Chapter 7
Lane offers to drive and brings me to my house on Sweet Corn Court so I can grab my bathing suit before we go in the hot tub at his condo. Once in the safety of my home, I consider not going back out.
I could just text him and say that a pipe burst and I need to bail water out of my kitchen. But then he’d offer to help. Seems like that kind of guy.
Maybe if I turn off all the lights, he’ll think I dozed off and drive away. No, he’ll be worried and call in a wellness check or just do it himself.
Stuffing my dark blue full-piece bathing suit with little sailboats in a bag along with a towel, I return to Lane, who waits with headlights beaming into the darkness and heat running to keep us warm.
Yes, we still have to discuss our situation.
Sure, I can’t help but wonder what he meant about “showing me” he’s not his father.
Am I uneasy? You bet.
At every crunch of my boots in the snow along the path, I hear my father’s voice in my head, warning me about promises.
And yet I get in his truck.
Considering it’s New Year’s Day night, the drive to Omaha is swift and traffic-free. Lane fills me in on relocating here from Wisconsin. “It was a lateral move, just flatter ground. Same bleak, cold winters.”
Clicking my tongue, I dare to say, “But one could argue that the Knights are a better team.”
The faint strains of a rock song play through the speakers, highlighting his silence until, with a wry smile, he says, “One could argue that.”
I take it being traded after so many years with the Warriors might be a tender subject, so I leave it at that.
We park in a covered garage amidst other salt and sand-coated cars.
Instead of going to his condo, we go to the amenities level of the building, which includes a pool, weight room, fitness center, workspace for people who are remotely employed, and a party room.
Lane directs me to the ladies’ locker room while he goes to his in the mens’ lockre room, where he keeps his trunks.
I slip into my swimsuit, trying and failing to talk myself out of this.
I freeze in the locker room, then, as if an invisible fan club is rooting me on—I can practically hear my girlfriends cheering—fine, I’ll be adventurous this once. Then Bree can let me retreat into my happy place.
Nonetheless, I’m painfully aware of every step I take between the door and the jacuzzi where Lane waits, already in the bubbly water.
When I drop my towel, his gaze drifts down to the constellation of small stars tattooed along my hip, but he doesn’t comment.
The hot water is perfect, and I sink in with a grateful sigh. Lane, wearing nothing but dark gray swim trunks on a body forged from hammered stone, shifts slightly, and I spot dark ink on his ribs—what looks like a compass rose.
As he relaxes in the water, a soothing sound comes from his chest. “This is far better than cold therapy.”
“Like ice baths?” I ask, shivering slightly even though the water is warm.
“Yeah, my trainers have me doing cold plunges, sauna sessions—alternating between hot and cold for recovery. I prefer this one—figured you might too after arguably the strangest night ever. My body probably appreciates their program, though.”
Hot. Yes.
Body. Mmmhmm.
Very hot.
I resist the urge to fan my face at the sight of his toned and athletic physique.
Thankfully, his eyes dip closed as if finally relaxing. When they open again, they land directly on me.
The playful flirtation in his gaze, like he read my mind, makes me feel like I’m boiling in a stockpot.
Doing my best to sound normal and not like I’m choking on a chicken bone, I say, “My family is Danish. Saunas are practically a way of life in Denmark. My grandmother used to say the heat could cure anything from a broken heart to a stubborn cold.”
The memory makes me pause, and suddenly I’m thinking about different kinds of healing.
Letting out a breath, I find myself telling him about my injury. “My college roommate was dating a hockey player. Their relationship was fire and ice, you know?”
He grumbles. “Unfortunately, I’m familiar with that particular combination.”
“One night, they had a massive fight about him missing her birthday dinner because he had practice. She was crying. He was being stubborn.”
“In your dorm room?”
“It was as awkward as you can imagine. I thought I could talk sense into both of them. That was a big fat failure. I was going to leave for the library so I could study, but she stormed out, and he just ... didn’t go after her. Classic him, honestly.”
Without realizing it, Lane and I have drifted closer together in the jacuzzi tub. The mountains that form his toned shoulders bump up over the bubbles. In much the same way I work bread dough, I suddenly want to knead the knots out of them, his neck, and back.
Shaking my head to resurface from my thoughts, I continue the story. “I finally found her sitting on the fire escape outside our dorm at nearly midnight in December. I climbed out to sit with her, and when I finally convinced her to come inside, I slipped and ...” My ankle twinges reflexively.
Lane winces.
“What I thought was just another sprain—wouldn’t have been my first—turned out to be a nasty break requiring surgical hardware to fix.”
“Screws and a plate?”
I nod. “And that off-ice injury was the end. My crossovers, turns, and transitions were never the same after that.” The truth of what I lost still stings. “Had to stop skating.”
“So you skated, but then you started baking instead?”
I laugh. “Are you asking if that was my backup dream? Actually, the runner-up was becoming an astronaut.”
His eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise, then his gaze drops to my tattoo hidden under the water. “The stars?”
“My best friend Bree and I got tattoos together. Hers is a book—she became an author. Mine is a constellation. My grandmother always said, ‘Shoot for the moon, and if you miss, at least you’ll land among the stars.’” I trace the shape on the water’s surface with my finger.
“I like that.”
“Seemed fitting.”
“So how did you get into baking?”
“My grandmother left me the Busy Bee. Some days I wonder if I’m doing right by her memory.”
“If your baked goods could speak for themselves, they’d give you a rave review.”
A faint laugh burbles inside.
Lane asks, “Do you miss skating?”
“I don’t think about it. But it’s not like I regret taking over the bakery.
In fact, I love it. It’s my life.” But a pesky nudge inside, like Bibi’s nisser gnomes that started on New Year’s Eve, suggests I make room for more than measuring ingredients, answering oven timers, and serving up baked goods.
“I know something about injuries, too,” he says, rubbing his shoulder again. “Let mine go too long. Too prideful to admit something was truly wrong. I paid for it and then some.”
The conversation flows more easily now, like the warm water has dissolved a barrier between us.
He tells me about losing his mother when he was twelve, how he and his sister Desiree mostly raised themselves after that. His father remarried after he and his sister had both grown up. He sings his stepmother’s praises but doesn’t say much else about the famed Lane Sheridan Senior.
“What’s your relationship with your parents like?”
“My mother left when I was little.”
“Wait, so you don’t talk to her?”
I shake my head. “Papa—my dad—moved back to Denmark when he hung up his skates.” I shrug, trying to keep it light.
“We chat on birthdays and holidays, but we’re not especially close.
When I was a kid, his away-game schedule and practices at home meant we kind of got used to living apart.
I spent most of my time with my grandmother, then he sent me to boarding school. After that, college.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, just thoughtful. I realize my cheeks must be bright pink from the heat, and I laugh. “I probably look like a lobster right now.”
His eyes on me could be the reason I’m burning up, but they’re sparkly and soft, making me want to close the distance between us and feel his arms around me.
But that’s foolish. I made a promise. Then again, Lane and I also took vows.
After a few more minutes, he gets out and holds out my towel.
After changing, we go briefly up to his condo.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I’m struck by how empty it is.
And coming from someone who is a self-professed minimalist and prefers décor in the Skandi tradition—except at Christmastime—that’s saying something.
“Do you actually live here, or is this just where you store your hockey gear?” I tease, taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture.
He chuckles. “I’m embracing the artistic concept of negative space. For instance, that bare wall really highlights the placement of that lamp over there.”
For a moment, I think he’s serious, but the amusement on his features suggests otherwise. A giggle escapes my lips.
Glancing at the mostly empty room, he says, “Actually, I wasn’t too sure about things here or playing for the Knights.”
“You mean you might go back to the Warriors or—?”
He goes quiet as if he doesn’t want to think about his career or his future, including the strange reality we’re navigating—two people trying to figure out what it means to be accidentally married by a hypnotist during a New Year’s Eve variety show, when we’re not actually a couple at all.
Lane’s gaze drifts over me and then he pulls out his phone.
“I got a message when you went into your house to get your stuff. My lawyer says the marriage is legally binding.” He angles his phone in my direction and scrolls through what looks like an email.
“An annulment would require proving fraud or coercion, which might be difficult given how willing we appeared in the video. Divorce is more straightforward but could take weeks or months.”
“So we’re …”
Lane tips his head from side to side. “There are some other considerations. The video has gone viral. The entirety of the hockey world is atwitter about it. If we immediately file for divorce, it’s going to look bad for both of us.”
I think about what the girls said earlier, about how excited everyone is. “Bad for business, too.” I think of the dire financial circumstances at the bakery. “This kind of publicity could be really good for the Busy Bee. But what about your career?”
“A quick divorce might make me look like the kind of guy who uses people and throws them away. That’s not great when I’m trying to rebuild things.” His hand absently drifts to his shoulder.
We sit there in silence for a moment, both of us processing the implications.
“So what are you suggesting?” I ask finally.
“I’m leaving for a series of away games early tomorrow morning. I’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe we can use that time to think about this.”
“Think about staying married?”
“Temporarily.” Lane’s voice is careful, like he’s testing the words. “Just until we figure out the best way to handle this in a way that doesn’t hurt either of us.”
I want to say no immediately. Want to insist that we find a way to end this as swiftly as possible, before it gets any more complicated than it already is.
Then I look at the photo strip again, at the evidence of the connection we made before hypnosis ever entered the picture. And I think about the way Lane looked at me when he told me that he’s not his father.
Part of me—the part that chose him last night, whether I was hypnotized or not—wants to find out if that’s true.
Letting out a long-held breath, I say, “Okay, we’ll think about it.”
Lane smiles and relief transforms his entire face. He moves toward the door, and I catch a hint of his scent—fresh mint and winter air with a hint of cedar. It’s completely different from the cinnamon and vanilla that I’m used to, but it also reminds me of a place Bibi and Papa called home.