
“Figured I should learn a few things about my wife. Your account is popular.”
I hate the way he says wife—like it’s a curse word.
“It’s nothing. I’m small potatoes compared to some creators.”
“I’m pretty sure you have more followers than our team’s account.”
It almost sounds like there’s a little bit of pride in his voice, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
Unless it’s coming from my grandmother, pride isn’t something I’m used to.
“It’s nothing,” I say again. “I have more followers on YouTube anyway.”
“Do you make money doing this?”
My hackles rise at the judgment in his tone.
I get it. Social media is the worst sometimes, and content creators get a bad rap. It’s not like I set out to have this as my career though.
In college, Harper and I took a special effects makeup class because we thought it would be fun. I fell in love instantly and became obsessed with watching makeup videos on YouTube. Before I knew it, I was making my own. Ugh, those earlier videos are awful. Poor lighting, poor editing, and even poor makeup. But with practice, I got better, as did the quality of my videos, and eventually, I garnered some attention for turning myself into different celebrities, creatures, and a few different Disney characters. Things took on a life of their own after that.
I was able to monetize my channel and started to bring in an extra hundred dollars a month. Now, it’s in the thousands. It’s nothing compared to what some beauty gurus make, but it’s generally enough to cover my grandmother’s care, which is not cheap. My parents aren’t going to help with the cost anytime soon and my older brother lives a whole word away in Japan and is busy being a Staff Sergeant in the Marine Corps, so if this is what I have to do in the meantime to pay for it, I’ll do it—Rhodes’ judgment be damned.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I do.”
He lifts a challenging brow. “Actually, it is my business, wife.”
I glare at him. “Well, in that case, since you’re so worried about my finances, I’ll make sure to bring my bank statements to lunch for you to look over. We can cry about my student loan debt together.”
He narrows his eyes, not appreciating my sarcasm.
“You still have student loans?”
“Yes.”
“I can pay those too.”
My stomach drops at his suggestion. “Is this some kind of Pretty Woman situation to you? You’re not paying my student loans.”
“But you’re fine with me paying for your grandmother?”
I’m not fine with it. Not at all. I wish I could be the one to take care of her, but I’m also not stupid. I’m not going to let an opportunity like this pass me by.
I’ve already been running the numbers in my head. If I work my ass off to post more content over the next year and save my money wisely, I should be able to pay off the remainder of my student loans, and that’ll take away a big burden.
“You’re not paying my student loans,” I say again.
He grits his teeth at my response, not looking the least bit satisfied. “Fine.”
“Fine. Anything else, husband, or can I finish getting ready?” I toss the word back at him with just as much disdain as he’s been serving me.
“I don’t want our life together on social media.”
His answer is quick and cagey, his whole demeanor changing. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable with the idea.
My eyes drift toward his scar. I suspect that’s his reasoning for not wanting to be in the spotlight.
When he realizes what I’m looking at, he abruptly rises to stand, his giant six-foot-four frame towering over me as he looks down his nose at me.
“We’re late.”
It’s all he says, dropping the conversation before I have a chance to answer him.
Okay, then.
I step back into the bathroom, apply one last swipe of mascara, and give my hair a fluff, then turn off the bathroom light.
“Let’s go,” I say, meeting his challenging stare head-on.
I do my best to ignore the way his eyes trail over my body. Just like I do my best to ignore the way my nipples pebble under his gaze.
I grab my purse off the dresser and slide the strap over my shoulder, following him out the door.
The ride in the elevator seems unusually long, and that same tension that was in the room follows us through every floor. He stands opposite me, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes never leaving mine.
It’s like we’ve entered a staring contest, and at this point, I have no idea who is winning.
When we arrive at the main floor, he blinks, looking away first. I don’t bother trying to hide my victorious smirk.
His fingertips graze the small of my back as we
shuffle out of the elevator. Just as quickly as they make contact, they’re gone, and it’s strange because I miss them instantly.
Just as we’re about to cross into the restaurant, his lips brush my ear, sending a shiver down my back.
“Last chance,” he whispers, and I hear the challenge in his voice.
He thinks I can’t do this. Thinks I can’t handle this.
He has no idea just how strong-willed I am.
It’s only a year, I remind myself. One year. That’s it. You can do this. Besides, it’s not like my heart is on the line or anything. Piece of cake.
“I’m not backing out.”
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
He just nods once and then straightens to his full height. “Let’s do this, then.”
Rhodes steers us through the restaurant toward the back where we are greeted with a loud, obnoxious, attention-drawing cheer from none other than Miller.
“Woo! Yeah! Congrats to the newlyweds!” He sticks his fingers in his mouth, letting out a whistle. It’s obnoxious and does nothing to help the hangover headache I have.
Everyone’s eyes are on us, and it’s not like the restaurant is empty. A few people whisper behind their menus, no doubt recognizing Rhodes.
I could maim Miller for his antics, and by the look on Rhodes’ face, he feels the same.
Lowell grabs his shoulder, pulling him back down to his chair. “Shut up, you idiot.”
“What? I’m just happy for the newlyweds.” Miller shakes off Lowell’s attempt to rein him in and rounds the table, wrapping his arms around Rhodes, patting him on the back. “So happy for you, bud.”
Rhodes gives him an Oscar-worthy performance and hugs him back, even going as far as to pat him on the back.
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Miller lets him go, and then it’s my turn for a hug. He wraps me in his arms, his big body engulfing my small frame.
I meet Rhodes’ gaze over Miller’s shoulder, and he looks…angry?
That’s not at all what I was expecting.
“I was hoping I’d have a shot with you,” Miller says as he lets me go. He claps Rhodes on the shoulder. “But I guess that’s out of the question now.”
Blind Pass (Carolina Comets) Page 5