Page 42 of The Game Plan

As the client I should be paying the check for heads to the counter, I ask my fake husband through gritted teeth, “What are you doing?”

“I thought you were working?” Jax asks, feigning casual as he sweeps the mini pastry that came with my drink off my plate. Clearly, he’s feeling anything but casual to even be asking.

“I am working. If you must know, I’m filling in Logan on my current… situation. If by some miracle I figure out a way to restart my business, I’ll need all my good contacts. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

“Don’t you think it looks strange that my wife tells me she’s busy, then I spot her out with one of our rivals? It’s a good thing I was with TJ and Zach and they know the truth.”

I gasp with realization. “Oh my God, you’re being possessive!”

“I’m not,” he protests, sitting back into his seat huffily.

I scoff. “You are! You’re jealous!”

“Jealous? I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? You’re my wife.”

I rear back from him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Mine. Like my stick and my gloves, my pads, my skates. For, you know, appearances, for twelve more weeks, you’re mine.”

I burst into laughter. “You’re a walking red flag, Jax!”

“I am not.”

“You are, too. So red flaggy you look like a state building.” I reach out and pinch his bottom lip. “Poor little boy is jealous that he doesn’t have mommy’s undivided attention.”

“Ooo, Mommy? You want to role play, baby? I’m always here for a bit of kink.”

I open my mouth to speak but Logan returns to the table, forcing me back from where I hadn’t realized my hand had settled on Jax’s firm thigh. Where I was staring into the wide eyes of my hot husband, thinking if I were going to start role-playing, I might start with a hot hockey player in need of a post-game rubdown from a randy physiotherapist.

Nine and a half more weeks. I can’t afford to get confused about this.

Jax, even meaningless sex with Jax, equals bad news. My life is currently a shambles. And this crackle and pop that’s happening between us is nothing more than a tick-tocking of a clock. My focus needs to be on getting a plan in place before I have Carl, my parents and the immigration office to answer to.

“Oh my God, can I have a picture, please?”

A passerby snaps a picture of Logan, Jax, and since I’m sandwiched between them, me, before asking the guys for their autographs and confirming that said picture will look great on his socials.

My life is chaos.

* * *

“We’re being videoed by that kid across the street,” Jax says as we leave the café, having spent a good hour chatting to Logan. Actually, very little about work once Jax arrived but it was nice. I got to know more about Logan in that hour than I have in the last couple of years I’ve worked for him. He seems like genuinely good people.

I glance to the teenager holding up his phone without shame ten yards or so from Jax and me. “Some people are so brazen,” I say.

I’ve never been on the receiving end of Joe Public thinking they have a right to know everything there is to know about you. I’m aware of it because that’s my job; I manage it for so many professional athletes and other artists. But I’m starting to get a real sense of the unrelenting pressure Jax and the rest of the guys are constantly under. They can’t put a foot wrong without being recorded doing it.

People make mistakes and verbally trip up every day of their lives, but they do it in private. It’s rarely scrutinized outside a close circle of friends and family. Jax and the guys probably make fewer mistakes than other people, honestly. They’re so mindful of every step they take being poured over by millions of viewers on the Internet. Yet, every single wrong turn is exploited.

If this were the courts of public judgment, I’d be counsel for the defense. That’s my job, to protect the athletes. Walking down the street with Jax right now, I feel an overwhelming need to prosecute the praying eyes that don’t give players the privacy they deserve.

Jax is a big guy, he can defend himself, he knows what he’s dealing with, even if all he wanted to do was play hockey and win games. But maybe my protective instinct is the reason why, when he slips his hand into mine, I don’t startle or pull away. Instead, I interlace my fingers with his and give him a squeeze that I intend to mean, I’ve got you, even as the warmth of his skin and comfort of his firm grip suggest he’s the one who’s got me.

We may be doing this whole marriage mirage thing mostly for my benefit but I’m not going to ruin his reputation because of it either. We need to keep up the show for nine and a half more weeks.

He glances down to me and smiles. With gratitude, I think. Knowing that I have done the right thing by him gives me a little flutter in my stomach.

“So, what are you up to now?” he asks. “Any other meetings with sports’ sexiest men alive that your husband should be aware of?”