22. Second Wife #2
It’s what my dad, Carlos, used to say when I was younger, whenever I was too worried about John, even after he went on meds for his condition. I took Carlos’s words to heart, and I still do. I can hear the roar of the crowd, but I keep it in the background, not letting it distract me. Until—
I make a pass to Falcon after the next line change, and my attention is momentarily yanked toward the stands at center ice.
What the…
Did that just happen?
I snap my gaze back to the ice, but I’m a fraction too late and almost trip over my own skates. A woman in the second row just flashed her bra at me, and I’m pretty sure the sign she’s lifting over her head says, Call Me If It Doesn’t Work Out.
I blink, forcing the bizarre moment out of my mind. We’re down by one with seven minutes left. I jump over the boards for the line change, grabbing my water bottle and taking a swig. I park myself next to Bryant on the bench. “We’ll get it in the next one,” I say.
“We fucking will,” he replies, giving me a fist-bump.
As Winters flies down the ice, I focus on the game, but something about the crowd noise tickles the back of my brain. It’s growing louder.
And it sounds like…second wife?
I glance at the Jumbotron. I’m not surprised often, but this? This throws me. I’ve seen my share of signs like Meet Me at the Players’ Entrance, or I’ll Make Your Night Worthwhile. Even the occasional phone number.
But this is a first—Can I Be Your Second Wife?
Bryant elbows me and shoots me a disbelieving look. “And ten thousand hockey fans are devastated you’re taken,” he says with a chuckle.
I shake my head, still not quite processing the news. But there’s no time to dwell on it. Coach calls for a line change, and I’m back on the ice. The moment my skates hit the surface, everything else fades away.
This time, I’m nothing but focused. Determination powers me as I fly down the rink. Falcon races ahead, and he’s open. I flick the puck to him, the pass perfect, and he lunges for it, sending it screaming past a Chicago defender and right into the net.
The horn blares—we’re tied up.
Two minutes later, Winters sends the black disc my way, and I send it home. The arena erupts, and when the game ends, “Tick Tick Boom” blasts through the sound system, signaling our victory.
The guys are pumping fists and slapping shoulders as we skate off the ice. But once again, something in the stands catches my eye. I can’t help but steal a curious glance. There’s a sea of signs waving my way.
You Might Be Wifed Up, But You’re Still My Fantasy Hockey MVP!
Taken, But You Can Still Score With Me!
Call Me If You Need A Backup!
Falcon catches my eye, grinning. “You’re getting hit on even more? Dude, can I have your luck, please?”
“I’m sure you do just fine,” I say.
He scoffs but adds, “Who knew all of San Francisco would be heartbroken that your ugly ass is hitched?”
Honestly, I’m still a little stunned that everyone knows. I head through the tunnel in a daze, both from the last-minute victory and the fan reaction. After I change out of my gear and tug on a workout shirt at my stall, I head to the media room with Everly for the post-game press conference.
The usual suspects are there. Gus, a weathered reporter who has covered us for years, clears his throat and asks the first question. “Asher, you made the assist to Falcon in the third that tied the game. What was going through your mind on that play? It looked like you were lining up for a shot.”
I nod, giving a measured answer. “We were down by one with five minutes left, so I knew I needed a more aggressive approach. But when I saw Falcon open, I went for it. The pass lined up just right, and he nailed it. I’m lucky it paid off, but this team never quits.”
Gus scribbles a note, seemingly satisfied with my response.
Then Claudia, a podcaster, raises her hand, wasting no time. “So you’re married now. When did things start with your wife? The night she won you at the auction? That was pretty fast.”
Everly shoots her a friendly but pointed look, her tone polite but firm. “If we could keep the questions hockey-related, that’d be great.”
It’s not surprising that a reporter has asked a skeptical question. And I appreciate Everly’s save, but if I dodge the question, that’ll only fuel the speculation.
I think about this week. The brunch with the owners on Tuesday, and the dinner with the Total Teamwork board on Friday, where Soraya will be relieved I have a date.
I remember Beckett’s warning to protect Maeve as I think about all the pieces of our story that have slipped out of our control—photos of the kiss after the auction, the pic of us at the concert, shots of us around the roulette table.
Everyone else is telling our story. Random strangers are putting together the pieces of our romance like we’re a jigsaw puzzle.
But I’m not moving the pieces, and that doesn’t sit well with me.
I hate it when things spin out of control.
It makes me feel jittery and frustrated.
Like a teenager again, helpless to do anything when my dad was sick.
So, I don’t take the out that Everly is offering.
Instead, I do what I promised Beckett I would—protect Maeve.
“I can only speak for myself,” I say to Claudia, with ease and confidence even, “but this has been going on for a long time.”
Everly gives a professional grin to the media scrum. “Next question.”
Another reporter asks one that’s hockey-related, and I answer it, but my mind is already racing. I don’t regret what I said, but we need to get our story straight if I’m going to keep my promise.
I’ll text her as soon as I return to the locker room. I’m not going to fuck up this chance.
For her, of course.
I don’t want to mess it up for her.
Especially since I was only speaking the truth to the press.