Page 29 of Lucky Puck

“I was the best man. Very private exchange of vows.” He talks like he’s been a play actor all his life and this is all fun and games.

The young woman reporter, who I recognize from back at the arena, shoulders her way through the crowd, lasers in on me, and speaks out over the others. “Aren’t you a little young to be getting married? You’re twenty years old, right? And does your family know about this?” The crowd quiets down to listen to my answer.

Shit.

“We’re consenting adults. Besides, this is Vegas,” I add, not saying flat out that the marriage could be a lark, but implying it. Cripes, I can’t even imagine getting married for real if this is the kind of commotion I’d have to put up with.

“Isn’t your wife from the Jett Agency?” someone says. That’s when Brooks’ professional smile collapses.

“This is Bianca Brooks,” I say. “Like she said, we won’t be staying long, so excuse us while we go sign some autographs for the fans.” I give a pointed nod at Stubby, and he has some official NHL escorts obligingly lead us away.

We finally arrive at the main event where it’s loud and littered with all kinds of hockey-related booths and mini stages where players are on display, signing for fans and handing out NHL swag. We’re led to one of the small stage-like platforms behind a wide table where several other All-Star players sit, interacting with fans and signing posters.

Sabien steps up, getting some attention as new blood, but when the fans see me, they swarm, screaming.

“Brody! Are you alright?”

“I’m so glad you’re not hurt!”

“Sign my t-shirt!”

“Sign my boob!”

Okay, so it looks like most of the screaming fans are women. Shit. I keep my left hand in my pocket, not wanting a repeat of the last interrogation and hoping word doesn’t spread before we can unravel the story. I climb onto the platform behind the table with the other players. I don’t even realize I’ve dragged Brooks—I mean Bianca—with me until she tugs her hand from mine.

Our eyes connect with a question, but neither of us seems to know exactly how to handle this.

“The cat’s already out of the bag,” Sabien says, seeing our hesitation.

She pales, giving me a panicked look, and all I can do is smile at her in reassurance.

She stands next to me while the crowd grows and closes in, murmuring in confusion. A couple of the other players raise their brows in question.

Trochesky, the undisputed MVP of the league for the past three years, says, “I didn’t know this was take your agent to work day.” He nods at Bianca.

She gives him a tight smile and nudges me, whispering, “Say something or I will. And I’m not sure what I’ll say.”

Leaning close, I whisper back, “I have no idea what to say either.”

We both look at Sabien to handle it, though that may not be the wisest solution since he got us into this stupid newlywed lie.

Sabien shrugs and turns to the other players and fans in front of the table. “Meet the new Mrs. Brody Holden, formerly the agent known as Bianca Brooks.”

“I’m still Bianca Brooks and I still work for the Jett Agency,” she rushes to say, though she doesn’t contradict the lie about being my wife. My wife? God, that sounds so foreign, and I should be shuddering in horror, but instead it’s strangely elating. Maybe because I know it’s not real and it’s like a game, where we’re actors on a stage playing house.

The crowd of fans roars to life with applause and whistles, attracting more people from the other booths and interactive games. The other three players at our table come forward, congratulating us with back slaps and bro hugs for me and genuine hugs of affection for Bianca. She seems to know most of them personally.

But then why not? The Jett Agency handles most of the best players in the league.

I wonder what Jett is going to think about all this. Shit.

“We can only stay for fifteen minutes because Brody needs to rest after his… fall,” Bianca delivers the line with a smile.

“You mean you need to get on with your honeymoon, don’t you?” Trochesky says, getting a laugh from the fans. I settle into signing posters, t-shirts, and a few bare arms. Luckily, I sidestep the request to sign bare boobs. Brooks helps with that, standing behind me with her arms folded, along with Stubby and a couple of security types.

Without turning around to see it, I can picture her staring down the nervy woman who dared to make the lewd request, with her signature librarian scowl.

The guys give me grief about the cut on my face and start calling me Frankenstein. I’m damn lucky no one here asks me about a concussion, but then, they know better. The extent of an injury is a closed-door discussion for any of us. It’s understood that we need to play through whatever we can play through or lose our spot to the competition. Worse, allow our competition to gain an edge on our team.