Chapter 20
RAKE
I haven’t had balls this blue since I was a skinny sixteen-year-old trying to figure out how to get laid.
And it fucking sucks.
Sure, I could go get off with some other chick. There’s certainly no shortage of women dying to take off their panties to spend time with a high-profile athlete.
That might be a shitty thing to say, but it’s true. Ask any of my teammates. Even the married ones have to fend off the women looking to hook up with a walking wallet.
That’s what I call us guys who have money.
And there was a time not very long ago when I would have taken one of these women up on their offer to relieve my aching balls. But, for some reason, the thought of that just isn’t holding the appeal it once did.
I blame it all on Petal. Petal Parker.
The ballbuster I never saw coming.
There’s no way to prepare yourself for a woman like her. She just appears on the scene one day, and you’re fucking smitten, and it’s hard to think of anything else.
It’s also hard to prepare for the fact that she couldn’t give a shit if I lived or died. I’m not used to that.
It’s humbling.
Embarrassing.
And driving me up a goddamn wall.
A slap on the back drags me out of my reverie, where I’ve been fiddling with my skate laces for more than ten minutes.
“Hey. What’s up, Jonas?” I ask.
He has baby puke or something nasty on his fleece pullover.
I don’t tell him. He already has enough to worry about.
Like turning two little people into functioning human beings all by himself.
I mean, he has help from his family and a nanny or two.
But the bottom line is that when it comes down to it, the buck stops with him.
Kid gets sick? He takes them to the doctor.
They outgrow their little baby outfits? He has to find new ones.
And when he sometimes would rather come out with us guys rather than stay home and change diapers? Yup—he stays home with the rugrats.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Why are you so out of it? Get a move on. We gotta get on the ice,” he says.
I shake the cobwebs out of my head. “Right. Right. I just haven’t been sleeping that well.”
He leans closer. “You staying up all night with that pretty wife of yours?” he asks in a whisper.
I drop my head into my hands. “Dude. I wish. She’s sleeping in the guest bedroom.”
His head snaps back on his neck. “Oh. That’s cold.” He looks around the locker room to check on our privacy. “But I guess it’s to be expected.”
I nod. “Guess so. A fake marriage does not come with pussy, at least not in my case.”
He scrunches his face up. “Rude way to talk about a nice girl like Petal.”
The new guy to the team passes us, and our conversation ceases until he’s out of earshot. The only people who know the truth about my ‘marriage’ are the gang who were in Vegas with us. Of course, they are sworn to secrecy. They’re my best friends, so I have no worries about them spilling the beans.
But other guys on the team? I’m not so sure. We all get along great, but that doesn’t mean one well-meaning person isn’t going to blab to two more, who will share the news with three more. Can’t risk it.
“Whatever, Jonas. I keep thinking this is all a big mistake, misleading everyone and their mother over this. That it will blow up in my face and I’ll end up with a worse mess on my hands than I ever would have getting into bar brawls.”
He slaps me on the back. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
I can’t really bellyache to him. He lost his freaking wife and is left to raise two little ones on his own. My problems are nothing compared to what he’s been through.
And yet.
The new guy—shit, what’s his name?—swings by again on his way to the ice. “Hey, Rake, congrats on your marriage. That’s some crazy shit, getting married in Vegas.”
He’s not wrong about that. But I know what he’s after. He’s perplexed, like everyone else in the world, about why I married someone I don’t even know.
I can’t tell him it was on a dare, even though that’s the truth.
And that now I need to stay married to her, for at least as long as she can stand my ass.
“It is crazy, um, Benson?”
He nods. Good. I got his name right.
“But she’s really special. What can I say?” I ask with a laugh.
“Well, congrats, man. I wish you guys the best,” he says, and heads out of the locker room.
Jonas keeps his voice low. “Good job, Rake. Vince would be proud.”
How I’d love nothing more than to tell Vince to go fuck himself. But I like playing for the Aftershocks and if what he’s saying is true, that they’ll can my ass if there are any more issues, I’ll do what it takes.
Fake marriage it is.
But Petal, with her romance novels, her rolled-up blue jeans and T-shirts with hearts all over them, and her perpetually messy hair—why’d I have to end up with her?
Why couldn’t it have been someone who wouldn’t challenge me?
Get under my skin? And leave me jerking off in the shower every goddamn morning before I can greet her for breakfast?
It’s like the universe isn’t already giving me a hard enough time—they had to throw a woman at me with a smart-ass mouth who has no patience for anybody’s shit. I love a challenge. Don’t get me wrong. But I prefer a challenge I can win. And I don’t think there’s any winning with Petal.
She doesn’t give a damn about me.
Even so, I have nothing to complain about. I got the successful hockey career I always dreamed about. I have my condo in the sky, a nice car, and I can afford to go anywhere in the world I want. In fact, if I never played another game, I’d be set for life.
I’m one of a handful of athletes who actually listens to their financial advisor.
And I can have any one of a hundred women walking down the street right now.
So why do I feel this way? Like I don’t really have anything?
We get to the ice, and Jonas turns to me once more. “Dude. You look like you just lost your puppy.” He lowers his voice. “I know you like her, and that this is just an arrangement. But maybe in time she’ll change her mind about you. Who knows. Stranger things have happened.”
I nod. “Thanks, pal,” and I take off across the ice, hoping I can get my head back where it belongs. Every drill is an opportunity to improve my craft. I can’t waste that thinking about a woman.