The Husband (Steamy Shorts #27)

Chapter 1

SEBASTIAN

Mad, looks mad as hell.

Get it? Mad and mad.

It's what I like to call her because she looks perpetually pissed off at me … even at our own wedding.

Her forehead furrows, and her nose scrunches like she smells something bad. Is it me? Do I stink?

Then, I realize … nah, it's not me. It's just specifically due to whatever this entire situation is.

I know, I know. She's mortified she's here and forced to do this. But…

Is it wrong that I feel like the happiest man in the world right now? Luckiest, too?

It's like being handed the Stanley Cup without playing or winning the lottery without buying a ticket.

Well, well, well. The stars did align for me today.

Mad's fingers tremble against mine, and I try to tamp down the all-too-familiar longing. My trousers grow tighter as my cock strains against the zipper, and I dig my heels into the floor.

Not now, buddy. Don't embarrass me in front of her and over a hundred guests.

If my teammates ever see me getting hard with the simple act of hand-holding, I will never live that down.

The officiant drones on about commitment and partnership while I focus on the soft press of her palm.

Three fucking years I've wanted to touch her like this.

Three years of watching her storm into Anya's office after my media disasters, clipboard in hand, those big brown eyes narrowed at me like I'm the biggest problem in her life.

Now she's mine. On paper, anyway.

"Sebastian," she hisses under her breath. "You're crushing my hand."

I loosen my grip immediately. "Oh, sorry."

Someone's pinned up Mad's dark curls with tiny white flowers that match her simple dress. Nothing like the massive princess gowns most hockey wives choose. Mad's dress hugs every curve, stopping just above her knees. Professional enough for a business meeting, sexy enough to make my mouth dry.

Although, to be fair to her, she can wear a burlap sack, and my cock will roar to attention all the same.

Yep, I need help. And maybe some therapy, too.

She shifts her weight, all five feet four inches against my 6'6 frame. So much attitude in one short, curvy body. I fucking love every inch of it.

"Try to look less like you won the Stanley Cup," she says, smiling the fakest smile I've ever seen in my entire life. "This is supposed to be a reluctant arrangement."

"Nothing reluctant about my end of this deal, baby. You know me, I go big or go home. I'm all-in."

Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink I like so much. "I keep trying to convince myself I won't regret this, and you keep giving me reasons I should."

I smile at the frustration in her voice. "You're stuck with me now, wife."

"Don't call me that."

"Emergency contact?"

"I'm not."

"Tax write-off?"

She shoots daggers with her eyes. "Clay, shut up."

I can't help it, so I chuckle softly. "Mad, you're a Clay now, too."

"God, I hate you so much."

The rooftop restaurant offers a panoramic view of the city. String lights overhead, flowers everywhere, champagne flowing.

Anya didn't half-ass our fake wedding.

My teammates fill three tables near the makeshift altar, Coach Anderson beside them looking uncomfortable in his suit. The photographer circles us like a shark, capturing every moment for the press release.

A perfect PR spectacle. Exactly what we needed.

Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed this possible. But then again, two weeks ago, I was still just fantasizing about Mad, not slipping a ring on her finger.

The locker room stinks of defeat.

Two goals down in the third period, and we couldn't claw our way back. I slam my locker shut, still in my base layers, hair dripping from the shower.

Coach's voice cuts through the silence. "Clay, the PR team's waiting."

"Tell them to fuck off." I pull my shirt over my head. "I'm not in the mood."

"That attitude is exactly why they're waiting." He gives me the look that usually precedes bag skates at practice. "Get your shit together and do your job."

I throw my gear into my bag. It's immature, I know, but I'm beyond caring. PR bullshit is the last thing I need after a loss like this. Some rookie reporter asking what went wrong when it's fucking obvious what went wrong. We played like shit. I played like shit. It was a shit game, period.

***

The media room's empty by the time I drag myself there. Just Mad standing with her tablet, checking her watch.

"You're late."

"Plus points for being a keen observer. Another one for stating the obvious."

Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but I'll take it. "Everyone's gone. You missed the press conference."

"Tragedy."

"Anya's going to hear about this."

"Add it to my tab." I step closer, towering over her. Mad never backs up, never shows fear. Her eyes flick up to mine, that spark of challenge I live for.

"Your tab's getting pretty long, Clay."

"Worth it to skip twenty minutes of 'we gave it our all' bullshit."

She tucks her tablet under her arm. "Your car's waiting. Try not to punch any reporters on your way out."

"No promises."

She rolls her eyes and heads for the door. "Goodnight, Clay."

I watch her walk away, the gentle sway of her hips in that pencil skirt making my throat tight. Every fucking time, she walks away. And every fucking time, I let her.

***

The parking garage is half-empty when I push through the exit doors. Security nods as I pass, heading for my Range Rover in the players' section. The loss sits heavy in my gut, my mind already replaying missed opportunities.

"Still hiding behind security, Clay?"

The voice hits me like a crosscheck from behind. Familiar in the worst way. I stop, keys dangling from my hand.

Kyle Ericsson stands in the shadows, camera hanging around his neck. Older, greasier, but those same beady eyes that followed me through middle school hallways.

"Private property, Ericsson. Get the fuck out."

"Public sidewalk." He gestures to where he stands, just beyond the property line. "Still know the rules, eh? Just like in school."

My jaw tightens. I should walk away. Get in my car and drive. But my feet stay planted.

"Nothing to say?" His smile spreads, showing yellowed teeth. "The big NHL star too good to talk to old friends now?"

"We were never friends."

"No?" He cocks his head. "Guess I'm more friends with your girlfriend then. The fat one back there with the nice ass. PR chick, right? Bet she's good with her mouth—"

My vision goes red, and I move before I think.

Three steps and I've got his collar bunched in my fist, his back against the concrete wall.

The rage is instant, burning through my veins like liquid fire, the same feeling I get before dropping gloves on the ice.

Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to do damage.

"Don't you fucking talk about her, Ericsson.

Her name shouldn't be in your filthy mouth," I snarl, my voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that teammates know means I'm seconds from losing it completely.

I can feel my knuckles turning white against his shirt collar, the fabric straining under my grip.

Kyle's eyes widen, fear flashing before his lips curl into that same smirk I remember from years ago, when he'd corner smaller kids. "There it is. The real Sebastian Clay. Not so polished now, huh? Big tough hockey player can't control himself."

Camera flashes explode around us in rapid succession, blinding white light coming from all directions.

Not just Kyle's—others hiding in the shadows, between parked cars, behind concrete pillars.

The setup hits me too late, the strategic placement of photographers becoming painfully obvious.

This wasn't a chance encounter. This was a carefully orchestrated ambush.

Fuck.

I release him immediately, stepping back, but the damage is done. The photos are already being taken, digital evidence of my mistake already making its way to every sports blog and tabloid in the country. I can almost hear my agent's phone starting to ring.

"Got what I needed." Kyle straightens his shirt, grinning. "Still the same pathetic boy with anger issues. Some things never change."

Mad appears beside me, her face pale. "Sebastian, your car. Now."

Kyle's eyes sweep over her, lingering. "Nice seeing you again, sweetheart."

Her hand finds my arm, fingers digging in. "Don't. He's not worth it."

I let her pull me away, my blood still roaring in my ears. The photos are already being uploaded, already spinning the narrative. Bold words being tapped out on keyboards right now.

Sebastian Clay, attacks innocent photographer.

Kyle fucking wins again.

Anya, also known as our PR Queen and nightmare in human form, paces her office the next morning, heels clicking sharply against hardwood. "Thirty million in endorsements almost gone in one goddamn punch."

"I didn't punch anyone," I say for the tenth time.

"You grabbed him by the throat—"

"The collar."

"The photos make it look like you're about to murder him." She slaps a tablet down in front of me, and scrolls. Headlines flash across the screen:

"NHL STAR'S VIOLENT OUTBURST"

"CLAY ATTACKS PHOTOGRAPHER"

"ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES SURFACE"

"END OF AN ERA FOR THE NHL GOLDEN BOY?"

Mad sits beside me, quiet. She hasn't looked at me since she got in my car last night. Hasn't said a word about Kyle's comments. And for some reason, her silence worries me more than the money I'm about to lose.

"Two brands are threatening to pull." Anya drops into her chair, rubbing her eyes and looking as though she hasn't slept in twenty-four hours. She probably hasn't. "We need damage control, and we need it now."

"He was baiting me," I say through gritted teeth.

"And you took the bait." Anya's eyes narrow. "What exactly did he say?"

I glance at Mad. "Nothing worth repeating."

Anya studies me, then Mad, then back to me, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. She snaps her fingers, and I really don't like the look on her face, especially when it starts to split into a wicked smile.