Chapter 10 Boone
I can’t stop grinning as our Uber driver navigates the short stretch of road to the restaurant that Rosie booked for our first official appearance as husband and wife.
This is the high I always ride after a good win—the kind where I played my best, left everything on the ice, and the team came out on top.
But tonight, somehow feels different, like there’s an extra edge to the satisfaction that’s buzzing under my skin. I’d like to claim I don’t know why, but that’d be a lie. It’s because Rosie was watching.
Having her there tonight, sitting in the seat I always imagined my dad would take someday when I finally made it to the pros, lit a fire in me I haven’t felt in years.
My dad never got the chance to show up before he passed away.
He never made it to watch me hoist the Stanley overhead.
He never saw the years of relentless work it took to still be at the top of my game at thirty-six.
Sadly, he’ll never get to see any of the effort he put into training me and my brother’s to be the best.
For most of my career, that seat belonged to my mom. She juggled supporting all three of her sons’ professional careers like it was nothing. She’d crisscross Canada and the States, giving us someone in the crowd, until her health took a dive two years ago.
We’ve begged her to leave the logging farm she’s no longer managing, to come live closer to one of us where we can keep an eye on her. But her roots are planted too deep in that Canadian soil, and her stubborn country pride won’t let her leave.
Born and raised there, she says she’ll die there too. Alongside our father.
I make a mental note to schedule my next break to visit her there.
But tonight, the edge I carried with me wasn’t just about the game or the memories of who used to fill that seat or never will. It was because I felt like I was performing for someone again. And that’s something I’ve always loved to do.
Maybe it’s because I wanted to show off for Rosie—my fake wife—or maybe it’s just the thrill of knowing someone was there solely for me. Not a fan, not someone who wanted an autograph or a selfie. Someone who showed up because they wanted to. And she was wearing my last name.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself. No, that’s not it. She was there because she had to be. She wore my number and name because of optics. Because her dad and brother have concocted a professional marriage to win a case, and she’s simply a pawn in this as much as I am.
Despite knowing that, her presence was still like a magnet to me while I played. Drawing me in and keeping me warm. Stealing my focus every time I looked into the stands.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s sitting beside me, gripping the door handle nervously as the Uber whips through the streets, dodging fans who are exiting the stadium and other partiers out for the night.
She looks adorable in my sweatshirt. It’s swallowing her figure and hits right at the middle of her thighs, making it look like she has nothing else on underneath.
My brain stutters for a second as I look at the tight, slightly sheer, black nylons clinging to her legs. Is that all she’s wearing?
Nope. Don’t think about that.
I hate that she didn’t ask for a real jersey or something more meaningful to wear to my game, but damn if she doesn’t look cute for putting in the effort. I wonder where she got it from?
“Are you cold?” I ask her. The first words we’ve spoken to each other all night.
She shakes her head. “No.”
When we left the stadium, I'd draped my arm around her shoulder and shielded her from the relentless camera flashes as we ducked into the waiting car. It wasn’t snowing, thankfully, but I still wanted to protect her from the wind and people as much as I could.
And when I closed the car door behind her and ran around to the other side to hop in, I realized that all felt oddly natural. Slipping into the role of Rosie’s husband has come much easier than I expected.
She leans over to my side to whisper, her breath warm against my ear. “Shouldn’t an athlete of your… caliber have, you know, a private driver or something and not use ride shares?”
She’s trying to be discreet, probably not wanting to offend the driver, but I catch the surprise in her voice. It’s like she couldn’t quite believe it when a ride share rolled up instead of some luxury car with a private driver.
I grin and shrug. “It’s cheaper.”
Her brow furrows, and I can tell she’s holding back whatever comment is on the tip of her tongue. We’ll work on that. She’ll figure out soon enough that I don’t throw money at frivolous things. There are better ways to spend time and money than flexing my wealth with private cars.
When the car pulls up to the curb of the restaurant, I thank the driver and move to open Rosie’s door, but she’s already out, standing on the sidewalk and shivering as flurries swirl around her.
She tilts her head back, her soft blonde waves catching the flakes as they free fall and then lets out a puff of breath that hangs in the frigid air. For a second, she looks lost in the moment, her gaze fixed on the dark sky like she’s imagining herself somewhere else.
The sight of her standing there, cheeks pink from the cold, looking a little lost, a wedding ring on her finger that’s supposed to be from me. It all feels like a punch to my chest.
She’s beautiful. Easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And I’m in trouble because this whole arrangement is not supposed to result in any sort of attachment.
“You know,” I say, leaning forward to wrap an arm around her waist as I guide us toward the restaurant door. “If we’re supposed to act like a real married couple, you gotta let me open your car door for you.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Even my real husband wouldn’t need to do that for me. I can open my own door.”
Then, just as quickly, her eyes dart to the side and she flashes me a smile so practiced and polished it feels like a slap. It’s fake as hell. Not the one she gives me when she’s actually happy. And just like that I realize it’s game time.
Out of the shadows, the paparazzi and their cameras swarm us, their voices rising in a chaotic tangle of shouts and questions about our engagement and marriage. The shift is so fast it catches me off guard, the flashbulbs blinding as flashes fire off at rapid speed.
It’s been over two years since I was engaged to Anastasia, two years since I’ve been hunted this closely by the media. Two years since anyone cared about who I was dating.
And I realize, standing here now, I haven’t missed this circus at all. In fact, I’ve enjoyed my relative invisibility.
Keeping my personal life private means that I can move through the city with minimal interruption. No women at restaurants, no public dates, no stories on gossip sights about my dick size.
I let the tabloids label me the “perpetual celibate bachelor,” heartbroken and uninterested in love. I like it that way.
Because this is something else entirely. This is intrusive and invasive.
The lights are relentless, questions firing at us like a damn machine gun as I duck slightly and guide Rosie forward with a hand on her lower back. She doesn’t miss a beat, working the cameras like she was born for this.
Her bare fingers, notably glove-free despite the falling snow, flash just enough to show off her new ring—a piece of jewelry that’s so uncharacteristically gaudy it might as well be a neon sign screaming “Look I'm married!”
I force a smile at the people who are just trying to do their jobs and get the shot while inside I’m quickly dying.
We reach the door, and I yank it open, ushering her inside. Rosie steps in with a practiced shake of her coat, scattering snowflakes.
“Okay, that wasn’t so bad,” she says easily.
Wasn’t so bad? That was torture. Is that how every appearance is going to be for the next three months?
She approaches the hostess stand without waiting for me to respond.
“Reservation for Tremblay,” she says smoothly.
The hostess smiles. “Of course, right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Tremblay.”
For a brief moment, I notice something flicker across Rosie’s face. Fear, maybe, or hesitation at being addressed as Mrs. Tremblay, but she recovers instantly, reaching out to squeeze my bicep in a move that looks perfectly natural, perfectly rehearsed.
“Let’s go, honey,” she says with a smile that could fool anyone.
Damn, she’s good. Too good. From the outside, you’d think this was real. That we were newlyweds celebrating my most recent win over dinner and cocktails. But I know better. Every move, every touch, is carefully scripted.
The hostess leads us through the crowded restaurant to a table in the back. It’s private enough to avoid interruptions but visible enough for anyone who needs to corroborate the story later.
This whole thing is a masterclass in PR execution. My stomach churns as I pull out Rosie’s chair for her.
She slides into the seat, thanks the hostess and then I take mine across from her. I pick up the menu, glancing at her over the top. Her eyes are fixed to the cover like I’m not even here.
“So… how did I do?”
She looks up for just a second. “That was fine.” Then she looks back down at the menu.
I reach across the table placing my hand on top of hers that’s resting there. You’d have thought I shot her by the way she flinches away.
Jesus. When was the last time this woman had her hand held?
“Sorry, I just thought…” I start. I don’t know what I thought. That I wanted to connect with her physically for some reason? That I wanted to touch the woman that I’m literally, legally married to while we have our first public dinner together?
“It’s fine,” she responds but she doesn’t look up. She keeps reading and I get the feeling it absolutely is not fine that I just touched her hand.
I sit back in my chair and study her face. Those high cheekbones and full lips that are painted pink tonight. I wonder if she realizes just how pretty she is.