Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
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Our SUV Limo pulls up to what I figure must be the back entrance of the Venetian to their expo center, past all kinds of signs shouting about the NHL All-Star Extravaganza.
As soon as we get out, we’re escorted to an elevator that takes us down a ways to an underground tunnel which brings us directly to a lobby where a crowd of media is waiting for us.
I glance at Stubby with suspicion because I could swear he must have made a call to alert everyone with a media pass within fifty miles that we were arriving.
“This is an impressive crowd even for the new hockey phenom,” Sabien quips under his breath. I elbow him. Then I glance at Brooks to see how she’s doing. Not sure why since, like she said, she works for me.
She’s wearing a tight smile, and when Stubby and his security team step aside to give the media mob full access, I move closer to her. But she backs away from me, falling behind as if she’s hiding.
Of course she is. The media isn’t here to ask her questions. They probably have no idea who she is, and she’s counting on me to keep it that way.
The media mob gets restless, calling out questions, and Stubby takes charge, telling them he’ll call on them one at a time. One young lady with credentials from a media outlet I’ve never heard of doesn’t bother waiting for Stubby to point at her.
She raises a mic and shouts, “Brody, is it true you had a Vegas wedding? Who’s your new wife—” Her crazy question unleashes a barrage of similar shouts from the surrounding media until our All-Star team coach trots over, waving his hands to quiet them.
Then everyone, including Stubby and the coach, looks at me for an answer.
Sweat pops at my temples, and I automatically swipe a hand through my hair.
“What wife?”
When the savvy young reporter with questionable creds glances at my ring finger, I realize denial, even if it’s the truth, may not be the best tactic in this instance. Because the whole truth is… complicated.
It’s all I can do not to lose my shit and snatch my hand from view. As it is, my hand clenches as I dart my eyes at the offending digit with the shiny gold band.
I reflexively swipe my un-ringed hand across my face while I corral all the expletives exploding in my head and try to compose myself enough to come up with a neutral answer. I don’t think sticking with Sabien’s ridiculous lie is the best way.
But Sabien has other ideas. Grabbing me and Brooks by the shoulders and drawing us together, he says, “May as well reveal the big secret. These two newlyweds just tied the knot in a classic Vegas wedding. It was beautiful.”
As the crowd applauds and whistles, I stare at my teammate, the captain of our fucking team, and wonder if I should punch him in the mouth to stop him or slap him on the back with grateful encouragement.
Glancing at Brooks—or should I think of her as Bianca now that she’s my fake wife?
—it’s no mystery that she’s shocked and livid at Sabien and his big mouth.
When she tries to grab his arm, I intervene because who knows what harm she plans. I take her hand in mine, clutching it in a firm grip.
“Take it easy, honeybuns,” I say under my breath, leaning close to her ear. “Unless you think the truth is a better story. I personally don’t think they’d believe it.”
She gives me a wide-eyed stare while cameras aim at us in force, everything from cell phones to telephoto lenses to one full-blown television camera, and questions bombard us.
“Who is your wife? Introduce us.”
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
I stop listening to the questions and focus on Brooks.
I don’t know why I’m going along with Sabien’s wild lie, why I didn’t dismiss it all as a big joke gone wrong or some such fuck.
They might have believed it if we all insisted.
But I’m not entirely sure if Sabe would have backed me. And then what?
Brooks surprises me when she squeezes my hand, clutching it in hers as if she’s jumping off a bridge with a bungee cord and I’m the bungee cord.
She leans against me stiffly while Sabien holds us together with the kind of force I’d expect from someone who could deadlift a gorilla, or from a gorilla.
I take a big swallow as she speaks up, addressing the reporter with questionable credentials who posed the original question.
“We’re newlyweds. So we won’t be staying long.”
I can’t believe she’s turning the crazy lie to our advantage to get out of here quick. Then again, she’s smart. She gets a smattering of laughs at her quip, and I grin at her because I need to get out of here pronto so I can lay down before I fall down.
Lowering my head, I nuzzle her ear newlywed-like and whisper, “You’re going along with the Vegas marriage lie?”
“The alternative is—not good,” she whispers back.
My peek-a-boo headache makes a reappearance, and I’m not surprised. It wouldn’t take having a concussion to get a migraine over being outed as half a newlywed couple, especially with Brooks—I mean Bianca—my fucking hands-off agent—posing as my other half.
The media renews the disorderly shouting all at once in spite of Stubby’s valiant efforts to control them. He takes time to throw one glare at me. Not that it matters since pain thumps through my head like each shouted question is a puck aimed right between my eyes.
“Was this planned or spontaneous?”
“How long have you been keeping your relationship a secret?”
Sabien speaks up again, saying, “It was all very sudden.”
The reporter turns to Sabien. “How long have you known about it?”
“I was the best man. Very private exchange of vows.” He talks like he’s been a play actor all his life and this is all fun and games.
The young woman reporter, who I recognize from back at the arena, shoulders her way through the crowd, lasers in on me, and speaks out over the others.
“Aren’t you a little young to be getting married?
You’re twenty years old, right? And does your family know about this?
” The crowd quiets down to listen to my answer.
Shit.
“We’re consenting adults. Besides, this is Vegas,” I add, not saying flat out that the marriage could be a lark, but implying it. Cripes, I can’t even imagine getting married for real if this is the kind of commotion I’d have to put up with.
“Isn’t your wife from the Jett Agency?” someone says. That’s when Brooks’ professional smile collapses.
“This is Bianca Brooks,” I say. “Like she said, we won’t be staying long, so excuse us while we go sign some autographs for the fans.” I give a pointed nod at Stubby, and he has some official NHL escorts obligingly lead us away.
We finally arrive at the main event where it’s loud and littered with all kinds of hockey-related booths and mini stages where players are on display, signing for fans and handing out NHL swag.
We’re led to one of the small stage-like platforms behind a wide table where several other All-Star players sit, interacting with fans and signing posters.
Sabien steps up, getting some attention as new blood, but when the fans see me, they swarm, screaming.
“Brody! Are you alright?”
“I’m so glad you’re not hurt!”
“Sign my t-shirt!”
“Sign my boob!”
Okay, so it looks like most of the screaming fans are women.
Shit. I keep my left hand in my pocket, not wanting a repeat of the last interrogation and hoping word doesn’t spread before we can unravel the story.
I climb onto the platform behind the table with the other players.
I don’t even realize I’ve dragged Brooks—I mean Bianca—with me until she tugs her hand from mine.
Our eyes connect with a question, but neither of us seems to know exactly how to handle this.
“The cat’s already out of the bag,” Sabien says, seeing our hesitation.
She pales, giving me a panicked look, and all I can do is smile at her in reassurance.
She stands next to me while the crowd grows and closes in, murmuring in confusion. A couple of the other players raise their brows in question.
Trochesky, the undisputed MVP of the league for the past three years, says, “I didn’t know this was take your agent to work day.” He nods at Bianca.
She gives him a tight smile and nudges me, whispering, “Say something or I will. And I’m not sure what I’ll say.”
Leaning close, I whisper back, “I have no idea what to say either.”
We both look at Sabien to handle it, though that may not be the wisest solution since he got us into this stupid newlywed lie.
Sabien shrugs and turns to the other players and fans in front of the table. “Meet the new Mrs. Brody Holden, formerly the agent known as Bianca Brooks.”
“I’m still Bianca Brooks and I still work for the Jett Agency,” she rushes to say, though she doesn’t contradict the lie about being my wife.
My wife? God, that sounds so foreign, and I should be shuddering in horror, but instead it’s strangely elating.
Maybe because I know it’s not real and it’s like a game, where we’re actors on a stage playing house.
The crowd of fans roars to life with applause and whistles, attracting more people from the other booths and interactive games.
The other three players at our table come forward, congratulating us with back slaps and bro hugs for me and genuine hugs of affection for Bianca.
She seems to know most of them personally.
But then why not? The Jett Agency handles most of the best players in the league.
I wonder what Jett is going to think about all this. Shit.
“We can only stay for fifteen minutes because Brody needs to rest after his… fall,” Bianca delivers the line with a smile.