Page 40 of Lucky Puck

“Before I hand over my ass, I want to know exactly how this would work.”

“Simple. I move in and watch out for you. Think of yourself as being back in college, and I’m your dorm mother.”

“Dorm mother?” I laugh, pretending I’ve never heard the term. But I have because I know old people and listen to their stories. My grandma went to college back in the day and told me all about life back then. It was wilder than people these days think. They just did a better job of keeping it all on the Q.T.—as grandma would say.

“Yes. A little old lady with an iron fist who keeps you locked down and focused on your job for the rest of the season. If you’re not on the ice or with your teammates or with me, then you’re sleeping—alone.”

“Shit.” I suppress my smile, but it’s hard—along with my dick—because she’s the furthest thing from a little old lady. Although I can picture her iron fist… wrapped around my—shit. Don’t go there.

“Of course it’s your choice.” She folds her arms in front of her ample chest, and if she’s trying to look tough, this isn’t the right pose because all it does is draw attention to her curvature, which happens to be more than enticing.

“No one’s going to believe we’re married for real. I’m only twenty years old⁠—”

“They already believe it. Look, you let some strange woman slip a wedding band on your finger, and now we need to deal with the fall-out somehow.”

“That was…” I want to say not real, and yet it did happen because I can see the evidence—the wedding band on my ring finger. Fuck.

“That was a mistake. I get it.” Her voice gentles. “We can plan your redemption.”

I open my mouth and don’t know what to say. It’s hard to argue with her for a fuck ton of reasons—pick one. Because I lost my mind, my wallet, and could lose my biggest promotional contract—and did I mention my self-respect? Because I would sure as hell be underwater as far as earning professional respect with my teammates if they found out the truth—not counting Sabien.

I nod.

She jumps up from the couch and practically runs from the room, saying something about packing to go home.

Chapter Seventeen

BIANCA

“Now that the whole world thinks you’re married, the team will have to throw you a party,” Sabien says as he climbs into the airport limo behind me. We’re finally getting out of this cursed town.

I resist my first impulse, which is to punch Sabien in the arm. I don’t know where I’m getting all these violent impulses. I haven’t felt this way since my stint as a seventh-grade substitute teacher.

“Since you got us into this alternate universe, that’s the least you can do,” Brody jokes like he’s not convinced this is happening, like it’s all a big joke. He enjoys playing the mischief-maker too much.

But, for once, I don’t scold him. “Forget about the party. Let’s talk about our exit plan. We’ll get a fake divorce from our fake marriage at the end of the season,” I say calmly in my most reasonable and conclusive voice of authority, as if I’m in charge. As if I were talking about his contract’s no-trade clause instead of a freaking fake marriage and divorce.

Underneath my massive old leather handbag, I’m crossing my fingers that they’ll both go along with the plan. Even if I can get Brody to agree, Sabien could sink the whole ship if he loosens his very flexible lips any further.

I’d laugh at the look on Sabien’s face if a good dose of embarrassment didn’t flame up and turn my cheeks into twin potbelly stoves as I glance at Brody’s mocking raised eyebrows. I can’t tell if his disbelief is the pleasant harmless kind or the unpleasant annoyed kind. He’s way too unpredictable.

I don’t want to judge him harshly in spite of my frustration. I need to think of him as a decent man deep down no matter how ridiculously unwise his behavior is. It’s not like he’s an ax murderer after all. He’s actually very respectful toward women in my observation. He likes us. Way too much, maybe, but still…

Brody cuts into my internal insecurity dialogue. “What Ms. Brooks means is that she thinks I can benefit from having a watchdog—I mean wife—for the remainder of the season to make sure there are no more Vegas showgirl incidents.” He turns to me and leans in. “Did I get the gist of it, baby cakes?”

I snort at the baby cakes moniker. “I’m not your baby cakes.” It was a knee-jerk comment.

“Oh, but you are. According to your plan, you’re my baby cakes until the end of the season.”

The seemingly impossible happens as soon as his words hit my ears. I heat up even more, to volcanic lava levels, and the heat shoots everywhere. Forget about my scalding cheeks. Now it’s the hot buzzing between my thighs that has me squirming.

After sputtering as I try to regain my obliterated cool, I blurt like a kid cornered by her worst nightmare—a hot guy mocking her into useless indignation. “That’s not the way… what I had in mind—and you know it.”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Brooks,” Sabien attempts to placate me while my cheeks remain flushed and other body parts seem to be past the influence of any attempts to cool off, and in fact are being stoked into a raging inferno by the devil incarnate himself—aka Brody Holden. “When the shit hits the fan, Brody is a team player in spite of his normally shameless stat-padding tendencies.”

I wave a hand at Sabien’s useless prattle because this isn’t about winning a hockey game. Though I realize underneath my panic that winning games is the most important thing, I can’t get past the implications of him not going along with the charade—it would mean certain death to my career. Worse, if he does go along with the charade and gets it in his head to aim his considerable charms at me, I could very well end up as devastated as if the fake divorce were real.

“Of course I’m worried.” I try to keep the panic from my voice. “You saw what happened to him when he was left alone for one night.”