The Rebound Plan (Off The Ice #3)

1. Shannon

CHAPTER 1

SHANNON

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where Max is,” I say apologetically. That part is true. But my expression carefully also conveys that my husband’s absence is a strange mystery, and that part is a complete lie.

I know exactly why he hasn’t shown up to this photo shoot—it’s a punishment.

Until a month ago, he would never have done anything this blatant. For the first eight years of our marriage, I always wondered if the occasional edge of anger that I saw was just in my imagination. That’s how good he was at masking.

And then I ruined everything.

The nearest door to the small banquet hall where the photographers and videographers are set up swings open, and in strides a hockey player in full gear except for his skates, which are slung over his shoulder—but not the one we’re expecting.

Instead of Max Tilman, captain of the Hamilton Highlanders (and my husband for at least a few more months), it’s a third line forward named Russ Armstrong.

A big, tall, brooding Scottish distraction. My husband’s teammate.

His gaze slices across the room, immediately locking on my face for a second that feels like a lifetime. His expression tells me that he knows I’ve been abandoned, that Max meant for this to be embarrassing, and Russ isn’t going to let that happen.

Damn them both.

I don’t need to be rescued. And if anyone is going to be embarrassed by a no-show, it’s going to be the narcissistic asshole whose number is unfortunately plastered all over the custom WAG jersey I’ve been wearing for the last hour. It’s a feminine version of Max’s jersey, cut to my proportions.

Maybe Russ knows that I’m not the person to convince that he’s being a hero right now. Instead, he beelines to Mabel, who is the head of public relations for the Highlanders. “Seems like there was a mix up. I’m not exactly a pretty face, but I can fill in.”

“You’re perfect,” she says with the kind of bright enthusiasm I used to be able to channel with ease. “Shannon, we might not…”

I nod and wave my hand at the same time. Of course they won’t need me in the photo anymore.

While Mabel murmurs with the photographer about rearranging the kids who will be in the promo material for our winter Highlanders Ball, Russ and I pretend not to look at each other, which doesn’t really work.

He grunts something imperceptible and crosses to the pile of toys on the black cloth photo backdrop. “Hey, kids,” he says in his slight Scottish burr, moderated by living his entire teen and adult life in Canada. He drops down to an easy squat and holds out his hand to the first child.

I spin around and busy myself with examining the storyboard the photographer has sketched out that won’t be used, Max and me, wearing matching jerseys, surrounded by children in formal suits and tiny ballgowns.

Behind me, there’s a ripple of giggles, and another grunt. Then murmurs.

Suddenly a small child is beside me, tugging at my jersey. “Can I wear your shirt?”

I glance down at her. “This one?”

She nods, pointing back at Russ. “He says it would be funny if I’m wearing a grownup jersey.”

I follow her finger and meet his gaze. “Maybe we can get her one?—”

“The others are all too big,” he says, cutting me off. “Yours is just right to puddle on the floor at her feet.”

Mabel holds up a spare jersey, but Russ is right. They’re all bigger than this little girl. But the one they made for me might just look like a long, slouchy dress on her.

He stands, murmuring a joking apology to the kids who had crowded in around him, and crosses to me in a few long strides. His gaze never wavers from my face, and by the time he stops in front of me, my cheeks are blazing. He lowers his voice. “If you need another jersey to wear instead, you can have mine.”

And suddenly I’m breathless.

I tug the custom jersey over my head, and when it clears my face and I can see Russ again, his gaze has shifted. There’s a primal sharpness to his expression now, something I haven’t seen quite exactly before. Something that feels much more dangerous than anything else we’ve shared over the last five weeks.

It’s not the softness he showed me when he discovered me crying outside a family law office, or the confused awareness that zinged between us that night by his pool.

This look is one of a hunter.

Maybe this is how his opponents feel when he eyes them from across the ice and decides they aren’t going to win a puck battle.

He takes the jersey that has Max’s number on the back, the number I always wear at team events, and he drapes it over the little girl who is bouncing excitedly next to us. “There you go, princess. Fits you perfectly. You can keep that one.”

I gape at him, but he doesn’t look back at me. He’s not interested in debating whether my jersey is his to give away or not. He just reaches past me and grabs one of the others Mabel is holding out.

“Don’t want you to get cold,” he says, turning back.

It’s his own jersey, just like the one he’s wearing. He floats it over my head, the heavy fabric settling on my shoulders with a weight that feels heavier than just a hockey sweater.

Against my will, I feel myself pushing my arms through the sleeves, and his hungry gaze drops down to his number there.

If I turn around and stalk away from him, he’ll see it branded on my back.

“We’re ready to start,” the photographer says.

“This won’t take long,” he says. “Wait for me.”

And I want to, so much, but I can’t.

As Russ is pulled back to the children, I flee, racing out the side door and across the hall to another room that’s being used for anything. I’m not needed for this photo shoot anymore.

I’m not needed for anything to do with this team anymore, and it breaks my heart.

In the quiet, I yank off his jersey.

It doesn’t take him long to follow, though.

When the door behind me opens, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Russ raises his hands. “It’s just me.”

I laugh weakly. “That was fast.”

He winces. “You waved at a reporter I know on your way in here.”

The anxiety explodes in my brain, like an oncoming car turning on their high beams. “A reporter?”

“It’s okay.” He comes closer. “Aaron’s a good guy, and you wearing my jersey isn’t sports news. There are some weirdos on Twitter who might find it interesting, and I really liked it, but it’s your personal business.”

I throw his jersey at him. “Not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He closes the gap between us.

“Russ, we can’t…” I trail off as he lifts his hand.

His fingers hover just above my bare shoulder. “Can’t do what?”

“Anything.”

“But we already have.” His hand lowers, those fingers making contact with my shoulder.

I shudder at the deep, profound ache that spirals through me from that warm press. I miss being wanted.

I miss being desired. That’s all that this is. I’m vulnerable to his attention because I haven’t been a good enough wife and?—

He drags his fingers up my neck and tips my chin up. “I’m not going to kiss another man’s wife, don’t worry.”

I gasp and jerk away from him.

Russ catches me and spins me around, pressing me against the wall. Crowding against me.

He murmurs secrets in my ear.

I choke on a sob, and he just holds me tight, pressing me against the wall, until the fight leaves my body and I sag.

Then he turns me around and pulls me into his chest, hugging me even tighter than he pressed me against the wall.

“Why did you…” The words clog in my throat. I hope he can read my mind with the rest of the unspoken question. Why did you get physical like that?

After a long pause, he grates out, “You looked like you needed it.”

I have to fight against this, because I hate what it would mean if he’s right. “You don’t know what I need."

"Maybe I don’t. But neither does your husband."