11. Shannon
CHAPTER 11
SHANNON
I’m losing my mind.
What just happened?
What was that?
That was the old Shannon slipping through.
Horror jabs a finger in my chest.
No.
I drop my head to the counter and groan.
I’ve never, ever flirted with one of my husband’s teammates before. Never. I don’t even flirt with random people, not even to get a flight upgrade or a better seat at a restaurant, two situations that definitely justify a little flirting.
For most people.
Not for me, not anymore.
Because for Shannon Barker from Green Hills, Michigan, flirting has led to sex since she was fourteen years old. That’s how old I was when I went to third base for the first time, gave someone an orgasm for the first time, and got really close myself.
Also the age when I learned that it’s sometimes just easier to finish myself off in the privacy of my own bed once everyone is asleep, a skill I still reach for to this day.
My mother—no dummy—got me on birth control and tried to control me in other ways, but I was a wild child. And when you’re the prettiest girl north of Lansing, you don’t take no for answer. Not when your libido is in charge.
By the age of eighteen, I had my GED and a one-way bus ticket to New York City.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I’m alive today.
So when I met Max, five years into my modelling career, it was a relief that he wanted to sweep me away from the glitz and glamour and chaos and danger.
And for eight years, I’ve lived up to the expectations of my new name. The only thing Shannon Tilman has in common with Shannon Barker is smooth skin and good posture.
And the occasional dirty thought I would never tell my husband about in a million years.
Maybe more than occasional, lately.
I need to be busier when we go home. Enough dilly-dallying on the podcast idea, for example. Kiley thinks we can launch it this fall, but I need to make a firm decision about the name and brand position we’ve been developing. The View from the Wife Seat is the currently leading contender for a title, but it’s a bit of a mouthful, so Kiley is also trying to sell me on WAGLife .
In New York, the WAGs—ironically—didn’t like the term. It was what outside observers called us, but internally, we were spouses and better halves . In Hamilton, everyone is a bit more irreverent, a bit silly.
Harper and Kiley will embrace the WAG label if there’s fun to be had in it.
And they are rubbing off on me, although we did have a good debate about if it wasn’t inclusive enough, given that not every hockey player in the NHL has a wife or a girlfriend , although the ones who quietly have partners and boyfriends don’t want to be talked about on a podcast, either.
Kiley’s very smart point is that WAG is the hook that brings people to pull up a chair and listen, and once I have their ear, I can explain how complicated it is to put your life on hold and love someone who has this insane career—and maybe give a bit of quiet insight into those who love from the shadows, too.
She’s not wrong.
And lately, I have been wanting to find that outlet to talk about just how freaking complicated it is more and more.
“Babe, you okay?”
I jerk my body upright and see my podcast partner herself standing on the other side of the kitchen island looking at me in concern. Genuine, searching concern.
And if I were to crack open my chest and show my confused heart to anyone, it would be the girls before my distant husband.
No, I’m not okay.
I wish I could unload on her right now.
Max hasn’t brought up the Ice League news yet. Nobody has, and it’s driving me crazy. It’s a ticking time bomb hanging over me, because I know Max has to be stewing about it. He hates Francois.
Plus I just crossed a line with Russ, who has a new girlfriend. And also, why the fuck did Russ of all people flirt right back? When he has a new girlfriend?
Nothing makes sense.
But now is not the time to unload any of that.
“I’m great,” I manage to say. “Just stretching my back. The car ride up here catching up to me, maybe.”
“We’ll have to go in the hot tub after dinner.” Her gaze lingers on my face, searching.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
Of all of my new friends, Kiley is the most likely to see through that lie. We’ve gotten closer over the summer as she’s used her experience in theatre and live performance to help me develop my podcast ideas, and while she’s not nosy about my marriage at all, I know she also doesn’t have rose-coloured glasses when it comes to the WAG life. When she met Ty, she was recovering from being cheated on by her ex, and she was reluctant to take the leap to officially dating and all that this life involves.
She would be the first person to tell me that life is too short to stay in an unhappy marriage.
If only it were that simple.
And given how strongly she feels about infidelity—rightly so—I need to be extra careful this weekend. Whatever just happened with Russ cannot happen again. I can’t give anyone the wrong impression. Not Russ, not Kiley, and definitely not my jealous husband.
Even if he’s the only one who has broken our vows.
And Emery… I can’t be disrespectful of Emery, either. Maybe most of all, because I remember what it was like to be twenty-four and idealistic, convinced that learning how to feed a team of hockey players heading back into training was the way to a man’s heart.
“I was sent in to get the last of the salads,” Kiley says. “There’s apparently one in the fridge, too?”
I take a look, and sure enough, there is.
“Emery really is amazing,” I murmur. Time to believe that as the actual truth it is, even if it makes me feel small.
“Isn’t she, though?” Kiley says brightly. “I wonder if we’ll see more of her once the season gets underway.”
An uncomfortable pang zaps through me. I should want that for Russ. I do want that for Russ.
But there’s something about their dynamic that set me on edge earlier. I don’t see them as a couple in the long term. They aren’t right for each other.
His words clang again in my head. I’m definitely not a good boy.
I’ve never before thought about the type of woman Russ might need, and I’m not a matchmaker in general. On paper, Emery Granger actually sounds perfect.
But does she know what to do with a man who growls under his breath that he’s not a bad boy?
I know that temptation well. Once upon a time, I thought I was smart enough and sexy enough to handle anything—and I almost drowned in the storm.
Max saved from all of that.
When we get outside, I’m not surprised to see Max has parked himself next to Emery at the table, and he’s pouring her a glass of white wine. He’s drawn to pretty girls. I can’t blame him for that—it’s what saved me, once upon a time.
He glances up and gives me a quick smile. “Wine, hun?”
“I’m still working on a cocktail.” I slide into the chair beside him, which puts me in the centre of the table. On my left is Hiro Watanabe, and on the other side of him is Ty, who is still standing behind his seat, chatting with Russ at the grill.
“Emery was just telling us about the program in Boston.” Max slings his arm over the back of my chair, drawing me into a conversation he love—collegiate sports.
College in general. For Max, who has since gone on to incredible career highs, his college years were the best years of his life.
I’ve learned not to take that personally.
But those are conversations I struggle to relate to. Emery, it seems, doesn’t have that problem.
“You liked it, I gather?” I ask her.
“Best years of my life,” she gushes. “Did you go to Michigan like Max?”
Max answers for me. “Shannon didn’t even graduate high school.”
The terrace falls silent, fat sizzling on the grill the only sound for a moment.
I square my shoulders and lift my chin, flashing a brilliant smile at Emery. “I was intent on finding fame in New York. Ironically, I am from Michigan—the state, not the college. Got my GED and bought a one-way bus ticket when I was eighteen. Never looked back.”
She nods along, more charitable than my husband. “New York is amazing. Was it scary being on your own at eighteen?”
“At first, yeah. I stayed in a hostel for a week, while I found a job and an apartment. And then it was sort of like living in a dorm.”
“Except it was a fifth floor walk-up and all of your roommates did cocaine,” Max mutters.
“So more like your rookie year in the league, then,” Russ interjects, drawing cackles of laughter from his teammates.
Max’s ears turn red.
Across the table, one of the rookies gives me a shy look. “Was New York really a wild scene?”
More than this baby could ever know. “Yep.”
“Sorry to interrupt, friends, but the steaks are getting close to being done,” Russ says. “Grab your plate, come on up to the grill, and we’ll pick the perfect one for you.”
I smile at his casually bossy hosting style.
We form a line at the grill, the rookies jockeying for first dibs—after asking if the ladies wanted to go first, and we all let them cut ahead—then the couples lingering behind, chatting amongst ourselves.
Emery ends up just behind us.
“I want to know more about your time in New York before you met Max,” she says.
“No you don’t,” my husband says.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Emery rolls her eyes. “Yes, I do. What did you do there?”
Again, Max answers for me. “Mostly modelling. She spent a fortune on private acting lessons that went nowhere.”
Not nowhere. I learned how to act like I give a shit about college stories. How to hold on to a brilliant smile even as I turn brittle inside because I’ll never actually be the pretty blonde coed he wants me to be.
From ahead of us in line, Kiley tilts her head sideways at me. “I didn’t know you acted.”
“Mostly voice over stuff,” I say. “It was a long time ago.”
“And there was your failed attempt at being a weather girl,” Max adds. There’s laughter in his voice, but it feels pointed, and my smile drops.
I’m good, but I’m not perfect.
“New York was wonderful to us in many ways,” I manage to get out.
Max shrugs. “Happy to move away, though, honestly. It’s safer to keep a wife like this in the suburbs.”
“Max, stop,” I whisper under my breath.
“I’m just joking around.”
What I want to say to my husband is, are you picking on me tonight because once upon a time, I let a billionaire fuck me in the ass? And now he’s going to fuck your league somehow? Is that my fault?
But I can’t.
So I swallow my protest and say a silent prayer of thanks when the line suddenly moves forward, and Kiley and Ty are picking their steaks, which Max finds way more interesting than tearing me apart.
That’s fun for him, but not important. By the end of dinner, he’ll forget he did it, and he wouldn’t understand if I hung on to resentment.
When we get to the head of the line, Max goes first, and then heads back to the table.
“How are you doing, Shannon?” Russ asks, all casually warm and friendly. Different than how he was inside with me, but still nice. God, he’s so, so nice.
I exhale and hold out my plate. “Ready for a medium-rare steak if you have one on the smaller side.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he turns back to the grill. “Aye, I’ve got a strip loin with your name on it.”
I’m surprised he knows my favourite cut. I’m touched. “Thank you, Russell.”
From behind me, Emery squeaks.
I twist around to make sure she’s okay, and she’s jamming her two index fingers together. “What did you do?”
“Stubbed it.”
“Your…finger?”
“Yep. I’m fine.” She looks past me to Russ. “Nothing a little kiss won’t fix, right, Russell ?”
We both pivot back, and he’s looking at Emery like she’s the most adorable pain in his side ever, which is…interesting.
It’s weird, mostly. But whatever floats their boat.
I murmur another thanks and get out of their way just as Emery smooshes her fingers against Russ’s mouth, and he tells her to settle down.
As plates are loaded up with the salads Emery made, and we devour the perfectly grilled steaks, the conversation shifts to their afternoon workout, and their plans for tomorrow. Golf first thing, then collecting the boat and jet skis, and then in the afternoon, Russ has booked some ice time at the local arena. Both tomorrow and the next day, they’ll skate together and bring the rookies into the fold, everyone sharing what they’ve learned from training with friends across the league over the off-season.
They drift to broader topics, too, like recently announced contracts, and the rookie camp that Jamie and Malik will be going to before training camp begins for everyone else.
But nobody brings up Ice League or Francois.
At one point in the conversation my thoughts start to drift back ten years, to Mediterranean summers that seemed so intensely glamorous for a small town girl from Michigan. I thought I had the world in the palm of my hand, after a few rough years of missing out on more auditions than not, of struggling to make ends meet as a waitress and then a bartender.
When a roll of laughter snaps me back to the present, I realize I’m looking at Russ.
He’s staring back, his brow pulled tight.
I flush and give him an apologetic smile before dropping my gaze.
“Has everyone had enough? I’m going to get these salads back in the fridge. They’ll be even better tomorrow for lunch,” Emery says brightly.
“I’ll help.” Harper stands.
“This is what we have rookies for,” Russ says, waving them both back into their seats. “Mason! Zondi!”
The younger players jump to their feet and the whole table laughs.
“Thirty push-ups and then clear the table,” Kieran says dryly.
Russ grins. “I’ll be right back with dessert. Who wants creme br?lée, and who would prefer a coconut panna cotta?”