Chapter Eleven #2
“Scottie was born and raised to be someone’s husband, I swear to God,” Cammy says, settling into the armchair with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.
“Which is saying something,” Isla adds, “because most hockey players have the emotional range of a rock.”
“True. And not the pretty amethyst kind of rock. We’re talking chalky grey rocks they use for driveways,” Peyton says, reaching over to steal a handful of popcorn from Cammy.
They dissolve into laughter, and I find myself laughing with them, shoulders loosening inch by inch.
This feels… easy.
No one’s measuring me up as competition for a spot in a show. No one’s calculating what they can gain from proximity. No one cares who my father is or what kind of alliances he could broker.
They just want to know if I want more chips and whether I prefer red or white.
“All right, ladies,” Penelope announces, grabbing the remote as the pregame show flips to live coverage. “Let’s do this.”
I’ve been around hockey my entire life, technically. Luka played. My father sponsored teams when it was strategically useful. And we’ve always watched the Olympic team play since I can remember. There were jerseys and photos and trophies.
But I’ve never actually sat and watched a full game by choice.
It turns out… I’ve been missing something.
The speed alone is staggering. Bodies flying across ice at impossible angles, stopping on a dime, turning and weaving through chaos. It’s messy and violent and somehow exquisitely precise all at once. Every shift is a choreographed risk.
And then there’s Scottie.
The camera finds him often. His big frame, commanding presence, and that focused determination etched into every line of his face. He doesn’t just skate; he moves like every inch of his body knows exactly why it’s there.
He’s not just some big guy smashing around on blades.
He anticipates—reading plays before they happen, dropping into lanes, making space where there wasn’t any, setting up other guys for shots.
When the commentators say his name, there’s respect in it, and a little part of me tingles with shared glory, because it’s now my name too.
Our line jumps to their feet so often that I lose track of how many times I put my wine down and forget where I left it.
And when he scores in the second period, a quick catch, a sharp cut past a defender, and then a wrist shot that rockets into the top corner of the net, my reaction isn’t delicate or composed at all.
I’m on my feet, cheering with everyone else before I realize what I’m doing.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I can’t take my eyes off the replay on the screen.
He looks… happy. Not the easy, teasing smiles he throws around at home, but a bright, wild joy that lights him up from the inside.
This is where he’s meant to be—that much is obvious.
And the idea that we might have to try for immigration status and risk his future if it goes wrong can’t be an option.
I have to get this visa renewal. He’s done too much for me to risk his career and prison time to help me.
He looks the way I feel in the middle of a performance when everything falls into place. The music and movement, and muscle memory merge together.
“You okay?” Isla asks quietly once I sit back down.
“Yes.” I swallow. “I just… didn’t expect him to be so…”
“Hot?” Peyton offers, with a smirk.
Yes, definitely that, but…
“Talented,” I say primly.
“I’m sure he is,” Cammy says. “How was the wedding night? Was it awkward the first night–”
“Or was it wild?” Vivi cuts in.
The girls all practically giggle.
My wine goes down the wrong pipe.
I cough, eyes watering, while they all laugh.
“It’s not… we didn’t…” I wave a hand helplessly. “This isn’t a romance. It’s a legal solution.”
“Sure,” Isla says lightly, “it can be both, though, you know. You don’t have to pick one or the other.”
“A physical relationship would complicate things,” I insist. “We agreed that this is temporary. Once I get my visa renewal and my grandmother blesses us… We’ll quietly get divorced and go our separate ways.”
No one argues out loud.
But the looks they exchange say enough.
“Then why are you blushing?” Peyton asks.
“I’m not blushing.”
“You totally are,” Penelope says.
I take another sip of wine purely to have something to do with my hands.
The worst part is… they’re not entirely wrong.
Living with Scottie is complicated.
He’s kind in ways that catch me off guard—remembering what kind of tea I like, buying chamomile because he heard me mention it once, standing between me and my father’s shadow without hesitation. He listens, actually listens, when I talk.
He treats me as if I’m not a strategic asset. Like I’m not a bargaining chip.
Like I’m just… a person.
It’s dangerously easy to get used to that.
To want it.
To want him.
And it’s not like I’ve been saving my virginity for a specific reason. I’ve just never been close enough to anyone.
And maybe that’s always been my problem. Never letting anyone that close.
By the time I get back to the penthouse, it’s after eleven. My legs are heavy, my head pleasantly fuzzy from wine and sugar and yelling at Canadian referees on the television.
The apartment feels different from how it did this morning. It doesn’t feel as empty. Like some of the camaraderie from Penelope’s living room followed me home, and the idea that all of Scottie’s things live here, too. Knowing that this is where he calls home also makes it feel fuller than it is.
I wash my face, change into pajamas, and crawl into bed, but my phone lights up with Scottie’s name on the screen.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi. Are you back home yet?”
“Yeah, I got back a little while ago. I’m just getting ready for bed,” I tell him, a small part of me wishing he were already back home.
“Good. I’m glad you made it back safely. Did you watch the game?
My lips curve. “I did.”
“And?” he asks. “What’d you think?
“You were… very good.”
I can hear a light chuckle under his breath. “Very good…? That’s it? That’s what I get from my own wife? Ouch.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“Okay, Fine. You were exceptional. Happy?
I can imagine him smiling on the other end. “Extremely. Did you see my goal?
“Yes. That was impressive too. Well done.”
“I’m bringing the puck home. I’m going to put it up in my stall. I’m going to write on it in silver marker, “Katerina says I’m impressive,” and leave it up there for the guys all to see.
I pull my blankets up to my mouth as if to hide my smile, though he can’t see it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re smiling, though. I can tell.”
I pause for a moment, wondering if I should just come out and admit it. “How could you possibly tell? You’re in Calgary.”
“Maybe I can hear it through the phone. Or I just have this feeling that you’re starting to like me.”
He’s not wrong. I shake my head, biting back another smile.
“Did your single Kit Kat candy bar superstition help tonight?”
“It did. Oh wait…” he says. “I got it.”
“Got what?” I ask, curious about what realization he just came to.
“Your nickname. We need one. And since you’re my new lucky charm, it works.”
“Oh God… Do I even want to know?” But I absolutely do because the idea that Scottie just came up with a nickname for me has me a little giddy, like this is a schoolgirl crush.
“KitKat… I can’t call you Kat like everyone else. Too boring. And this is symbolic.”
I hate that my cheeks hurt from smiling so big after he named me after a candy bar he eats before going out on the ice, but I do.
“You’re naming me after a sugary chocolate treat?”
“I’m calling you my good luck charm.”
I know I’m in too much trouble—my heart's in too deep to let this conversation continue. I might admit something that I’m not ready to, but Scottie is more than I could have imagined when my brother convinced me to move to Seattle just because he told me to.
“I don’t know if I would go as far as to say, good luck charm,” I say, and then a yawn pushes past my lips. “I do… but you’re tired. I should let you get some rest.” “Okay. Goodnight, Scottie.”
“Sweet dreams, KitKat. Sleep well.”
When I set my phone down, the smile lingers.
This is dangerous, the way he makes room for me in his day without making a big deal of it.
But I can’t pretend that I don’t love it… not tonight.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing.
Scottie: So I’ve been thinking.
Oh no.
Me: Are you sure you should be doing that?
Scottie: You can’t kill my sparkle no matter how hard you try, KitKat. Anyway, my cousin’s wedding is in Montana in two days, between my games. You’re still coming with me, right?
I had almost forgotten the original reason Luka tricked him into that pool bet. The whole catalyst for this insane arrangement—Scottie needing a date to dodge his mother’s matchmaking schemes.
Me: Yes. I agreed to go.
Scottie: Cool. So I booked us a hotel room.
My fingers freeze.
Me: A room? As in singular?
Scottie: Yeah. It’ll look weird if we get separate rooms. Newlyweds, remember? The place is booked up for the wedding, anyway. It was all they had left and based on the number of people staying with my parents, we’d most likely be pitching up a tent in the backyard.
He’s right. Logically, he’s right. Emotionally, my heart does a strange swoop.
Me: That makes sense.
Scottie: It’s a nice place, too. King bed, big tub, mountain view. It’s their honeymoon suite, which feels fitting.
Honeymoon suite.
The words sit there, buzzing in my skull.
Me: You don’t owe me a honeymoon suite. This isn’t a real marriage.
Though that last sentence feels more like a lie every time I tell it, because this doesn’t feel fake either.
Scottie: I know. But we can still have a good time, yeah?
Make it fun? My hockey schedule is about to get crazy, and once you get the callback from PNB, we’re going to be ships passing in the night at the penthouse.
The reminder of the fact that I still haven’t heard anything from the callback, which means my visa renewal is still up in the air, is a heavy reminder of what’s still at stake.
The fact that I haven’t gotten any more text threats from my father also has me worried that he has a plan up his sleeve.
All I can do is take my next step and hope it all works out.
Me: I still don’t know if PNB is going to call me back.
Scottie: They will. In the meantime, we’ll spend a couple of days with good food and good friends.
Me: And your family thinking I’m a Russian robot and wishing their son had married the girl next door.
Scottie: My mom’s going to adore you. My sisters will too once they’re done grilling you. They’re harmless, I promise. Mostly.
This is… not the reassurance he thinks it is.
Me: You’re not helping.
Scottie: Trust me, KitKat. It’ll be good. You’ll get to see where I grew up. Small-town Montana. Big sky, lots of stars. Might even be romantic if you squint.
My throat goes tight.
Me: Romantic?
Scottie: Not all of us have the luxury of being Russian robots. Some of us have feelings, and I know you do. We’re going to dig those out this trip. Open up your horizons.
Me: You can’t help yourself, can you?
Scottie: Can’t help myself, what?
Me: Being… you.
There’s a pause on his side. No bubbles going back and forth.
I didn’t mean that to be offensive, and I hope he didn’t take it that way.
I’ve never met anyone like Scottie, and I like that even when I make it seem like I’m pulling away, he doesn’t give in.
Instead, he’s right there reeling me back in to him.
Scottie: Nope. Romance is my natural state. Maybe I’ll even take you fly-fishing and teach you how to gut a fish. Your romantic weekend with your stranger husband awaits.
I drop the phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
Whatever you do… You are not allowed to fall in love with him. I tell myself.
Scottie is dangerous in a way my father never factored into any plan. With warmth. With consistency. With stupid jokes and thoughtful gestures and the terrifying possibility of choosing a life that’s one I pick for myself.
He makes it easy to forget that this is temporary.
That eventually, I’m supposed to give this back.
This apartment, this ring, and this man who texts me good morning and goodnight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Who talks about honeymoon suits, and a sky full of stars…
and fly-fishing, which I would never find appealing except somehow it does because I’d be doing it with him.
How he seems excited to be taking me home to meet his family and friends.
As if I’m not just a decoy to keep his mom off his case, but instead, someone he’s proud to show off.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the city far below. My phone is dark on the nightstand, but my mind is anything but.
I keep seeing him on the ice, laughter in his eyes after the goal, my brother high-fiving him and patting him on the helmet. I keep hearing his voice in my head—text me if you need anything. I keep feeling his steady, strong hands on my feet, all that strength turned gentle just for me.
This is temporary, I remind myself.
A legal fiction we both agreed to walk away from once the danger has passed, but as my eyes finally close and sleep drags me under, another thought slips in, quiet and treacherous:
What if I don’t want to walk away?
Because, as terrifying as my father is, as real as his threats are, there is one thing I’m starting to fear even more than marrying a stranger. It’s the idea that I have no way of stopping the fact that I may very well be… falling in love with him.
Another ding hits my phone, and I practically pounce on it, thinking it’s going to be Scottie, but it’s not.
Maxim: I heard about your wedding to the hockey player. I hope that soon you will come to see that you and I are more properly matched.