Chapter 32
NASH
The first regular-season game of the year.
The ice is actually vibrating under our blades from the noise of the crowd when we skate onto the rink. I’ve never seen anything like the level of excitement the Austin fans have for our team this season.
The city is starving for pro sports success at the top level, and this year, the Alligators are in the perfect position to feed them.
We’ve got an incredibly talented roster, and the strong ending to last season proved that we’ve finally found our rhythm and learned to put it all together on the ice.
The sight of us lifting the Stanley Cup trophy at the end of the season flashes in my mind, and it looks so believable, so real, that a thrill runs through me.
But that’s not the only reason I’m brimming with excitement right now.
Tonight is the first time Piper’s here to see me play.
My eyes scan the crowd, where almost every fan is on their feet. I know it’s a long shot to be able to spot any one person from out here, especially with the lights shining above and obscuring my vision, but …
My breath stalls in my chest. My gaze falls on Piper, jumping up and down, her mouth open in a cheer, and wearing the team jersey.
She looks at me, our eyes catching. She turns around to show me her back—and my name written across it, above my number.
Time stands still. My jaw drops, mouth hanging open in wonder. A feeling I’ve never felt before and can’t describe sweeps through me. I could swear that the blades of my skates were floating above the ice right now.
This marriage is fake. Totally, completely fake. But seeing Piper Dashwood wearing my name on her back feels so fucking right. I don’t know how to square the fact of what this arrangement is with the overwhelming feeling that seeing my wife wearing my jersey awakens in me.
A sharp determination threads through me as I join the pregame huddle. Feeling Piper’s attention still on me, I’m swelled with a superhuman sense of purpose.
I need to score a goal while my wife’s watching me. I don’t just need it—I’m going to. I feel it with irrational conviction.
“Get the puck to me,” I say to the team, body humming with energy that I’m dying to burn off by firing the puck into the back of a net.
Cooper, who usually handles our face-offs, arches a brow at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I’m putting it in the net.”
Cooper wins the face-off and slides the puck back to me. After deking past two Las Vegas defenders, I send the puck sailing past their goalie’s left shoulder.
I give my team our first goal of the season less than one minute into the opening game.
Even as my teammates rush to celebrate with me, and the home crowd rises to their feet with a deafening roar, it doesn’t feel like I scored the goal for any of them.
My eyes only go one place in the crowd, to the person I really scored that goal for: my wife.
We win the game 4-1.
In the locker room, the guys are having a blast. Joking around, roughhousing, talking about the best plays we pulled off. But the first thing I do is find my phone in my cubby and text Piper.
ME
Where are you?
PIPER
I’m in the lobby. Do you have a bunch of stuff to do after the game? Should I just meet you at home?
If she goes home, she’ll change. The next time I see her, she won’t be wearing my jersey anymore.
ME
No, I’ll come out to you
Stepping out into the lobby among the fans after the game we just had is an objectively idiotic idea. I’ll be swamped. It’ll be a nightmare for security and arena staff.
But I need to see Piper in my jersey up close. The sheer craving I have for that is completely irrational, but I’m too high on adrenaline right now to give a shit, too hyped up to exercise judgment.
With my hair still sweaty and matted down from my helmet and my game jersey still on, all I do is remove my skates and step into my shoes before I head to the door.
“Nash, where are you going?” Hayden asks.
“To see my wife,” I answer, not looking back.
I text Piper again, telling her to meet me by a certain concession stand that’s in an area of the lobby that’s never that busy when games let out.
Of course, there will still be fans around, and they’ll spot me and draw a crowd, but it should be far enough away from the main exit routes that we don’t get totally slammed.
I step into the concourse where I told Piper to meet me, and the first thing I see is her. The adrenaline in my bloodstream kicks up a notch, and I’m buzzing so much that my hands tingle.
There she is, my wife in the eyes of the law, wearing my jersey, and even though our vows were never said with even a pinch of sincerity, I’ve never heard the word mine ring so loudly in my ears as it does right now.
I should realize how bad this reaction is and pump the brakes, but I’m way too worked up from the game. Too many endorphins are bouncing around my brain, I feel too good, too high, and all I can do is lean into it.
“Piper,” I say, her name feeling like a sweet liquor on my lips.
She turns around, and something flashes in her eyes. An excitement at seeing me that I haven’t noticed there before.
“There’s my wife,” I say, approaching her. I want nothing more right now than to plant my hands on her waist and pull her close, but I have enough sense scattered around my brain to pull it together and keep myself from going that far.
“Nice game,” she says, an uncharacteristically bashful smile gracing her lips.
I stand in front of her, unsure for a moment. I felt pulled to her like a magnetic tug, but now that I’m here, I’m at a loss.
If she were my real wife, I’d pull her close, celebrate by planting my lips to hers. I’d turn her around and get a good look at my name on her back up close. Tell her that I can’t wait until later tonight, when I can see her wearing nothing but that jersey.
Those are the things I’d do right now if I was feeling like this, and Piper were really my wife, in the way that counted. But she isn’t.
So maybe it’s lucky that right then, people start to notice us.
I start to hear fans yell my name and feel a crowd of people gathering and pressing close. Sure enough, members of the press who didn’t make the cut to get into the media room for post-game coverage are among them.
“Nash Miller!” A woman holding a microphone speaks up to get my attention, a cameraman trailing behind her. “Nina Rivera with Channel 29 News. Can we get your comments about the game?”
I swing my arm around Piper, tucking her against my side. She wants more evidence of us being together in public, so this is a perfect excuse to touch my wife the way I want to right now.
I rattle off some boilerplate response about the win being a team effort, our performance being the result of hard work and close study of our opponent, and my enthusiasm and optimism about the upcoming season.
Then another reporter steps up. “This is Mrs. Miller’s first game as well, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Dashwood,” I correct her. “She kept her last name.”
The reporter’s brow arches, like she’s caught onto something that she might be able to spin into a clickbait headline. “Oh? How progressive. And that’s something you’re okay with?”
I flash a smile at the camera. “Of course. I don’t care that my wife kept her last name. She should be proud of everything about herself, her name included.” I turn my head to look down at Piper, smile still on my lips. “But I sure as hell do like seeing her with mine on her back.”