Chapter 7
FLETCH
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, all too aware of Bree’s presence on the other side of the fortress of pillows between us. She insisted on building the barrier, and I couldn’t argue—this situation is bizarre enough already.
My spare bedroom is filled with workout equipment, and I never got around to buying a pull-out couch. Who knew I’d end up with a temporary wife needing somewhere to sleep?
Married. I’m married to Bree Darling, a woman I barely know but feel connected to already, given our brief yet storied encounter in college.
But this isn’t what I imagined when I pictured settling down.
This is a business transaction, not a love story.
An arrangement as practical as the mail-order brides in those historical novels she writes, because I didn’t score one more goal at the charity game.
Technically two, but had Neal and I tied, we would’ve had a shootout. I would’ve won. Bar none.
My thoughts turn darkly inward about how I’ve lost a step in hockey. I should’ve dominated the retired Knight and beaten him.
When will Coach Badaszek let me play again?
My jaw is fine. So why am I still sidelined?
The man places committed relationships above almost everything else.
Sometimes I think he values stable home lives even more than hockey performance.
He once said that a man with a rightly ordered heart plays with greater purpose.
We’ll see about that.
Footnote: Badaszek does not abide by puck bunnies, aka female superfans, intent on scoring a hockey star, flooding the locker room. Casual dating is a no-no, so we do it on the down low. Well, I did anyway. Then got my jaw smashed, so there’s that.
From here, my mind spins. What will my family think?
Mom will be heartbroken when she learns it’s not real.
She’s been pushing me to commit to someone for years, sending me pictures of her friends’ daughters.
My brothers will take the snot out of me.
Two of them are married and one is engaged—not to mention they’re all highly successful and respected in their particular fields.
Meanwhile, I play with sticks all day. I mean, I’m really good at it, or I was.
A deep and unfulfilled longing for the surge of anticipation before a game and then showing up for my teammates by being my best, leaves me with a rotten and uncomfortable sense that I’m missing out.
I shift onto my side, careful not to disturb the pillow wall.
Bree’s breathing has settled into a peaceful rhythm. I wonder what she’s dreaming about—probably plot twists and character arcs, not the awkward reality of our situation.
After a restless night, I’m up before dawn, as usual. Years of early practice have programmed my body to rise with the first hint of light. But I’m not alone in my bed.
Bree sleeps soundly over the wall of pillows, meaning everything from yesterday wasn’t a vivid dream.
We’re still married. It’s not like I was expecting to wake up and poof, she’d be gone.
Or for the scenario to be different, but part of me thought maybe I’d had a visit from the ghost of Christmas future, like in The Christmas Carol story.
I slip out of bed and change into my running clothes. After freshening up, the frigid morning air hits my lungs as I step outside, burning so good. My breath forms clouds in front of my face as I set off down the street.
Most everyone in town is still snug in their beds, decorative lights still twinkling on houses and storefronts without timers in the gray light before the sun comes up fully.
My grin grows at each plastic or inflatable yard decoration I pass.
Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and even this strange situation can’t dampen my holiday spirit.
Nina mentioned that Bree may have been bitten by a bah humbug. I can cure that. I haven’t been Grinchy, just busy as I focus on returning to hockey. But it’s Christmastime and the festivities start now.
By the time I return home, the sun has crested the horizon. Bree is still asleep—drained from yesterday’s excitement or not an early riser. I should know these types of things about my wife. Though she did mention writing in the morning.
I shower quickly and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Coffee first—that’s non-negotiable. I set the pot brewing while I pull eggs and vegetables from the fridge for omelets and tune my music app to a Christmas channel and whistle along.
I’m just plating the food when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Bree appears in the doorway, already dressed in jeans and a fuzzy white sweater.
Her hair is pulled back, highlighting her smooth cheekbones, but they don’t lift with a smile.
She looks put-together but slightly uneasy.
Her broody gaze at the glowing lights strung up around the windows and my general air of festive cheer at this hour suggest she’s not a morning person. Nothing I can’t fix.
“Good morning.”
She mumbles something in response that sounds like So this wasn’t a bad dream.
Sliding a mug of coffee across the counter, I ask, “Why don’t eggs tell jokes?”
She grunts, accepting the hot beverage like she traveled across a desert all night and now that she reached an oasis, she is in no mood for bad dad jokes.
Getting to the punchline, I say, “If you’re dying to know why eggs don’t tell jokes, it’s because they might crack up.”
Her cheek twitches, but I don’t get so much as a titter.
“How do you take your coffee?” I gesture to the cream and sugar. Another thing I should know about my bride. I’m ready with another joke about lattes, but hold back.
“Just a splash of cream.” She takes a sip and looks surprised. “This is good.”
“You sound shocked. I do possess some domestic skills.”
She tips her head from side to side. “There I thought you were a caveman. Truth be told, I don’t. Nina, who makes everything from scratch, would be mortified if she saw my packaged food diet.”
“Unless you truly enjoy microwave meals, that changes today. I make the best sammies.”
Her forehead furrows.
“Sandwiches.” I share a bit about the team nutritionist getting me on track with healthier choices and swaps. “Though I never say no to homemade Christmas cookies.”
She takes a seat at the kitchen island, wrapping her hands around the mug. “We need ground rules.”
“I was hoping you’d say a weekly menu, but sure.”
“This is a business arrangement. For research and financial purposes only.”
“Agreed.” I set out some ketchup in case she wants it for her eggs.
“We’ll organize the toy drive and work on the pageant as a ‘couple,’ and we’ll maintain appropriate appearances in public, but—” Her lips curl as if she’s disgusted.
“Keep our distance in private? I understand.” I mean, it’s not like I was expecting any kind of physical affection, but I’m not an ogre. Maybe she thinks I’m hideous. Or perhaps she doesn’t like the eggs.
Nope. Never mind. The omelet is nearly gone.
“Good. We should probably write everything down. Make our own contract.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust this situation. And I’m a writer. I like things spelled out.”
I take a sip of coffee. “Fair enough. Let me get some paper.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve drafted a detailed agreement, covering everything from bathroom schedules to public displays of affection—minimal and only when necessary for maintaining our story.
“I think that covers it. Any questions?” Bree asks.
“Just one. What are we doing for dinner tonight? As your husband, I feel I should know your food preferences and demonstrate that I’m a good provider.”
She rolls her eyes, but can’t help a small smile. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious. We could go out, risk running into the mayor again ... or I could cook for you.”
Gesturing to her nearly empty plate, she says, “So you weren’t watching video tutorials on how to prepare the perfect omelet all morning?”
There are several threads I could pull from her comment, but I go with, “You think the omelet was perfect? Wait until you see what I can do with a steak.”
Bree’s gaze travels to my running shoes that I’d toed off by the front door, then her eyes travel from my feet to my face. We’re a measure apart at the kitchen island and she seems to be making sense of something—me?—or taking notes for a story idea. After all, she’s on a research mission.
I say, “I’m a bachelor who lives alone. I had to learn to cook or I’d starve.”
“You might poison me to get out of this arrangement.” Bree narrows her eyes in my direction.
Mine crinkle at the corners when I smile. “And risk Mayor Nishimura’s wrath? Never.”
Despite herself, Bree laughs. The tension that’s been building in her shoulders since the Christmas Market eases slightly.
“Are you a bachelor by choice?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you asking if I’m a player?”
She clumsily sets down her mug of coffee with a splash of cream.
“Or would you call guys like that cads in your old-timey books?”
“There are numerous terms, but womanizer will suffice.”
Lips bunched together, I nod. “I see. Well, if you’re interested in my relationship history—”
She cuts me off. “I’m not.”
Okay then. “I thought it might be helpful for our backstory.”
She shakes her head and starts to get up to bring her plate to the sink.
“So you don’t want to hear about the ghosts of Christmas past?” I mutter.
We clean up in silence until I say, “How about this? We’re going to get a Christmas tree. Start making this place look like the holiday hasn’t completely passed us by. Then we can figure out our strategy for the toy drive and I’ll make dinner later.”
Bree’s expression falls slightly. “You’re really into Christmas, aren’t you?”
“It’s the best time of year! The lights, the music, the cookies. What’s not to love?” I can’t keep the enthusiasm from my voice.
“Plenty,” she mumbles, then catches herself. “Sorry. I’m just not feeling very festive this year.”
I want to ask why, but something tells me to hold back. Instead, I say, “I’ll just have to be festive enough for both of us.”
It’s such an outrageous suggestion and reinforces that we’re on the same team, a couple, that for a moment, she seems caught off guard. She opens and closes her mouth as if choosing her words carefully.
When she doesn’t speak at first, I’m afraid I may not like what she’ll say. Like she might reject me. But why would that matter?
Wringing her hands, Bree says, “This isn’t how I expected now to go—contractually married to a Christmas-obsessed hockey player, planning toy drives, and talking about holiday decorations. But as research for my mail-order bride novel, I guess it works, oddly enough.”
“So, tree hunting and dinner later?” I ask, relieved.
She nods and her shoulders creep up toward her ears as she turns uneasy again. “Is it okay for me to set up my laptop in here? I need a place to work in the meantime.”
“Let me show you the guest room. Maybe you can set up there.”
We go upstairs and I open the door to reveal my home gym, complete with a treadmill, weight bench, and various pieces of equipment taking up most of the space.
I pause in the doorway, thinking about what to do about this situation. “I can move this to the basement.”
“That’s a lot of work for only thirty days. I’ll just work at the bakery.”
That sounds very cozy, writerly, but I like the idea of Bree writing her romance novels here.
“Actually, I have a tiny home office, but I was using it as a storage space. The desk is covered with boxes, but those are easy enough to move.”
Her eyes brighten. “Really? That’s no trouble? I’ve never had a designated writing space.”
“Given the choice to sit at a desk or work out up here, I’m choosing—” I point at the workout gear.
“We are so different.”
“Isn’t it the tension that makes the kinds of stories you write so juicy?”
A smile blooms on Bree’s face. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“My mother had four sons. I’m not sure if she’s ever read any of your books, but she has multiple shelves filled with romance novels.” We called them her girlie books.
With splayed fingers, she gestures to the spare room. “I just have to make this old-fashioned and cowboy.”
“And make the office space your own,” I say, starting down the hall to show her the room.
She looks wistful for a moment. “I’ve been meaning to get back to my parents’ old house to pick up some things.
I moved here from Wyoming, where I had a sublet, so I don’t have a lot of stuff.
But there are some items I could grab, as long as a family of woodland animals didn’t move in and take over. ”
“Your parents’ place is here in town?” I ask, curious about the woman I’ve suddenly found myself married to.
Bree nods. “My dad passed away when I was a senior in high school. My mother is in an independent living community now. They had me later in life—a surprise, they always said.” There’s something in her tone that hints at more, but she doesn’t elaborate.
“I could drive you over there in the truck. We could pick up whatever you need.”
Bree looks surprised by the offer. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. I bet you have some great Christmas decorations stored away. Maybe we could borrow those, too?”
Something clouds her expression. “We didn’t really do much for Christmas. My parents were ... set in their ways. The holiday wasn’t a big production, but there are a few boxes in the basement we could grab.”
“Sure, but that means we’ll just have to start our own traditions then.”
“For our fake mail-order marriage?” She arches an eyebrow.
Undeterred, I say, “For the next thirty days. Beginning with finding the perfect tree. There’s a farm on the edge of town that I’ve been wanting to check out.”
“When you commit to something, you go all in, huh?” She’s studying me again, like I’m a character she’s trying to understand.
“Some people like hockey. I love it. Some people like writing. You should see my penmanship. My mom says it looks like a chicken trying to draw with a crayon. Some people go nuts for Christmas. I’m a big fan.
” I shrug, unapologetic about my enthusiasm.
“It’s the one time of year when everything seems possible.
Even fake marriages—” I catch myself before I say something too revealing and scare her off, because is it really so bad?
Okay, from the outside, it’s straight-up loony, but we’re talking about Bree and me. “Well, you know what I mean.”
For a moment, I swear I see a crack in her Grinchy armor, a hint of something softer. Then it smooths over like a Zamboni resurfacing the rink. But I look again and a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. It’s not quite holiday cheer, but it’s a start.