Chapter 9
LOGAN
Eight hours later
I stand there, staring at the hotel room door like a stunned ox for thirty seconds too long after Francesca escaped out of it, before my brain kicks into gear.
No. Absolutely not. We’re not strangers. We’re married, and last night meant something. I felt it, and I know she felt it too.
I race after her into the hallway, but I’m only wearing a towel and she’s already gone.
Catching the hotel room door before it clicks closed, I dart back inside.
How the fuck am I going to find her this morning? I don’t have her number. I added myself to her contacts, but she never texted me. Fuck.
Her ring glints at me from the bedside table, abandoned by my disappearing bride.
I pick it up, and a slice of a moment from last night comes into
The license.
I grab my jacket, but the folded up piece of paper isn’t there. I see red as my phone buzzes with a text from the team captain.
Jonas
Where the fuck are you? Third bus is ready to leave.
Logan
Food poisoning, maybe? Can’t make morning skate but I’ll be at the team meeting after.
It’s not even a lie. I feel like I might throw up. And I can’t go to skate when I need to find Francesca.
Jonas
Gross. Call Coach.
I’m definitely not doing that.
And if I get benched, I get benched, but I bet morning skate is going to be a dog’s breakfast for everyone who is hung over. Coach is going to play me and just be mad about it.
Right now, I have something more important to worry about.
Francesca was right about one thing—I do have the means to deal with this.
But I don’t want that to be an annulment.
The reception desk clerk at her hotel is unmoved by my need to find my wife.
It doesn’t help that I don’t know my spouse’s last name.
She stole the wedding license that proves we’re married, I want to snap.
Instead, I opt not to make a scene, and hightail it to the marriage license office instead. Is it possible to get a copy of the paperwork from last night?
Yes, yes it is.
And once I have it in my hand, I understand why my new bride dipped.
There, on the legally binding wedding license we used to get married, our names are spelled out.
Logan James Granger and Francesca Susan Wilson.
She said she wasn’t Italian, she said there was a story, but we set it aside because it didn’t matter.
Because books and dancing and sharing a bottle of champagne were more important than minor fucking details like last names, even if those last names are actually important, because mine is a pretty big red flag that I’m a hockey player, and her entire name is shared, in essence, with my coach. .
Frankie Wilson.
No. No, no, no.
Coach Wilson doesn’t have a gorgeous-as-fuck daughter who’s almost a doctor, does he?
Could he?
My asshole coach never talks about his family. I can’t stand the guy, so I’ve never paid attention to his personal life.
I search for her online, but come up empty.
I look him up next. It says he’s married and has one child, but there are no details about who that child is.
Which tracks if the child is a private adult who has been estranged from her father for a decade.
I don’t hold you to anything you said last night. And soon enough, you’re going to understand exactly why we cannot do this.
And she made some assumptions about me, and how I’d react, based on her understanding of hockey players, and her father.
That’s why she was so panicked this morning, why she needed to leave before I woke up.
At some point between last night and this morning, she figured out who I am, and that sent her into a tailspin.
Her words from last night come flooding back. The story about falling for a twenty-year-old her dad saw as a son when she was sixteen. How her father blamed her when the relationship ended, blamed her for ruining the guy’s career.
It could only be Mikhail Ivanovich, the Russian prospect who flamed out spectacularly after one season with the Boston organization, back when Wilson was an assistant coach there.
I remember the rumors. He was in the draft class right before me. Ivanovich had so much promise, was supposed to be the next big thing. And then he just...wasn’t.
And Wilson blamed Francesca. His own daughter. His young, teenage daughter.
I call her hotel this time, asking for Francesca Wilson’s room.
“I’m sorry, sir, that guest has checked out.”
Fuck me.
She’s gone.
Dipped.
She’s on the way back to California, and I have no choice but to head to a team meeting and then to a game tonight, and the only way I’m going to get through all of that is knowing that I’ll be getting on a plane myself and following her later tonight.
Logan
Good news, I feel completely fine, that was a false alarm
Jonas
Excellent, because everyone who went out last night fucked the bed at morning skate
That sucks for my teammates, but it’s good cover for me with Wilson.
I can’t wrap my head around him having such an incredible daughter and being such a dick to her—but on the other hand, I shouldn’t be surprised, given my limited observations of his marriage, and my unfortunately unlimited observations of him as a rigid and hostile coach.
I’m thinking about texting my dad and asking what kind of teammate Wilson was back in the day when my sister starts spamming the sibling group chat.
Emery
Happy new year, big brothers!
Emery
Wedding invitations are officially coming soon, so block off the last week of July
Emery
(That’s amazing, Em, so excited for you and Alexei!)
Emery
You jerks better all be on planes right now
I grin. When she gets all worked up like this, it’s fun to just let her go on a tear. But after a few minutes, our oldest brother breaks. And then the other two follow suit.
Camden
Sorry, I was driving to the rink
Wyatt
Yeah, same
Forrest
I was asleep, but you already know I’ve blocked off the whole month for best man duties
Emery
That’s overkill, unless “best man duties” is code for babysitting your nieces
Wyatt
nieces, plural???
I sit up straighter. Emery is approximately a hundred months pregnant, so at some point in the next little while, she’s going to have a baby—before she walks down the aisle, because Grangers don’t care about propriety that much.
Once she shacked up with Forrest’s former teammate, a Russian goalie with a little girl already, there wasn’t much point in them waiting for kiddo number two.
A fact that our younger sister delights in underlining for us whenever we pretend she’s still a kid herself. But the truth is, she’s an awesome mom.
But a shitty secret keeper, maybe.
Camden
Whoa, is that an accidental gender reveal?
Emery
oops, yeah… we’re having another girl
Forrest
hahaha Alexei is cooked
Camden
Is Inessa excited?
Wyatt
@Logan is your phone on, bud?
Emery
He has a game tonight in Vegas
Wyatt
Oh, you know his schedule! Favorite brother alert
Emery
He’s the only one of you jerks who’s struggling
Emery
I always pay close attention to the weakest wolf in my pack
She’s successfully baited me into the conversation now.
Logan
Hey, I’m not weak
Logan
But I do like being in your pack…congrats on the news about the baby girl, that’s exciting
Camden
Oh, there you are
Logan
Shut up, I’ve been busy
Wyatt
Hey, heads up that I’m switching agents (in case any of you are asked about it)
We pivot from excited uncles to concerned brothers and colleagues. One of the things our dad pushed for us when we were drafted was that we should have an agent of our own, not share one with him or our brothers, so we could always talk shop without having a conflict of interest.
Camden
Everything okay?
Wyatt
Talks stalled a bit for my extension, and I want to try something fresh.
Forrest
Keep us posted, you’re a stud
Logan
You gotta do what feels right
Wyatt
Thanks buds
And it’s true for myself, too. I have to do what feels right, and that means finding Francesca as soon as I fucking can.