29. There’s Always a Catch
THERE’S ALWAYS A CATCH
Asher
The third period is winding down, and New York clings to a one-goal lead. We have ten minutes to shave that. I race down the ice, passing the puck to Falcon as we hunt for an opening.
But New York’s relentless, and their defenseman Karlsson won’t lay off me. The second I spot an opening and try to sneak it past the goalie, he cuts across, swiping it from me, then flashes a dickhead smile. “You’re a little distracted, Callahan. Must be all that kissing.”
I know better than to rise to the bait. Assholes like Karlsson thrive on getting a reaction, and he’s the league’s leading asshole.
If you don’t give in, they’ve got nothing.
But I can’t ignore him completely—that fucker is talking about my wife.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t expect you to know what that’s like. ”
“Don’t expect you to know what good hockey is like,” he says, then races ahead of me.
I dig my blades into the ice, muscles burning as I chase him down.
My breath comes in sharp bursts as I fight for control of the puck along the boards with Karlsson and a couple of New York guys.
I grit my teeth, jabbing my stick into the scrum and snagging the puck, but Karlsson’s still tight on me, his breath hot against my ear.
“You thinking about kissing her now, Callahan?” Karlsson’s smirk is almost audible in his voice.
The puck bounces loose, and I rush to recover it. But fuck me—I swing too high, too fast. My stick clips Karlsson across the chest.
Before I can react, he drops theatrically to the ice.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter as the whistle blows, sharp and shrill. The referee’s arm shoots up. High-sticking. It wasn’t intentional, but that doesn’t matter. The damage is done. Jaw ticking, I skate to the penalty box as New York fans chant, “Power play.”
And New York scores ten seconds later.
I slam my stick against the boards in frustration. When the clock winds down, I’m back out there, determined to make up for it. I chase down the puck, race toward the goal, and fling it at the empty spot in the net—but the New York goalie deflects it.
Karlsson skates past me. “Bet your wife can kiss you and make it better.”
She can, but that’s not for him to know. I spin around, gloves halfway off, my voice razor-sharp. “Leave my wife out of this.”
I’ve never been a fighter. I’m the one who stops fights. But right now, I’m ready to throw gloves. Before I do something I’ll regret, Falcon grabs my right arm. Bryant grabs the left, holding me back.
“He’s not worth it,” Bryant mutters. He should know—he used to play with that jerk.
I blow out a harsh breath and skate away.
Hopping over the boards for the shift change, I yank off my helmet and drop my head in frustration. Coach McBride strides by, cool and focused, like he always is. He levels me with an intense stare. “Keep your head in the game, Callahan.”
“I will, sir,” I reply with a tight nod.
Hockey is my happy place. My escape. It’s where everything makes sense. I need to get that mentality back.
Pep talk done, I shove off the frustration and jump back out there for the next line change, scrambling for the puck. But New York’s faster, and they keep it away from us till the horn blares with their win.
When the game ends, Karlsson sails past me. “Maybe next time your wife wants a quickie marriage, she’ll choose someone who plays to win.”
He’s not getting the last word in. No fucking way. The game’s over. The refs are skating off the oval. So I catch up to him before he reaches the gate, flashing a fuck-off smile. “Say one more word about my wife, and you’ll be picking up your teeth off the ice. Got it?”
His eyes widen, flickering with fear. Good. I like that. He gulps—even better. But just in case there’s any misunderstanding, I add with my best good-guy charm, “Sounds like we’re clear on that.”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
Fine by me. I skate off to our tunnel, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but from frustration. This game got messy fast, and I should have kept my cool.
I didn’t, and that’s not like me. When I hit the ice, I treat it like a game. Like it’s fun. And I have a good time. I’ll have to get back to that.
Once I’m showered and changed into my suit, I do my best to put hockey out of my mind for the night. There’s only one person I want to talk to, but I’ll have to wait till I get a minute alone.
On the short flight to Boston, where we’ll play tomorrow evening, I close my eyes, but I don’t nap.
I listen to a comedian, and when I’m finally in the quiet of my hotel room that night, I pull out my phone and call Maeve.
The phone rings twice before she picks up, her voice soft but teasing. “Tough game?”
She watched it, and that…well, it thrills me.
She’s seen plenty of my games over the years, but Monday night was the first time she watched as my wife.
What would it be like if she were in the stands regularly at home?
I let my imagination run wild, seeing her in my jersey for every home game, cheering me on.
That’s a real nice thought, and it definitely perks me up.
“You could say that.” I sink into the bed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Karlsson was chirping the whole game. But screw him.”
She pauses for a moment. “What was he saying?”
I hesitate. She doesn’t need to know the details. Part of protecting her—part of this fake marriage—is keeping her out of the mess that comes with my world. She’s got enough on her plate already. “Nothing worth repeating. Just hockey stuff.”
There’s a beat of silence before I steer the conversation away. “How’s the mural coming along?”
“Good but exhausting. It’s easily the biggest project I’ve ever done. Normally, we’d start with the concept, but that was done as part of the submission. So we jumped right in and finished the sketches and the color palettes. Looked at them in the space itself.”
“And was Holmes there?”
“He was. Don’t tell Eleanor, but he’s a little in love with me. Though, I think she figured it out when he tried to hump my leg.”
“That might be a dead giveaway,” I say.
“True, true. And I’ve been working through the sketches on my tablet back at my place. And my butt has never hurt more from the spring in my couch,” she says.
“So it’s a pain in the ass?”
“Bah-bump,” she says. “And I’ll probably work through the weekend. I have a lot to get done.”
“Just be sure you get enough sleep,” I tell her.
I could rattle off a hundred benefits of a good night of rest. I know them all.
By heart. But I stick to the big ones, so it’s not obvious that I’ve researched this topic.
“It’s important for good health and brain function and creativity, which you need. ”
“Yes, Doctor Google. You always know what I need. It’s like that time I thought I sprained my ankle when I was working on a mural for that new café.”
I remember that perfectly—she twisted her ankle coming down from a ladder a couple years ago. “You just needed some ice and to rest it,” I say, relieved again that she didn’t need crutches. The sprain was minor.
“And you made sure I did just that. So, don’t worry. I’ll get plenty of rest this weekend too,” she adds.
“Good.”
The tension in my chest loosens a little. She has that effect—lightening my load without even realizing it.
We talk for a few more minutes, and by the time I hang up, I feel more grounded. But the frustration from the game still lingers. I can’t let it go.
So I pull up my phone again and start searching for articles about exhaustion, specifically, how it affects creativity.
I want to make sure she’ll be okay. That she’s not going to work herself too hard.
I scroll through pages from the Mayo Clinic, Cleveland Clinic, and more to make sure she’s not hitting critical levels for exhaustion.
Good news—she’s not, by my diagnosis, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for that as she works on this project.
Just as I’m about to put the phone down, Karlsson’s comment from the game comes back to me. Maybe Maeve should know what he’d said to upset me, after all. I don’t want to keep important things from her, and we’re in this together.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shoot her a quick text.
Asher: Karlsson made some stupid comment about our viral post, something about all the kissing.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Maeve: Fuck him. I’ll kiss you a thousand more times.
I can’t help but smile. It’s the kind of response only Maeve would give, and in that moment, Karlsson’s chirps don’t bother me anymore.
Friday night, we beat Boston in their barn, and after the game, Wesley appears at my door, riding a post-game high, insisting we go out to celebrate the victory. We don’t travel again till tomorrow, so there’s time.
“There’s this place called Gin Joint that Josie told me about. Her librarian friends go there. And librarians know how to party,” he says.
“I’m gonna trust you on that.” I grab a jacket and follow him out.
Something nags at me as the door closes—the annoying feeling that I forgot to do something important.
We gather Miles and Max, who’s joining us tonight since Everly’s out with the Boston team’s PR woman.
Hugo’s turning in early. We walk to the nearby lounge, and usually, I’d be all in for the casual strategy session, trading tips, and shop talk.
But the nagging feeling is like there’s a mosquito buzzing around my head that I can’t swat away.
“What do you think? Is Boston tougher this year since they acquired Jorgen?” Max asks. “You’re our stats guy.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been zoning out as we walk in the cold February air. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”
Wesley laughs. “The time you stopped paying attention.”
Miles gives me a curious look. “You all right, man?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” I say, scratching my head. “But…what’s today?”
“The day after yesterday and the day before tomorrow,” Miles says, adopting a deeply philosophical tone.
“No, seriously. The date.”
“Is your phone broken?” Miles retorts.