Chapter 6 #3
Prepared to finish off the cookie, Lane is taken aback and drops his hand from his mouth. “Why would I do that?”
Rocking back on my heels, I feel like a jerk, but it’s just that my father warned me about hockey players. Don’t want to get cross-checked. “I’m not sure but—”
He scrubs his hand along his jaw. “Nina, I’ve been manipulated enough in my career to know better than to try to use or deceive anyone.”
“But there was last night.”
He shakes his head. “If anyone was using or deceiving, it would be Lucian Little. I have my attorney looking into the situation.”
That’s probably a good thing, but it’s time to put him to the test. “Why were you late just now?”
“I was waiting for what my sister said was a very important phone call that I’d want to be sitting down to receive. It never came. No surprise there.” I detect hurt and disappointment, but the sincerity in his gaze makes me want to trust him.
Part of me wants to know more about Lane Sheridan Junior—not the career stats and highlights, but the real person underneath the jersey. This is dangerous thinking for someone who was never supposed to date, never mind marry, a hockey player—leaving me to figure out how to fix this.
Or not. I mean, would it really be that bad to spend forever with someone so handsome?
I drag myself, kicking and screaming, back to reality and say, “So … about our situation.”
Lane reaches into his jacket and pulls out what looks like a photo strip from an old-fashioned photo booth.
“First, I want to show you something. The roving photographers last night put together photo booth-like collections of pictures for the guests. They gave this one to my teammate to pass along to me after we bolted. A party favor, I guess.”
He hands me the strip, and my breath catches. It’s us, from last night, but not during the hypnosis ceremony. These photos are from earlier in the evening—we’re laughing, dancing, looking at each other like we’re sharing a wonderful secret.
“From before the variety showcase,” I whisper, staring at the evidence in my hands.
“We danced.”
“And laughed.”
“It was fun.”
“It was a flash.” I snap my fingers. “Two songs. The end of a fast one and the start of a slow one. It all happened so fast.”
He snorts through his nose. “Hockey players tend to move at a rapid pace.”
I grimace.
He holds his hand up as if understanding the double meaning. “I didn’t mean it like that. Though this is my fastest marriage.”
“Have you been married before?”
He winces like this is coming out all wrong. “No, I meant like maybe the fastest wedding in history. I’m also not a very good dancer, so consider yourself spared from more than the halves of two songs.” He clams up as if this conversation isn’t coming easily to him.
Biting my lip, I say, “You were a great dancer. And I’ll admit that I was nervous. Hadn’t done anything like that in a while.” If I were seated, my leg would be jiggling right now, not to be confused with dancing a jig. No, this is pure nerves.
Our eyes meet, and suddenly we’re back in that moment, sharing the connection that sparked between us before hypnosis, before marriage. It was as simple as two people drawn together, briefly dancing on New Year’s Eve and pierced by little love arrows.
“Auld Lang Swoon!”
Did I say that out loud? Those were Emerson’s words, not mine! It’s my turn to wince.
“Yeah,” Lane says softly as if admitting the same.
Rewinding the last few moments, I’m certain I didn’t say the thing about little love arrows. Just in my head. A thing I desperately need to screw on straight. Get back on track.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Um, there’s something you should know.”
He leans in expectantly.
“I vowed never to date a hockey player,” I hear myself say this time. “I made a promise to my father.”
Lane’s expression grows serious. “Why?”
Like the heavy trucks that clear the snow from Cobbiton’s thoroughfares well before dawn, I force myself to plow ahead.
“Because my parents weren’t exactly what you’d call the picture of a model couple.
My mother was actually a fashion model, and she was beautiful and charming and completely unprepared for the reality of being a hockey wife .
.. or mom. They never even made it to the altar. She, um, left him for someone else.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Wait, does that mean your father played hockey?”
“Viggo Bruun,” I supply.
Lane’s jaw drops. “The Danish Hammer,” he adds, referencing a nickname given to my father by fans.
I nod. “And your father is Lane Sheridan Senior.”
“The one and only,” he mutters with what amounts to pride but also sounds laden with what may as well amount to an entire team’s worth of hockey gear baggage.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to keep my voice steady when I add one more not insignificant detail, “And the one my mother cheated on my father with.”
Lane’s head snaps in my direction as if my words and their meaning took a second to catch up with him. “Are you saying my father and your mother …?”
I nod solemnly.
He’s quiet for a long beat, likely processing this information.
Then, because I can’t handle the tension, I say, “Maybe she was just cross-checking.” It can’t be helped. The corner of my lip lifts because that was a good pun. After all, I am my father’s daughter.
His lips quirk. “A penalty for sure.”
“I’m sorry to have been the one to tell you.
My father’s team won against the Mustangs in the finals the year he retired.
Got the Stanley, so I suppose he got his form of revenge.
As for me, it was in the past and I don’t hold anything against anyone, but I did promise my father that I’d never date a hockey player. ”
“I do hold a grudge, Nina. I had my suspicions about my father, but—” His fists tighten.
“If you knew the pressure he’s put on me from every direction.
I can’t very well listen to, no less respect, someone who lacks integrity like that.
He and my mother got married before he was drafted, so that means he cheated. ”
Not sure what else to say because I certainly didn’t prepare for this, I repeat, “I’m sorry.”
As if suddenly exhausted, Lane rubs his big palm down his face. “Nina, no, I’m the one who is sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Neither did you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Our eyes meet briefly and I break the connection with a shrug, having long since reconciled my parents’ failed relationship as having nothing to do with me. They split up well before I was old enough to remember Suzie Bass. Thankfully, I had Papa and Bibi.
“I can understand why your father would want to protect you.” His tone is tender, almost affectionate.
“And not turn out like my mother.”
As if suddenly having a startling realization, Lane looks up at me, reminding me instantly of last night when we held each other’s gazes. “Nina, I’m not my father.”
I’m afraid to ask, but do anyway. “How do I know that?”
The question hangs between us, burdened with old wounds and broken promises. The sun sets early this time of year and dusky shadows fill my otherwise bright and happy bakery.
“We haven’t even talked about us. But I could show you.” He rubs his shoulder as if it aches, then suggests we try the jacuzzi at his rental. “It’s honestly the only thing I like about that place,” he admits with a wry smile.
I hesitate—this feels like crossing some invisible line—but the warmth sounds delightful on this cold winter’s evening and reminds me of visiting Denmark with Bibi when I was a kid, so I agree, knowing this might be an even bigger risk than last night. What if I fall for my accidental husband?