Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
While the forwards are on the other end of the ice charging the goal tended by Jake Gershon from the Pittsburg Generals, I shouldn’t be thinking about how I’ve been a terrible fake fiancé.
I happen to know Margo is watching the game unless she’s given up on me.
Ever since she returned to New York, she texts me after the Knights play. If we win, she sends a photo of her smiling and pointing to the final score. I don’t use this word lightly, but it’s utterly adorable . Like I want to bury my face in her hair and get a puppy adorable. If we lose, she tells me how well I played.
Truth is, I always play solidly. Not gloating. Just facts. There was only one time the other team was better—our current rival—the Cascades. Bets are we’re facing them in the final playoffs.
I need to work on spitting out better rebounds and make my cross-ice push more powerful. Hockey is a physical game and a mental one. For the latter, I locked that down a long time ago because it was the one place I could go to block out all the noise in my life. The singular objective is to guard the goal with my life. Felt pretty straightforward after I had to guard my life against the goals other people had for mine.
We have this game in the bag, which is why I’m less focused than usual. I haven’t so much been avoiding Margo as I’ve been busy with the team. Also, I hate texting. I’d be perfectly happy if cell phones didn’t exist. They only cause trouble.
But if I listen to that pesky voice in my head, the real reason I haven’t moved forward in this marriage of convenience is because that means telling my mother. Speaking to her in general is something I avoid even if doing so will finally free me from this burden.
Don’t want to sound ungrateful because my grandfather thought he was helping, and he was, but the inheritance keeps me tied to Sukie.
The game results in a shootout to break the final overtime-period score. I get into position and size up the three players on the roster who’ll try to sneak the puck into the goal, penalty shot style.
With every single person in the arena watching intently, tension builds. I let it roll off like thawing ice even though I’m melting like a candle under all this gear. The Cascades take turns. I block every shot. Gershon does not and we walk away the winners.
After unlacing all the pads and protectors that keep me sealed in for my own safety, I let out a long breath. I imagine this is what women during the Victorian era felt like when removing their corsets, only my gear is much bulkier.
After a shower, I get dressed and put away my skates.
“Who has Valentine’s Day plans for this weekend?” Micah asks.
Redd whistles. “We’re making heart-shaped cookies with Blue and then Whit and I are slipping away for a little date night.”
There was a time when everyone would’ve laughed, but Coach Badaszek, who lost his wife, has trained us to appreciate the women in our lives. The Puck Bunnies don’t hop around much these days.
“Dessert before dinner?” Hayden asks, referring to the cookie-baking menu.
“Any big TV appearances?” Redd teases back, referencing a reality dating contest Hayden’s agent slotted him in last year.
“No, but I do have big plans for my Stupid Cupid.”
“Should you really be calling Delaney that?” Ted asks.
Hayden’s mouth twists. “I mean it affectionately.”
“Shorty and I are doing a long weekend up in Maple Falls. Maybe looking at some properties for someday.” Someday soon by the sound of longing in his voice.
“And Harlow is okay with that nickname?” Hayden counters.
Margo mentioned not having a nickname-able name. Margo. Mar? That kind of works, but it sounds more like a sound a fish would make or the word for sea in Spanish. Go is a verb. Go-Go is kind of cute. But I don’t want her to go . I’d like for her to come here.
I think about her coffee-with-cream eyes, her smooth skin, and her full lips. They’re puffy and slightly plumper in the middle. Perfect lips. Lips a fake groom would kiss on his wedding day.
My thoughts drift to her coming back to Cobbiton and what we’d do. Go to the Busy Bee Bakery. I think she’d like that. They have great baked goods and coffee?—
“What about you, Hammer?” Pierre asks, interrupting my ... daydream? Whoa. What?
“Honey Butter,” I blurt.
The bakery has delicious honey butter was the conclusion to my thought and the perfect nickname for Margo.
The room falls strangely silent. The guys exchange a look.
“You have your bucket on tight tonight, buddy?” Pierre asks with concern sliding across his features.
I give my head a shake. “Of course I was wearing my helmet.”
“So he does speak,” Ted says as if this is a triumph.
“In a strange code. Honey Butter. What could that mean?” Hayden asks.
“Whit made honey butter cookies not long ago. She got it from the Busy Bee Bakery. We prefer regular butter and sugar, but they were still good.”
Micah hitches a smile. “Honey Butter can only mean one thing.”
“Other than it being a condiment? Ingredient? How would it be classified?” Ted asks.
“It means our man Hammer has a honey,” Micah says.
“A honey butter?” Hayden scratches his temple.
Margo is sweet, and I did pinch her butt. It seemed like the natural course of action at the time. I noticed how nice it looked in her pants. Her mother and sister were criticizing her food choices. The opportunity arose to show her that some people appreciate her assets. Namely me. If anyone else finds themselves scoping out her backside or so much as pinching it, pucks will be thrown.
The guys exchange a look. If I were to peer into the mirror right now, I might not recognize myself. I should probably shave at some point. I used to think the beard brought me good luck. It also keeps my face warm. Does Margo like facial hair?
Hayden says, “He has been acting a little less like a stone.”
“The word is stoic,” Micah corrects.
“It’s in the eyes. I see heart eyes.” Redd circles his first two fingers around his and then juts them at me.
Hayden waggles his eyebrows. “You mean to say that Hammer is in?—?”
I know the end of that sentence and it’s categorically not true. I am not in love with Margo. We’re getting married for mutual reasons of convenience. They don’t need to know about the electric thrill inside when I see her and hear her talk. When I think about her ...
The word for how I feel is giddy . Slightly unfocused and distractible. Very much not myself. But I’m okay with that. I’ve been myself for twenty-eight years. This is just a little blip. It’ll pass and I’ll go back to concentrating on hockey.
Ted says, “That silence tells me he’s got it. Got it good.”
With a grunt, I gather my gear and leave the locker room.
They make kissing noises in my wake, calling me Love Butter , Dream Lover , and Lover Boy . All of it makes me twitchy.
On my way home that night, I drive by the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station by the highway and consider buying some pie for the homeless guys who loiter outside the convenience store. It’s a good deed and not because I’m thinking about Margo.
When I pull into a parking spot, through the window, a woman sits at a table, her head in her hands. Her soft red hair waterfalls over her shoulders. My chest tightens. My senses go on high alert. There’s no way that could be her. I check my text messages and haven’t received one from Margo in exactly four days. Not even after the game.
Scrolling back, the last one she sent said something about needing to talk.
That’s not my strong suit.
I watch the woman in the diner for another moment, remembering when Margo inhaled the bouquet after catching it at the wedding. Same tilt of the head and the same slope of the shoulders. When she looks up, same profile.
There’s no mistaking the woman who’s been the biggest cheerleader of my career in these last six weeks. But what is she doing here alone here late at night?
I should know the answer to that question. If I’d been replying to her messages, I probably would. Put me in the penalty box. I deserve it.
Slamming my truck’s door so hard it might fall off the hinges, I march inside. I practically have to beat back the lacy, shiny, and sparkly red, pink, and white Valentine’s Day décor.
I loom over the table, topped with a cup of tea and an uneaten slice of custard cream pie.
She glances up and startles. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I repeat.
“Eating pie?” She frames it more as a question because it’s untouched.
I drop down on the laminate seat of the booth. “Margo, why didn’t you tell me you’re in town and what are you doing here right now?”
Her expression looks about ready to crumble. “You weren’t replying to my messages.”
I say the obvious thing and mean it. “I’m sorry.”
When she looks up at me, her eyes are rimmed red and liquid lingers on the edges.
“Is that what this is about?”
Looking down at the table as if ashamed, she shakes her head slowly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
A riot of questions about her safety pushes to the front of my mind. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Her eyes dart to mine and away.
Did my radio silence hurt her? Of course it did.
“I’ll be better about communicating.” Much better.
Margo’s strained expression softens slightly.
“But what are you doing here at ten o’clock at night? Why aren’t you at home?” My tone sounds much harsher than I mean it to.
“I don’t have one.” She sniffles back a sob.
“What do you mean?”
In one long breath, she says, “I was evicted, outstayed my welcome on Juniper’s couch, couldn’t find a second job, sold as much of my stuff as I could, and then used the cash to rent a car to drive here from New York.”
“By yourself?”
“Who else would’ve come with me?” Her shoulders tremble and she looks so small. I want to draw her into my arms, offer her shelter.
My voice gentler now, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ve been busy. Because you don’t care. Rarely text back.”
I’ve been hit in the gut at top speed by a puck while not wearing protective gear. It feels like that now. Opening and closing my mouth, there’s nothing to say except, “It’s not because I don’t want to talk to you.”
She nods, dabs at her eyes with a thin napkin, and gazes out the window at the economy car parked beside my truck.
“I made it all the way without getting a flat tire. But I did have to pee on the side of the road, sleep in two parking lots, and I was honked at by three truckers. I guess living car-less in Manhattan for all this time has made my driving skills a bit rusty.”
“That’s not why they were honking at you,” I grind out.
I tamp down how upset I am that Margo traveled by herself. It’s not that she’s incapable. Quite the opposite, but I would’ve arranged for her to do it with less hassle and risk. More comfort ... and me.
“Do you want me to track those truckers down and tear off their honking thumbs?”
She snorts a laugh. “No, but thank you.”
“Did anyone so much as look at your butt?” I’m only half joking, but my sense of protection over her is no laughing matter. If anything had happened on the way here, I’d never forgive myself.
“Probably not, considering I was sitting on it. I could really use a run.”
“C’mon.” I get to my feet with the pie and throw down some cash.
“Now? I meant going for a run in the morning.”
“Let’s go.”
She doesn’t budge. I drop back into the seat. The server brings over a box and the bill. She must’ve been watching us since we’re the only two people in here who aren’t at the counter nursing coffees.
“If you’re going to tell me the fake marriage thing is off, I understand. They say things happen in threes, so this would be the nail in the coffin.”
My brow wrinkles. “Does that mean more bad things happened?”
“I’m here aren’t I?”
“I thought you wanted to see my pretty face.”
Her smile appears and it’s magnificent. The best thing I’ve seen since Skip Koening’s expression when I blocked his shot, securing the Pittsburg Generals’ loss. No, it’s better than that. Much better than hockey dudes and their plays. For so long, the sport has been my entire life. Dedicating myself to it has saved me and kept me sane. But it’s like all this time I’ve been holding only half of a book—the odd pages. At this very moment, I realize that the other half—the even pages—had been missing. Now I get the full story, but I haven’t read it yet. Am not sure how it goes. But I want to because Margo is the main character.
“I wouldn’t describe your face as pretty. More like rugged.” Margo coughs. “Handsome.”
I haven’t been described that way in a long time. “I have a beard.”
Margo’s shoulder bobs. “Some women like beards.”
“Do you?”
“Undecided. What do you look like without it?”
Like someone who doesn’t want to be recognized. “Can we leave now?”
“So it’s not off?” she asks without saying a few specific words.
“I apologize that I let you think it was.”
Why do I feel like the marriage of convenience is a lifeline for both of us?
Margo follows me in her rental car that looks like it only plans to make it another twenty miles before going kaput. Thankfully, we only need to drive ten to my condo in Cobbiton. A bunch of the guys on the team own homes in the area, but a few still have condos in a scattering of buildings between here and Omaha. Redd owns one downstairs from me, but then never ended up staying in it. Using SkyBnB, he rents it out to hockey players and staff who’re in the area temporarily. He said Margo can stay there for as long as she needs. I’ll take care of the costs involved.
I have her park in a guest slot and then heft a few bags. She doesn’t ask what my plan is, which is fine because I only just thought it through and called Redd.
When we reach the third floor, she lingers by the elevator. “Beau, I don’t think this is a good idea. I should, um, go?—”
I tap the keypad to unlock the unit and bump the door open. “It’s all yours. I live upstairs. I promise not to stomp.”
“If you live up there, who lives here?”
I offer a quick explanation, then say, “You’ve had a long trip. You should get some sleep.”
She doesn’t argue, likely because the alternatives involve bedding down in her car or going to her parents’ house.
If I were a fake fiancé worth my salt, I’d be taking better care of her. No doubt Mrs. Cabot and Celeste would make that abundantly clear.
After ensuring she’s settled in and everything is secure, I say goodnight. But before I close the door, I say, “Wait. You said things happen in threes. You were evicted and what else?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
I don’t like the response, but I do love the idea of seeing her in the morning.
After another shower and reviewing some of the game highlights, I get into bed. From across the room, my phone dings. Ordinarily, I’d ignore it, but stump over to check. It’s Margo. The thread between us is heavily weighted in gray on her side with me replying very little. I feel like a jerk. Okay, fine. I am a jerk. But that changes now. The thought of something happening to her because I don’t like cellular communication is selfish. I refuse to be that guy.
Honey Butter: Are you still awake?
Me: Yeah.
Honey Butter: Thanks for everything tonight. You truly are a Knight.
Me: Glad to help.
Honey Butter: The second thing that happened was I had a huge wedding contract. The couple were doing a St. Patrick’s Day wedding in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was my biggest event yet. Then they backed out. Broke up. I’m stuck with having to fix everything which tarnishes my reputation among the vendors. I may as well have gotten fired, only I’m my own boss.
I want to say something to bolster her spirits. But I’ll show her instead.