3. Shannon
CHAPTER 3
SHANNON
“Shan!” My husband’s voice rings through the lovely house we bought a year ago when he was named the captain of the NHL’s latest franchise team. A house I made a home, because that’s my job, and I’m very good at it. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” I sing out, proud of how my voice doesn’t tremble.
I don’t mention the fact that while I waited for Russ to get back to me, I spent twenty minutes deleting tags and mentions of both of us on Instagram. Max doesn’t check his own account very often because fan comments get in his head, so I have his account on my phone, too. And this afternoon, we were both tagged in another picture of me from a lifetime ago.
A photo where I’m only wearing other people’s hands.
At least it wasn’t one where I’m on the arm of a billionaire. Max hates those the most.
There are a couple of troll hockey gossip accounts that are fixated on my modelling career and who I was photographed with in New York before I met Max. It’s petty and uninteresting to the vast majority of hockey fans, right up there with the rumoured penis piercings of certain players and the weirder stories from around the league like the cute but dumb himbo centre who married his own stalker. Off-season interest only.
During the hockey season, there’s enough current gossip that old news sinks. But every summer, little whispers circulate, and Max hates them, so I do my best to stay on top of both of us being untagged, and blocking any new accounts that pop up so he never sees it.
When I do it well, it’s something he’s completely unaware of—and so it’s hard to expect him to appreciate me for that work.
The smoothie makings being set out on the counter when he gets back from a workout, however, he can see—and is appreciative about. He steps into the kitchen and grins. He’s a creature of habit, and I like making him happy.
“How was your workout?” It’s a safe question to ask because he’s in a good mood. If he was cranky when he came home, I’d ask him about something that might mollify him, like what he wants for dinner, or remind him of a movie he wanted to watch.
“Good.” He pops a frozen raspberry into his mouth, then carefully measures out everything he wants in his smoothie. As he finishes with each ingredient, I put it away.
At this point in the off-season, he’s starting to shift from bulking up to cutting fat. We’re just a few weeks away from him reporting to training camp, although enough of his teammates live here in Hamilton year-round that it still feels like he’s pretty dialled in to the team training over the summer.
When he’s got his smoothie in hand and the kitchen is pristine again, I remind him that I’m heading out. “I’m going to a Paint and Sip night with Ani.”
Unexpectedly, he catches my wrist as I turn to leave.
I glance back, and he has a funny look on his face. There’s a shard of uncertainty that I recognize—deep down, Max needs a lot of petting—but there’s something else less familiar.
“You know I appreciate you, right?”
“Of course.” I let him pull me in close.
We’re not the most affectionate of couples, especially when alone, unless Max wants sex, and he never wants sex after a workout.
So for him to just hug me is…unusual. And he’s holding a smoothie, so most of my attention is on the cool condensation being pressed against my back.
I wind my arms around his neck, giving him whatever he needs, even if I don’t understand it. That’s my job because I’m his wife, and I’m so good at this.
Everyone says so, and Max so rarely seems to share that sentiment.
“Everything okay?” I whisper into his hair.
It’s a tricky question. If the answer is no, then he’ll find a way to take it out on me.
“Everything’s great.” He swallows hard, his throat working against my upper arm. “Contract talks are heating up. I think they want to announce something before the start of training camp, which puts us in a great position.”
“Oh!” I exhale in relief. “That is great news.”
Max is going into the final season of an eight-year deal he signed in New York, a contract that Hamilton picked up last year when they named him the first captain of the new team. He’s the marquee player, so of course they’ll want to renew his contract, but the way it works in hockey is that players in their thirties take less money on subsequent contracts—eating a bit of a discount to stay in a place where they are beloved—to allow salary cap space for the next generation to get their once-in-a-lifetime big deal contracts.
Max has had his. We are set for life with the money he has already made, and anything else will be gravy. It grates on him that he’ll be expected to take a pay cut, and he doesn’t like it pointed out that at thirty-four, his best playing years are behind him now.
It’s not like he’s alone on the team in this position, but he hates that being pointed out, too.
And he’s weird about me and his money. Maybe because of the company I used to keep, and the wild life I once had—he’s convinced I was more into drugs than I ever was—but our marriage contract and prenup are both tight .
So, I never say anything. It’s none of my business. His career is his career my role is charity support and being the pretty, cheering face in the stands.
“Yeah, I’m relieved that we finally have some good leverage. This new agent is earning his cut, that’s for sure.” He releases me and takes a big, slurping sip of his smoothie even before I pull away from him.
And I guess the sweet intimacy part of our day is over.
I pat his arm. “Russ hasn’t texted me back. Are you sure he wants the wives and girlfriends to come up, too?”
“That’s what he said.” Max wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Apparently this place is huge. Big enough for a good party, with separate accommodations for couples.” Max waggles his eyebrows at me.
And now the pervy suggestions part of the evening begins.
My husband is a teenage boy when it comes to sex—mostly a lot of hot air and promises that don’t materialize, which is for the best because his idea of what is super hot is often super not. He never believes me that I’m happy with the standard vanilla basics, but the way he tries to fancy it up can be a mood-wrecker.
Add beer into the mix and…a weekend with his teammates sounds like a lot of feelings to manage. His, mine, and outside observers.
“I don’t know,” I say, but then his expression drops.
Trap, trap, trap.
I resign myself to the inevitable. “I’ll get on the group chat, then.”
He gives me a cocky grin that tells me I negotiated the mine field well. “You’re the best, hun.”
Shannon: Have you guys all heard about this mini team retreat Russ is hosting next week? We’re invited, too. Let me know if you have any questions.
While I wait for the other wives and girlfriends to reply, I walk over to Ani Hale’s house, just a few blocks away. She and her husband Jenson are a decade younger than Max and me. Jenson wears an A on his jersey as an alternate captain for the team, the hometown boy who will be the face of the franchise for the next decade or more. Right now he’s in Vail at a skating camp with a few other Black professional hockey players, both from the NHL and the new women’s pro league, and some other minor pro leagues, too.
Since she’s alone for the week, and our other friends aren’t in town—Harper in Italy on her honeymoon, Becca up north in Pine Harbour, Kiley in Miami—it’s been my pleasure to distract her.
The fun little painting adventure we’re going on tonight is exactly what I need to take my mind off the strange, unsettled feeling that looms whenever I’m alone.
She’s outside when I get there, talking to her neighbour, a middle-aged white hippie chick who I recognize from previous visits but I can’t remember her name. She smells like patchouli and weed, and reminds me of my first landlady in NYC. She’s also a fan of Ani’s art, if maybe slightly too enthusiastic.
Today she seems to have questions about an Indigenous banner Ani has hung out front to represent her Six Nations heritage.
“No, but Ani, I love it . Name your price.”
“Here’s my friend,” Ani says brightly, excusing herself from the conversation. “We’re running late for a Paint and Sip night!”
“What was that all about?” I ask once we’re safely in Ani’s car.
“She wants me to make her a matching banner for solidarity ,” Ani says. “And wasn’t picking up on my clues that I made that for myself, not to sell.”
“That’s awkward.”
“A little bit. But she’ll have forgotten by tomorrow. Or when she’s not high, she’ll hear my no more clearly. Anyway, are you ready to get your paint on?”
“For a professional artist, you are very into this idea.” I narrow my eyes as she innocently stares straight ahead. “Wait a second. Are we doing professional reconnaissance here?”
“Maaaaaybe.” She winks at me. “But not for profit. I was thinking of hosting a fundraising paint night for the team foundation. I didn’t want to put the idea forward until we’d actually gone and done one of these things, to have a proper feel for it. What do you think?”
“I love it. Truly, a genius idea. And if you wanted to make it a series of events, we could probably have a goalie helmet artist lead a night, too?”
She bounces in the driver’s seat. “Yes! And maybe…”
We pinball ideas back and forth until we get to the shopping centre where the studio is located. Inside, we’re shown to our reserved easels, and then a waitress comes around with a menu.
I order a glass of red wine, and Ani asks for the featured mocktail.
I don’t ask if that’s only because she’s driving, or if it’s related to the fact that her and Jenson are trying to get pregnant.
She reads my mind anyway. “My period arrived this morning. This is only because I’m being a responsible driver.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” I squeeze her hand.
“Oh no, we were trying not to do it this month. Nine months from now would be right in the middle of…” She knocks on her easel. “ Playoffs ,” she mouths.
“Do you know how many babies show up between April and June every year? I swear, NHL players get all their sperm out of their system in the summer. But you’re smart. Another month, and you’ll pretty safely be past that and into a darling summer baby for next year.”
Giggling, she glances around. “It looks like there's a good crowd tonight.”
I nod. It’s quite a mix of people. While there are a couple of clusters of who I’d expect—women our age, out for girls’ nights—there are also a few older people, and a couple of college age kids who look like they might be on a date.
Immediately to my left, there is a good looking guy sitting on his own who looks uncertain, which makes him stand out.
“Welcome to Paint and Sip,” our instructor says, drawing our attention forward. “Tonight we’re painting a Harvest Sunset. When we finish, there will be a chance to mingle and chat as your paintings dry. If you have to leave before they are ready to travel, we’ll keep them safe for you and you can come back any time this week to pick them up.”
“That’s a bit of a logistical consideration for us,” Ani whispers. She makes a note on her phone.
It’s a pretty straightforward experience once we get into it. First we paint the background, and then we take a break so that can dry before we add the sunflowers to the foreground.
I order another glass of wine and examine the differences between my painting and Ani’s. Hers is even better than the finished example at the front of the room, no surprise given her training and talent. And mine…
“What do you do with the paintings if they aren’t good at the end?” That question comes from the solo guy next to me.
I laugh and look over at his painting. He’s clearly compared ours and decided we are in the same boat, and he’s not wrong. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I’m Jake,” he says, holding out his hand.
I put my wine glass down and shake it. “Shannon. And this is my friend Ani.”
“Nice to meet you both.”
Our break ends before we can talk any further. The next hour races by with a good amount of swearing under my breath, which Ani finds deeply entertaining.
At one point Jake gets so frustrated he gets up and paces away. Ani immediately leans over. “He keeps checking you out.”
“Because we’re both so bad at this.” I sigh. “Why is yours so pretty?”
“Not my first rodeo. Want to bet he offers to buy you a drink when we finish?”
“I’m wearing a wedding ring!”
She smirks. “Some men like married women.”
“They’re barking up the wrong tree with me.”
But just to make that clear, when Jake stalks back and takes a deep breath before sitting back down, I lean over slightly. “So what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t bring my husband here on our next date night?”
He laughs. “It would be more fun with someone else.”
“You have us now,” Ani says.
He glances at her canvas and his eyebrows shoot up.
“She’s a professional artist,” I explain.
“Do you want to finish mine?” he asks her. “I’ll get you ladies another round of drinks if you do.”
“No can do,” she says sweetly. “Now shhh, this is important part of the lesson.”
And then she flashes an I told you look at me, but he didn’t offer to buy me a drink. He was willing to barter drinks for Ani’s incredible skill.
When we finish, I get up and stretch, my shoulders stiff and aching from holding my brush too tightly, apparently.
As I lift my arms over my head, Jake glances at my chest for a split second before beelining to the bar for another beer.
From across the room, he mimes lifting a glass at me, but I shake my head.
Ani is deeply enjoying all of this far too much.
“Stop it,” I whisper under my breath. “How long until these will dry?”
“Another hour, maybe.”
When Jake returns, though, he only has his own drink, and he’s clearly accepted that flirting isn’t going to happen tonight.
He makes the rounds of the other paintings, encouraging everyone to look at his if they want to feel better about their own, and he admits to the women next to us that he came out tonight because his fourteen-year-old daughter told him there would be lots of single ladies.
That gets a big laugh from everyone within hearing range.
“It really is more of a date thing than a single mingle,” he mutters as he returns to his easel. He looks at me with an easy, don’t worry I didn’t forget you’re married look. “Your husband might have fun after all.”
The odds that Max would have fun at a place like this are negative ten million.
Jake frowns a little and looks at my face again. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Now that he’s given up on my boobs, he recognizes me. I give him my public smile. “Are you a hockey fan? It’s possible you recognize me because of my husband. He plays for the Highlanders.”
“That’s it.” He snaps his fingers. “Both of you are WAGs, right? I'm a big fan. Of hockey, I mean. Not WAGs, although you guys are great, I’m sure.” He’s tripping over his words now, but in a fun kind of way. He really does seem like a fan. “I really like the big Scottish guy, Russ Armstrong. He came out to my kid’s school last year. He was amazing. Who are you married to?”
“Max Tilman, the captain. Ani’s husband is Jensen?—”
“Hale, of course.” Jake cuts me off, his attention now all on Ani. “He went to the same high school that my daughter’s at now.”
“I went there, too,” Ani says. “Graduated five years ago.”
“Okay, way to make me feel old,” he chuckles.
I’ve lost them to a conversation about life on the Mountain, what locals call the suburban stretch of city up on top of the escarpment that divides the city. The hockey arena is right downtown, in the heart of the grittier, more urban part of Hamilton wedged between the bay off Lake Ontario and the cliff-like ridge of the endless Niagara Escarpment.
I think about his reaction to us being wives and girlfriends—the WAGs—and also how interesting it is that a journeyman like Russ has had the biggest impact on him out of all of the hockey players, because he took the time to do community outreach that felt personal.
I find the community and business parts of professional hockey endlessly fascinating.
Jake mentioning Russ also reminds me of my text that I sent him earlier, so I pull out my phone. Still no reply.
I don’t text any of Max’s teammates that often. I introduce myself to all newcomers, of course, but Russ is like us, one of the original expansion draft members. I think our entire chat history is maybe ten messages stretching over the last year.
But he’s never left me on read before. Maybe I overstepped by offering to help. I’m pretty sure my husband has bullied him into having a team retreat at his brand-new-to-him cottage, and I just want to smooth that over as much as possible.
“I think our paintings are dry enough now we can head out if you want,” Ani says.
I put my phone away immediately and she laughs.
We say goodbye to Jake and everyone else, and hit the road.
“I think I’m going to give mine to my neighbour,” she says as we pull into her driveway.
“Oh great,” I say, straight faced. “That means I can gift you mine, and you won’t have two identical paintings.”
She giggle snorts. “Can I tell Jenson I painted it and see how long he goes before asking me if I was drunk?”
I clutch my chest. “You wound me, friend.”
She pats my shoulder. “You’ll survive.”
I’m about to ask her if she wants me to hang out for a bit when her phone rings. The car tells her it’s Handsome Husband calling, and she gets such a lovesick look on her face, I immediately say goodnight, leaving my painting behind on her back seat.
As I walk home, dozens of discordant thoughts bombard my brain. I’m usually very good at flicking away anything that threatens to plant a little seed of doubt, but it’s been a long, lonely summer, and today was a weird day.
Maybe it’s good that the team is getting together in Muskoka for a cottage retreat. I’m always on more confident footing during the season, so yes, let’s start all of that sooner. I know people like Ani are less eager for the season to start, because it’ll mean seeing their husbands less, but I like the routine we have. If anything, I find too much time with Max in the summer is stressful, because he’s a lot to manage.
During the season, he has a whole front office who helps with that.
My role sharpens to making our home life as easy as possible for him. My goal is always to smooth out any wrinkles in my husband's life that stand between him and his team getting the cup the next season. I don't kid myself on how much of a role I have to play in that. It's more about not playing too much of a role, not being a distraction, not being in the way. It is about being as easy as humanly possible, and the reward for that is a life of leisure, is a life of ease, a life of safety.
But there are trade-offs.
Truthfully, the problem with settling for safety, security, and decent sex a few times a month when the stars all align is that it leaves a lot of room for inappropriate thoughts. I manage to ignore most of them, but the odd one slips through.
I’ll never act on them, of course. I sowed my wild oats early on, before my marriage, and I know exactly how mediocre an experience it is to spread my legs for a fantasy.
But as I inch into my thirties, my libido is getting harder to ignore. Louder in its demand for a good, hard release. Or a few releases, over and over again, a favourite middle-of-the-night idea I indulge in…and then feel guilty for.
Most of the time, I exhaust my body with long runs and I busy my mind with exciting projects, like Ani’s fundraiser idea. And I’m thinking about starting a podcast, although I keep spinning my wheels on the direction I want it to go in.
I’m almost home when my phone vibrates.
Finally, Russ has texted me back.
Russ: Thanks.
I stop and laugh at the brevity. I start typing back, eager to get going on whatever he needs me to do. But before I can hit send, another message comes in, making mine unnecessary.
Russ: I’m at Camden Granger’s wedding right now, so couldn’t respond right away. We’ve got a plan, and it’s going to be great. Heading there tomorrow and will get everything organized. Just come and enjoy yourself. One last taste of summer before things get real.
I frown at the we . Who is we?
An spasm of something I can’t name zaps through me.
Pushing it away, I flip over to the group chat with the girls. Dots tell me that Harper is currently typing, everyone finally checking in at the end of the night.
Harper: Can’t wait to see you all. I’m so tan from the Italy. The sun is just different there? Hopefully I’ll be over my jet lag, too. Just woke up from a five hour nap.
Kiley: That’s not a nap, that’s a short overnight sleep. Your brain thinks it’s morning now.
Harper: Oh, shit. Noooo.
Shannon: So happy you’re home. Let’s catch up this week.
Ani: Can we do coordinated outfits for the retreat?
I exhale happily. Yes, yes we can.
All I need is a weekend in the country with my husband and his teammates and all of these weird little threads of summer loneliness and worry will fade away. My happy place is the hockey season. And that is around the corner, and then everything will get back to normal.