Chapter 6 Boone #2
“Doesn’t look like it mattered. The lawyer isn't ready,” I reply, jerking my thumb toward the receptionist, who’s now looking at Caleb like he’s someone worth acknowledging.
I swear there are hearts in her eyes, and she batted her lashes.
Where was all that when I walked in? I mean, the guy’s good looking, but he’s not big, hockey player good-looking.
“Cain Prescott’s ready for you two now. I’ll show you to the boardroom.”
The receptionist steps out from behind the gold-plated desk, leaving it unattended for about two seconds before another woman—basically her clone—glides into position.
It’s seamless, and honestly, a little unnerving how out of place I feel here.
As we follow her down the hall, I can’t help but take in the rows of cubicles filled with people who look like they haven’t slept in days.
People with signs tacked that say paralegals, interns, junior associates—they’re all flipping through stacks of papers, juggling phone calls, and radiating stress.
Yeah, working here would be my worst nightmare. Give me a rowdy locker room, some sweaty bros who swear and drink too much and the chaos of a hockey rink any day.
Finally, we round a corner to an all-glass conference room. The frosted windows make it impossible to see who’s inside, and I feel the first twinge of nerves clawing at my chest.
Caleb stops short, turning to me with that no-nonsense expression I’ve come to recognize as his game face.
“Let me handle the talking unless they ask you something directly,” he says, his tone sharp but calm.
“And keep your questions relevant. These people are here to help you so don’t piss them off—this is about fixing your brand and turning things around.
You’re already a standout on the ice. Let’s make sure your reputation off the ice matches that so you don’t lose any of your sponsorships. ”
I nod, a little surprised. That might be the nicest thing Caleb’s ever said to me, or at least the most words he’s strung together in one go that don't include yelling and telling me that I’m embarrassing his club.
He pushes open the frosted glass doors and we step inside. There are two men already seated at the conference table.
One is older, tall and burly, with piercing eyes that feel like they can see right through me.
The other is younger, with dark brown hair and equally dark eyes, exuding a kind of cool confidence that tells me he’s probably Cain, my new, young lawyer who's supposed to be in touch with his clientele and eager to work with athletes.
“Maxwell Prescott,” the older man says, standing and extending a hand.
I shake it firmly. “Boone Tremblay. Nice to meet you, sir.”
Maxwell nods, then gestures to the younger guy, who steps forward.
“Cain Prescott. I’ll be the lead counsel on your case and manage your portfolio going forward.”
“Sounds good,” I reply, keeping it short like Caleb told me to.
“Let’s sit,” Maxwell says, gesturing to the long, glossy table at the center of the room.
The table’s flanked by sleek chairs that probably cost more than my first car, and in the middle is a neat row of chilled water bottles with a variety of snacks. The windows facing the rest of the offices are still frosted but behind me is floor to ceiling glass that shows the snowy city below us.
“Nice day today, isn’t it?” I say trying to crack the tension in the room.
Maxwell blinks at me and Cain gives me a forced smile. Caleb glares at me like I’m an idiot.
Shut up, Boone!
As we take our seats, I grab a water, twisting the cap open. If I’m going to sit through whatever this is, I’m going to need something to keep me grounded—and cold. Just the way I prefer to be.
Maxwell settles into the chair at the head of the table, folding his hands in front of him. He doesn’t waste a second. “Okay, Boone, I’m not here to sugarcoat things. Let’s cut to the chase.”
The water goes down like an ice luge, cooling my throat as my pulse kicks up a notch. Whatever he’s about to say, I have a feeling it’s going to hit me like a puck to the throat.
Don’t ask me how I know how that feels, just trust me, it fucking sucks.
“Okay…”
“Your reputation is fucked and if we want to tackle this legal case the right way, we need to work on repairing that before your next court appearance.”
I nod because, yeah, I already know my reputation is trash. That’s why we’re here—to clean it up and give me a shot at winning this case.
“I’m good with that,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“And you’ll do whatever it takes?” Maxwell asks, his sharp eyes boring into me like he’s waiting for me to flinch.
Before I can answer, Caleb jumps in, his voice steady and firm. “He’s already been briefed. Boone understands he needs to follow all instructions exactly as they are given to him. You’re his best shot, his only shot left in the city, and he knows it.”
Yes, please remind me how I'm fucked if this doesn't work out.
Maxwell’s expression softens by a fraction as he nods.
“Good. Then the first step in fixing your reputation is simple.
We've shipped your case out to our PR firm who works in the same building downstairs and the results in our anonymous focus group have all come back with the same feedback: you need to get married.”
I choke—on nothing, apparently, because I haven’t taken another sip of water. There’s no way that I heard him right.
“I’m sorry. I need to do what?”
Maxwell doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink, like dropping life-altering bombs is just another Tuesday for him and I’m having trouble processing words and sentences.
“Marriage. It’s the cleanest way to turn things around quickly. A stable personal life goes a long way in reshaping public perception. It's been proven for centuries that people trust persons of interest more when they're in a loving, committed, marriage.”
“Is my reputation really that bad?” I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief. But Maxwell’s sharp glare shuts me down before I can even process my own question.
He looks at Caleb, who shoots me a warning glance so intense it feels like the temperature in the room drops by ten degrees. It's the look that says you better shut the fuck up because I put my neck on the line to even get you this lawyer.
Apparently, yeah, my reputation is that bad.
Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the headlines my mom’s been texting me or the snippets on ESPN, but honestly, I’ve been avoiding all of it this past month.
Why does it matter what the news, or social media world says about me when my career speaks for itself? I'm the best player in the NHL right now. I get the most goals. I don’t date anymore. I don’t drink anymore.
Now I’m regretting not paying better attention to what the outside world was saying about who they think I am.
“Okay,” I say, though my stomach’s doing somersaults.
“It’s a marriage of convenience,” Maxwell explains matter-of-factly. “Three months, just enough time to clean up your image, get the case dropped, and move on with your life as the golden boy of the Manhattan Mayhem.”
I take a deep breath and give him a small nod. My brothers are going to lose their shit when they hear about this.
It doesn’t sound too terrible. A little unorthodox, sure, but it’s not like I’ll be stuck with this woman forever. I'll have some serious explaining to do with my mom, and I'm sure I won't hear the end of this for years to come, but if it's my only option what choice do I have?
The real question is what woman in their right mind would agree to marry me temporarily to fix my reputation?
“Who’s the woman? Does she know about this deal?” I ask.
Maxwell doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestures to the door at someone waiting outside.
“Come on in, Rosie. We’re ready for you.”
The door opens, and I swear to God, nothing could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
Dark blonde curls are piled high in a loose bun, with a few tendrils framing her pretty, high-cheek bones and face. Soft pink lips, and warm brown eyes with the tiniest bit of smokey makeup on her lids.
She’s wearing a tailored navy suit. It’s sharp, professional, and conservative. Except for the way it hugs her figure, a figure I know very well.
Her lips are painted a bold red, and when our eyes lock, it’s like I’ve been sucker-punched by the memory of that night ten days ago.
The faerie.
That night. The strip club. The night I left in the past because it was a one-time thing that my teammates dragged me into.
“This is Rosie, your new wife,” Maxwell says with a proud look on his face.
I look at Rosie then back at Maxwell, completely in disbelief.
“You want me to marry a stripper to save my reputation?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them because I'm so incredibly shocked that she’s here and that she’s who they expect me to wed.
The room goes dead silent for half a second before Maxwell Prescott’s face turns a shade of red that I didn’t know was possible.
His brows crash together, and when he finally speaks, his voice booms across the room, each word hitting me like a slap.
“Did you just call my daughter a stripper?”