Chapter 3
Connor
The ferry's engines rumble beneath us as we cut through Long Island Sound toward Connecticut.
Leaning against the driver's side door, I continue to watch Henneman's chest rise and fall in the passenger seat. He’s snoring like someone's trying to strangle a bear in slow motion.
Makes me want to test if suffocation would improve the acoustics.
I reach over and jab his shoulder.
He doesn’t wake, just shifts in the leather seat, head lolling, then right back to that malfunctioning freight train impression.
Fuck my life.
Actually, fuck his life. One of us isn't making it to Connecticut if this keeps up.
I rub at my temples with my thumbs, reminding myself this was my idea. But there’s still another hour until we dock in New London, and the urge to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until the noise stops is becoming harder to ignore.
Throwing him overboard is out of the question.
My left shoulder still aches from dragging him out of the apartment and into the parking garage two hours ago.
He’s six-foot-seven and built like a brick house, but the sedative hit him hard.
One moment he was upright, the next he was a ragdoll.
I had to half-drag, half-walk him the whole way to the car, hoping to hell no one looked too closely.
They didn’t. No one ever does.
My phone vibrates against the center console, the screen lighting up with Viktor’s name. I decline the call. Again. Fourth time this hour. No doubt my friends are all wondering where the fuck I am when I should be toasting Eli and Alexei right now, celebrating the start of their new life together.
Instead, I'm on a fucking ferry with an unconscious giant, heading to Stonington to commit marriage fraud. Strategic, if nothing else. The kind of move my father would admire if he had anything resembling a soul.
Lucky for me, Connecticut has no waiting period, and no witnesses are required. You can acquire a marriage license and hold a ceremony the same day. We’ll be in and out, then back to Rosewood Bay by dinner.
My parents are planning to announce my engagement to Veronica Callahan at the press conference for the merger next week. Can’t wait for that shitshow. Nothing destroys an arranged marriage faster than a surprise husband.
The thought shouldn't make me smile. It does anyway.
Marrying Ryan Henneman is the cleanest, sharpest play I have left, like threading a pass through three defenders—risky but devastating when it works.
It’s not something I truly want for myself.
I spent the last six days dissecting every possible exit strategy from the bullshit my father dropped on me.
I tried blowing up my relationship with Veronica in public, tried letting rumors fly about club hookups, even let her find me with some girl sucking my dick.
Didn’t move the needle an inch.
Veronica wants this marriage as badly as our parents do. But why? She doesn't need me, doesn't love me, doesn't even like me half the time.
There was only one solution left. Marry someone else.
Every fucking option I came up with only created more issues. Then Viktor texted me a few days ago, asking if I would be bringing Veronica to the wedding or coming alone. That’s when I remembered Henneman was cat-sitting for him.
He’s a strategic choice. Keeps to himself. No friends worth mentioning, never bringing anyone around, never making a scene—just another scholarship student who doesn’t make waves.
And that makes him easy to handle. Easy to control.
I look at my teammate, who shifts again, resting his head against the window, the light hitting at an angle that makes the small white scar across his forehead more visible.
Even unconscious, he takes up too much space, like his body doesn't know how to be small. Ironic since he’s always trying to shrink in on himself.
Am I really about to marry a man?
What happened in Miami was a blip. Raiyne was a mistake, nothing more. Just a mouth that could’ve been anyone’s. And marrying a man will stop my parents from trying to force Veronica on me.
Henneman is the perfect choice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How’d my life go from graduating this year and going to the NHL to tying the fucking knot?
The ferry lurches slightly as we hit rougher water, and Henneman's eyes flutter open. His amber irises are unfocused, his pupils still slightly dilated.
“Where . . .” His voice comes out cracked, barely audible over the engine noise.
I straighten in my seat. “Connecticut.”
He struggles to sit up, his movements slow, but he’s no longer comatose. The drug is wearing off.
Good.
I need him to be coherent enough to say “I do” without drooling on himself.
“You drugged me.”
I shrug. “You'll be fine in twenty minutes or so.”
His gaze drifts to the water visible through the windshield, then back to me. “This is kidnapping.”
“This is problem-solving.” I grab my phone from the console and send a quick text to the Justice of the Peace, confirming there haven’t been any changes to our appointment. “Don’t act like you had anything better to do today.”
His fists curl on his thighs, knuckles blanched. The faded scars covering them become more pronounced, while the tendons in his forearms stand out like steel cables. He could probably crush my windpipe without trying. “I’m not marrying you.”
“Yes, you are.”
The ferry’s horn bellows and we start to dock. I punch Stonington Town Hall into my GPS and shift the Maserati Grecale into gear. Once the ramp comes down, I drive off the ferry and onto the road.
My teammate stares out of the window as he stretches his arms and flexes his fingers, most likely trying to fight off the lingering effects of the drugs. His breathing evens out, but his shoulders are still tense. He huffs, shaking his head, still turned away from me. “This is fucked up.”
“It’s necessary.”
He whips around, jaw clenched. “For you. Not for me.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have a choice. I told you what would happen if you refused.”
His lips press into a thin line as he holds my gaze, chin up. “What am I expected . . . to do . . . once we’re married?”
“In public, you smile, and I’ll pretend you actually matter. We’ll hold hands, kiss when people are watching, place a hand on the small of your back. You know, show affection and shit. In private, you're nothing to me.”
He flinches, fingers digging into his thighs.
Good.
If the idea of physical contact with a guy disgusts him, then at least that means he won't read anything into this arrangement. Not like I’m looking forward to it either. But some contact will be necessary.
“Also, no dating while we’re married. Don’t try to hide it. If anyone figures out this is fake, it’s over for both of us.” My gaze slides to him, flat and dismissive. “Though, I guess that’s not much of a sacrifice for you. Who wants someone as weak as you anyway?”
His eyes drop to his lap, his body tensing.
Looks like I hit a nerve.
Too bad.
Then he looks back up, jaw set. “If I'm so pathetic, then why me? Why don't you just marry your girlfriend?”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
He huffs, resting his head against the window and closing his eyes. “Coward.”
So, my soon-to-be husband might actually have a spine.
Quick not to read into that thought, I focus up ahead as the town hall comes into view—white clapboard, brick path, blooming hydrangeas—New England charm weaponized for legal business. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I pull into the lot and park.
I turn to face Henneman. His color's better now, less gray around the edges. “We’re going inside to get the license. The Justice of the Peace will meet us here in half an hour. You smile, nod, and say ‘I do’ when told. Think you can manage that without fucking it up?”
He glares. “How long’s this nightmare going to last?”
My hand moves before I think, grabbing his throat, not squeezing, just holding. His pulse hammers against my thumb, but he doesn't pull away, only stares at me with those amber eyes.
“Until I don't need you. Could be weeks, could be months. Depends how quickly my father and the Callahans back off.”
I let go, his skin too warm against my palm. Time to turn this nobody into my husband. “Let's go.”
I grab the folder of documents from the backseat. Henneman’s birth certificate was easy to obtain since he's a scholarship student and an NCAA athlete. “And Henneman. Make a scene, try to tell anyone what's really happening, and I'll make sure you disappear.”
His body goes rigid, and he looks at me as if searching my face for something. Mercy, maybe, or a sign that I'm bluffing. He won't find either. “I won't run. I can't afford to.”
We get out of the car and walk toward the building together. Henneman moves carefully, as if he's not entirely sure his legs will hold him, his gait unsteady. He glances around, head on a swivel, shoulders tense.
“Relax.”
He doesn’t. If anything, his breathing grows ragged, sweat breaking along his brow. His hands shake, subtle, but not invisible.
“Stop.” I grip his bicep. My fingers barely wrap halfway around the solid muscle. “Breathe. Now.”
His eyes meet mine, wide, wild, and lost. There’s something haunted there too—a look I’ve only ever seen on Jackson, after the shit with Coach Buckland. I swallow hard, my thumb brushing his arm without my permission, and I jerk it back.
Fuck.
I clear my throat and straighten to my full height. “Calm down. Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
He obeys.
We stand outside for a bit until he’s steady enough, then head inside. The clerk at the counter is a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a kind smile that falters slightly when she sees us.
“We'd like to apply for a marriage license.” I slide the paperwork forward, not bothering with small talk.
She looks over everything, then glances at us again. “You boys sure about this? Big step.”
“We're sure.” My voice stays level, but there’s a low buzz under my skin as I take Henneman's hand in mine. His palm is clammy, but he doesn't pull away. “Aren't we, babe?”
He nods, a fake smile plastered on his face. “Yeah, we’re sure.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re holding our license.
The Justice of the Peace meets us in a side office. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the faint smell of coffee lingers in the air. No flowers. No music. No witnesses.
Perfect.
Most of what she’s saying doesn’t register until the end. “Do you, Connor Walsh, take Ryan Henneman to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Ryan Henneman, take Connor Walsh to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.” His voice is barely audible.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Connecticut, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss.”
While rings are not exchanged, there is a perfunctory kiss. Henneman tenses as our lips meet, eyes squeezed shut as if this is the hardest moment of the day for him. I don’t drag it out, not when my brain starts to register how soft and warm his lips are.
I pull back, teeth clenched.
We finish signing the official document, which Henneman doesn’t bother reading. I fold the marriage certificate and slide it into my pocket, a dull thrum in my ears.
That’s it. I’m no longer eligible to marry Veronica Callahan.
Henneman won't look at me. His eyes are fixed on the wall, lost, checked out.
“Time to go home, husband.” It sounds strange, even to me, like calling a knife a flower. But I’ll have to get used to it, for now at least.
As we walk across the parking lot, Henneman’s knees buckle, and he stumbles. I catch him before he hits the pavement, my arm around his waist. His solid muscles flex, and for a second, I forget to let go.
He stiffens, then pulls away. “I'm fine.”
“No, you’re not. But if you want to act tough, next time I’m letting your face hit the pavement.”
I walk to the car, unlock it, then open the passenger door for him. “Get in.”
Henneman doesn't speak, just drops into the seat. He's shut down completely, gone somewhere I can't follow.
Not that I want to.
I lean in, my voice low. “You try to back out or cause problems, and you’ll lose everything. Your scholarship, your future, your fucking life. My family owns half of Rosewood Bay, including the cops. No one's going to help you. No one’s going to miss you.”
He finally looks at me, eyes hollow. “You're a monster. Got it.”
“Welcome to the family, dear husband. You’re mine now. Legally.” I slam the door, round the hood, and drop into the driver’s seat. “Oh, and one last thing . . . we’ll be dorming together this year.”
His breath hitches, a tear running down his cheek. But he wipes it away quickly.
I was raised to be ruthless, to take what I want, to use every tool, every advantage, to see weakness as opportunity and kindness as stupidity.
Lesson learned. And my father will soon find out just how far I’m willing to go to take my life back.