Chapter 9 Rosie
It’s been three days since I became an officially married-on-sight woman to none other than the top NHL forward center in the United States.
And let me tell you, after being completely blindsided by the minor detail that he was my new husband (thanks for the heads-up, Dad), I did my homework.
By the time the weekend rolled around, I’d researched Boone, his case, and every scrap of his personal life I could get my hands on.
Here’s what I learned about Boone Tremblay in three days of frantic Googling, article rabbit holes, and late-night highlight reels:
First, Boone is the middle child of three brothers.
He lost his father at just fourteen to a devastating logging accident on the Tremblay family’s property in Alberta, Canada.
After that, his single mother raised him and his brothers on her own, which, by all accounts, couldn’t have been easy.
The boys are massive, and I guarantee her monthly grocery bill was the cost of a mortgage.
Second, the Tremblay brothers are athletic royalty in the hockey world.
The oldest, Levi, currently plays for the NHL team the Boston Tea in Massachusetts.
The youngest, Seth, plays hockey for a professional team in southern California where he lives with his young daughter.
And then there’s Boone in the middle, who grew up skating on the frozen lake behind their farmland property with his brothers and taking pucks to the face.
By the time he could walk, he could skate, and once he could talk, he was commanding a stick and puck like a future hockey prodigy.
Apparently, Boone’s been nicknamed “Puck Daddy” for his uncanny ability to send the puck into the tiniest, most unreachable corners of the net.
I’ve spent hours watching his highlight reels this week, prepping for his upcoming game, and I can admit it, the guy is good. Really good. And he knows it too based on his post-game interviews.
Next, his reputation needs work.
His current court case doesn’t seem to be completely his fault. But his lovable, happy-go-lucky image has taken a hit after some questionable live streams and a few drunken sightings.
Judges and PR managers alike would agree that Boone needs to stop putting himself in situations where bar fights are even a possibility.
And lastly, his dating history has been surprisingly... quiet.
In the past two years, there hasn’t been a single photo of him with another woman. No photos of casual dinner dates, parties or even anonymous tips from women online.
And yet—plot twist—there was an engagement.
Yes, Boone Tremblay was once engaged to Anastasia Belmont, the heiress to the Belmont Bread empire.
You can’t walk into a grocery store anywhere in the country without seeing their logo plastered on loaves boasting gluten-free, organic, or vegan options. She’s the sole heir to a billion-dollar bread dynasty and a classic, New York socialite.
Seven months of dating, three months of an engagement, and then it all crumbled in a messy, very public break up.
According to the tabloids, Anastasia called things off because Boone couldn’t make time for her or wedding planning during the peak of his career and, according to YMT, she wanted him to quit and start a family.
He chose his career over her.
And here I am, married to him after knowing him for about as long as it takes to watch one of his games. I’m sure it looks suspicious and confusing to the outside world.
As an experienced lawyer, I know there’s always more to the story. If the rumors about Boone’s engagement are even half-true, there might be an opportunity here. Which gives me an excellent idea for how we can spin the PR angle when this marriage inevitably ends in three months.
I pull my phone out, realizing I need to send this message to my team before the stadium literally turns into Mayhem.
I quickly type an email to Krissy, one of my key contacts at our sister PR firm while trying to think over the deafening roar of the fans.
***
To: Krissy@PrescottandAssociatesPR
From: Rosie@PrescottandAssociates
Subject: Boone’s PR Angle – An idea…
When the marriage ends, I think we can position the narrative as Boone wanting to stay in the league and renew his contract, while I’m pushing for him to quit and start a family.
That creates enough friction to explain the divorce and paints him as loyal to the team and city.
Sounds like a similar thing happened to him a few years ago with his ex-fiancée so it’s believable, too.
See attached news article.
Let me know what you think.
Rosie
***
Between Krissy, Cain, my father, and me, we’re the only ones who are privy to the intricate details of this arrangement. At the firm, we operate on a strict need-to-know basis, and the fewer people who know this is a marriage of convenience, the better for Boone.
I make my way to the will-call window, adjusting the oversized sweatshirt that I’m wearing.
Yes, it’s a little much and something that I would never normally wear in public, but I’m nothing if not committed to the angle we’re working.
And right now, the angle is “adoring, completely-in-love newlywed wife” to a professional hockey player who just so happens to be the number one center in the country.
That’s why I had this sweatshirt overnighted. It’s one of Boone’s, with his number, name, and the team logo emblazoned across the front and back.
Underneath, I’m wearing a pair of fitted, black leather shorts, sheer black tights, and a low-cut maroon top to match the team colors. But what I’m wearing underneath doesn’t matter because the sweatshirt is my pièce de résistance. My public declaration of commitment.
“Hi. My name is Rosie Prescott. There should be a ticket on hold under Boone Tremblay,” I say, smiling at the attendant.
The woman at the counter types something into her computer before glancing at me with a surprised look. “It’s nice to see Boone finally brought a guest. We set these tickets aside every game, but no one ever claims them.”
Interesting.
I thank her and take the ticket she hands me, glancing at the row and seat number. It’s practically behind the bend in the rink—seat 16.
A bit closer than I’d prefer for getting any work done, but I smile and head there anyway.
Note to self: check out the WAGs skybox later.
After showing my ticket to the guide at the entrance, I make my way toward my seat. And that’s when I see something that has my stomach sinking. There’s a woman already sitting in seat 16, chatting animatedly with someone next to her. And they look comfortable.
Great. This is awkward.
I’ve never been great at confrontation—unless I’m in a courtroom or negotiating for a client, of course. Outside of those spaces, I’m painfully conflict-averse, awkward at relationships and sorely lacking meaningful friendships.
The idea of asking this stranger to move, even though I have every right to, makes my stomach twist.
I glance around the section, hoping to spot another free seat that I could quietly slip into, but the place is packed. No luck there. If I try to sit somewhere else, I’ll probably end up pissing off whoever shows up later with their actual ticket. More conflict.
So, I stand there awkwardly, clutching my ticket, debating whether I should just text Boone to let him know something came up and I’ll meet him after his game at the restaurant.
But then I straighten, reminding myself that this is just another job. Treat it like work, and you won’t be so awkward. Pretend that I’m making my case in front of a judge because the evidence is compelling. My ticket clearly says seat 16 on it.
I start to move, rehearsing what I might say to the woman in my seat if she tries to fight me on this—someone who has no idea who I am or my connection to Boone.
But before I even reach her, a blur of maroon and white streaks across the ice.
A massive figure thick with pads skates up to the glass and bangs his hockey stick against the plastic.
And holy. Shit. It’s Boone.
Dark hair plastered to his smiling face, broad shoulders that—yes, I know are mostly padding—but still.
The guy is big in real life and huge on the ice.
It’s only been three days since I last saw him, but after studying a thousand photos online, I somehow forgot just how intimidatingly good he looks in person.
Won't make that mistake twice.
He lifts the gate on his helmet, shaking his head and motioning with his stick toward the woman who’s in my seat. He bangs on the plastic again until the woman in my seat looks up.
“Get up, Jill! I have a guest today,” he shouts over the noise.
The woman blinks in confusion, her brows knitting together before realization dawns. Slowly—almost comically—she turns to look at me behind her.
And here I am, awkward in social situations that don’t involve me suing someone, Rosie, standing a few feet away, completely caught off guard by this entire interaction.
“Oh… Oh!” Her eyes widen as they land on the front of my sweatshirt, Boone’s name and number proudly displayed like he’s somehow got a claim on me. “I’m so sorry! Hi!”
Boone, still watching, doesn’t seem fazed by my outfit. He winks, a small, teasing motion that sends an unexpected jolt of heat through me, then waves with his stick and skates off to the center of the rink. Clearly, he’s in his element out here.
This is his stage. The ice is where he performs, and tonight, I’ll perform my role too. We can both fake it until this ridiculous arrangement is over.
Three months then I’m free.
Free to go back to my new lake house in Brookhaven, Connecticut. It’s an adorable small-town with family homes that surround a lake, and four seasons that you actually get to enjoy. And it’s where I decided to purchase my weekend getaway home since my brother and his family live there too.
Maybe, if dinner doesn’t run too late, I’ll get to peek in on my niece Piper as she sleeps. After that, I’ll crash into the new bed Cain had installed in my primary bedroom there. That all sounds like heaven right now.