Page 10 of The Game Plan

“You missed out in that speech that you surely want out of this marriage, too?” Mitch asks.

I rest back in my seat and shrug. “Makes no difference to me.”

What I did drag from my short-term memory bank last night was that I’d been resolute in the run-up to Tray and Amelie’s final ceremony – the tenth one that never happened because Sienna and I took their place – that I had wanted her to stay in New York so that I could date her.

Which is weird in the sober light of day. I don’t date. Hockey is my girl. But the tequila mind wanted what the tequila mind wanted. It wanted something with Sienna, or the chance at it at least.

5

SEPTEMBER

Sienna

Temporary

Four days on from Nevada, I’m sitting across the desk from the President of In-house Management at the Dragons’ arena on Long Island. There’s an employment contract between us.

When Mitch first suggested that I take over his role on a temporary basis until he gets back on his feet, I was reluctant. One million logistical questions ran through my head, not least how and when do I extract myself from my existing position and am I willing to walk away with nothing from my company on the basis Carl doesn’t try to pursue restrictive covenants? Because the long game here is for me to get my visa status updated and start work on setting up my own PR consultancy.

I don’t remember much from a very drunken day on the Strip in Las Vegas, but I do remember clearly when Jax told me I was mad not to set up on my own. He’s right. I should. I brought more than my fair share of the business to that company. So this contract with the Dragons would benefit Mitch, in that the Head of Comms who sits beneath him doesn’t chomp at his heels and Mitch has time to recover. And me, because I get my visa and don’t have to go home to small-town Canada with my tail between my legs and admit to my parents that I lost both my job and my fiancé because I wasn’t good enough to keep him. At least not as good at screwing him as Marcela.

“I have to warn you,” Cheska says, wincing around her words. “There’ll be some people, one person in particular, who has been waiting in the wings for Mitch’s job and won’t be happy that we’re bringing you in above him. Watch your back.”

I stand and offer my hand to my new boss, both of us formally attired in suits and high heels – boss ladies. “Thanks for the heads up,” I tell her. “Hopefully the fact this is a temporary arrangement softens the blow for Carter.”

She picks up the contract we’ve both signed and hands it to me. “I guess you need to run a copy of this down to the immigration office. Good luck, and all being well, we’ll see you on Monday. You’re going to be dropped in at the deep end with all the preseason shenanigans kicking off.”

“I’ve got it, Cheska, I promise. It’s not my first rodeo with hockey boys.”

We share a smile. I’ve only spent a short time in her company but I like her. She’s a woman’s woman.

As I make to leave the back offices in the arena, the corridor is quiet but for the occasional distant shout and the distinct sounds of blades carving ice and pucks hitting boards.

I cross the hallway and into the suite of media boxes overlooking the barn, where the Dragons are having their first preseason morning skate. There are a couple of new faces traded in this season, including a new draft pick who comes with a hefty expectation tag. From this distance, it’s difficult to differentiate the players in their kit. Yet, surprisingly, I immediately recognize the outline of my soon-to-be ex-husband. If, indeed, he hasn’t already pulled his finger out of his ass and put an end to the farce we, admittedly jointly, performed nearly a week ago.

Jax glides around the ice, switching between the inside and outside of his blades. He looks broad and rugged in his pads but has the grace of a bird of prey, as if he and the ice are joined by rails.

I love ice hockey. It’s part of the anatomy of a Canadian, an unwritten rule that we either follow the sport or be ostracized as unpatriotic, so it’s not as if the elegance of a brawny hockey guy is new to me. But watching Jax skate, I’m mesmerized. Fixated on the way he controls the stick and handles the puck, passing off and receiving from the other players around him. He’s a second line center of a Stanley Cup winning team; his passing game is obviously strong.

Seemingly, it’s hypnotic, too.

I have things to do, so indulging in the fine physique of a hockey player is not time I can afford to waste. What I do need is to get down there and check on the status of our annulment because I just signed an employment contract without informing my employer that I have a conflict of interest, in that I married a man completely intoxicated while reeling from the loss of another man, who technically I am still employed by and therefore in conflict with over taking on a new position, too.

No matter what Jax says, I would never marry him just for a green card. Inebriated or not, my moral compass points north. Which only serves to make the fact I got married at all more of a puzzle. Grief, anger and sambuca are clearly a force!

Ergo, I really need to hot foot it down to the immigration office and get my visa amended, so as to not be deported. I make my way through the back tunnels I’m already familiar with. I’ve worked with Jax and other guys on the team on multiple occasions when their transgressions – sometimes fairly described, sometimes wholly unfounded – have been brought into the limelight for public scrutiny.

Rule number one in the National Hockey League, do not bring your team into disrepute off the ice. On the ice, a guy can drop his gloves for a punch-up, crosscheck his opponent, do whatever the hell he wants so long as he’s willing to serve time in the penalty box. For all other misdemeanors, there’s someone like me to help.

I shouldn’t interrupt the morning skate but come Monday, I’ll have an excuse to be on the ice, planning events and socials, recording the players, or at least directing the social media manager to do so. I might as well start now, by making sure my dumbass husband has sorted out our admin.

The guys are chatting amongst themselves and it’s TJ, Jax’s brother, who spots me first, standing in what would be the players’ box during a game. He tips off Jax to my being here, who raises his chin, unclips his helmet, and lazily glides my way.

“Wife.”

I look around us, despite knowing there’s no one in earshot but also fearful that the ice hockey professionals will realize that I can be an idiot if supplied with enough liquor.

“Could you not?” I whisper-gripe.