Chapter Ten
SCOTTIE
It’s been two days since I married a complete stranger, and this morning, I wake up smiling.
And that’s how I know something is different.
Most mornings, I wake up starving, sore, or irritated that my alarm goes off at an hour that humans were never meant to be conscious.
But today, before my eyes are fully open, before I even remember where I am or what day it is, there’s this stupid little grin pulling at my mouth, like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life.
It takes a few seconds for the memories to sharpen, sliding into place one after another until they hit me all at once—heavy and vivid and so absurdly good that I almost laugh out loud.
I married my teammate's sister, whom I didn’t even know existed until last week.
Her soft “I do,” like she wasn’t just agreeing to paperwork, but to something she hadn’t prepared for.
The kiss…God, the kiss was sweet and shocking and more real than anything about this marriage is supposed to be.
I replay our rooftop wedding. Both of our vows, and then everything after.
Carrying her over the threshold because I said I would and because she looked at me like she wasn’t expecting it.
Helping her out of that dress, one impossibly tiny pearl button at a time, and trying not to completely lose my mind every time my fingers brushed her skin.
The image of her perfect ass, the thin lace of her white thong, the delicate blue script that read “bride” on it in perfect cursive.
She was a bride, my bride. And then she turned around…
and well, I couldn’t hide the way my body made its opinion very clear about what I thought of her.
There was a moment, barely half a breath, where if she’d taken one step closer, if she’d looked at me for one second longer, everything would have shifted. I would’ve crossed the line between us to see if she felt the same.
But then she whispered goodnight and slipped into her room, and I stood there in my bedroom, my erection still pointed in her direction, and me, trying to convince myself that the interest is only physical.
Then there was yesterday morning. I made breakfast that she barely ate, but she stayed anyway, eating fruit and coffee just to stay and talk.
I groan because, honestly, that might have been worse than the wedding.
She walked into the kitchen wearing that silk robe—hair sleep-messy, slippers soft on the tile—and my brain immediately shut down like it needed to reboot.
She looked so small and sleepy and unguarded standing there in the morning light, like she belonged in that penthouse kitchen, leaning against the counter while I made enough food to feed an NFL team.
She smiled… barely, and I felt it in my ribs. Then she laughed, actually laughed, over my eating routine, and something in my chest did this weird, uncomfortable twist that I’m afraid to look at too closely.
But then she sat there with her bare feet tucked onto the stool, drinking the coffee I made exactly right, and eating the fruit I cut just for her, and I had this insane moment of imagining this as a normal morning.
Like I could wake up, walk into the kitchen, and see her there every day… for the rest of my life.
I sit up slowly, scrubbing both hands over my face like I can wipe the intensity of last night out of my brain. No luck—every detail is still there, replaying on a loop I can’t seem to shut off.
I roll out of bed before my brain starts building a future I have absolutely no business thinking about.
I stretch, brush my teeth, and catch myself staring at the ring she slid onto my finger two nights ago. I expected it to feel weird, unfamiliar, like it was something borrowed, but it’s warm now, snug and settled on my hand like it’s supposed to be there.
That realization does no good for my peace of mind.
I pull on my hoodie and sweats, grab my gym bag, and head for the kitchen.
Her door is still closed, and with how early it is, she might still be asleep.
I make myself a protein shake and pour it into a shaker cup and then defrost two frozen breakfast burritos that I’ll inhale before the elevator even hits the garage level.
I don’t want to wake her up with my early-morning cooking routine.
I know yesterday took a lot out of her… I can feel it in the tension of her feet when I massage them out.
Being able to touch her like that last night was something else.
I tried not to make it obvious, tried to focus on the reels Coach wanted us to study, but it was hard with the light moans she made every time I hit the right spot, massaging out years of muscle stress.
There’s a hell of a lot more places I would have liked to massage if she had let me, but I practiced restraint from taking things any further.
I lock up behind me. As I wait for the elevator, her image flashes again—standing in the middle of the living room yesterday, hair in a tight bun, body stretching like she didn’t even have bones.
I’d walked out thinking I’d just say goodbye before practice.
I’d ended up frozen like a complete idiot, watching her lift her leg in an impossible arc, balancing with effortless control, every line precise. Or at least it looked that way from my untrained eye. Her back curved, her foot pointed. And then she caught me… staring at her perfect ass.
I finally understand what Wolf meant about ballerinas in the bedroom. I have no doubt now that she’d destroy me, and she’d enjoy every moment of it.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the lobby. I try to force my brain toward hockey, toward practice, toward anything that doesn’t involve her.
The elevator dings, the doors open, and I blow out a long breath before climbing and stuffing half of my first burrito down my throat.
Time to get my head straight before I see Luka, before I tell him about the text from their father, before I admit out loud that the situation is more volatile than we thought… or maybe just more than I thought.
She trusts me, and that’s what gets to me the most about our last two days together. She barely knows me, and yet the honesty in her voice when she told me about the message let me know she trusts me… at some level. The quiet terror she tried to hide but couldn’t.
All in one moment, suddenly this marriage—this fake, temporary, for-the-sake-of-a-visa marriage and her father’s expectation—doesn’t feel quite as cut and dry as the idea that this will last for a few months and then we’ll get a quickie divorce and be done with it.
It feels like a responsibility, like one of the biggest promises I’ve ever made, a line that might be hard to un-cross later.
I adjust the strap of my gym bag as I walk the two blocks to the stadium. I could have driven, but I needed the walk. I needed time to think through everything.
“This is fine,” I mutter to myself. “Totally fine. I’m not falling for her. Nope. Not even close.”
The question in my head asks me if I’m lying to myself for Luka’s benefit… or my own.There’s silence for a beat and then…
“All right… maybe I’m falling for her a little.”
Another beat passes.
“Okay, I’m absolutely screwed.”
I turn the corner towards the stadium. I can see it in sight now.
I run through the things I can control: practice, teamwork, game nights.
Everything else: wedding kisses, silk robes, tiny smiles, and her sleeping across the hall from me, I have to shove into the farthest corner of my brain and hope I don’t accidentally say any of it out loud to Luka.
Or to her.
I’m already in farther than I meant to be, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to find my way back out.
By the time I walk into the Hawkeyes facility, my brain has made absolutely zero progress on calming down.
The locker room is mostly empty when I push inside. A couple of equipment guys move around, organizing sticks and setting gear in cubbies. Someone’s blasting early-2000s hip hop from the weight room.
And then there’s Luka.
He’s sitting on the bench, tying the laces of his workout shoes with the kind of methodical precision that means his brain is somewhere else. Shoulders tense. Jaw locked. Exactly the way he gets when something is brewing behind that cold Russian exterior.
He looks up the moment he hears me.
There’s a half second—just long enough for me to see him catalog me head-to-toe—before his forehead creases.
“What happened?” he asks.
No hello. No good morning.
Because Luka knows me. He knows when something’s off.
I drop onto the bench across from him, elbows on my knees, fists loosely clasped like I’m bracing myself.
“She got a message last night,” I say quietly.
His entire body goes still.
It’s subtle—just a shift in the surrounding air—but I feel it. Like the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
“From him?” Luka asks, voice flat.
I nod.
His anger is instant, his teeth clenching, his eyes focused like they are right before he rams an opponent into the sidewalls. I’ve witnessed it plenty of times.
“Kat didn’t tell me. What did it say? What time did he send this?” he asks, in rapid repetition.
“She didn’t tell me until she got home from auditions yesterday. He basically said that he knows about the wedding and what she’s trying to do but that it won’t last. She was shaking.”
Luka’s nostrils flare. “Of course she was shaking.”
I nod.
“He’s testing boundaries,” Luka says. “Seeing if she’ll crack. Seeing if you’ll crack. That’s the only way he wins.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
Luka’s eyes snap up to mine, sharp and quickly assessing the situation.
“We stick to the plan,” he says quietly. “She trusts you. I could see it at the wedding… and my sister doesn’t trust people easily.”
“Must be genetic,” I say, glancing over at him.
“It’s a survival mechanism. We both had to learn it. This plan only works because it’s you. You’re the only one I could have trusted with this. And I was right to pick you.”
My chest twists
“Trick me, you mean.” I remind him.