Chapter 12 Rosie #2
But I love court. It’s where I shine. I get to argue and defend my clients in a safe little bubble. It’s what I spend hours researching and preparing for.
The thought of handing it off to someone else makes me want to stomp my foot like a petulant child, but instead, I nod. “Okay, sure.”
Senior partner. Senior partner. I chant the words in my head like a mantra reminding myself that there’s only three more months left.
“The Mayhem have an important practice this afternoon and I need you to be there for it,” Dad continues.
I squint at him. “A practice? Why do I have to attend that?”
“Because there’s a press conference afterwards. It’s all about the playoffs. The media’s going to be insane. The Mayhem won the Stanley last year, so bets are pouring in on whether Boone’s recent marriage is going to bring in more attention to the team or distract him from winning again.”
“I... I see.”
“So, I want you there to be the supportive, dutiful wife. The judge on his case will be watching the press conference, hell, everyone in the city will be.”
God forbid his wife has a career of her own to attend to instead of sitting courtside for a two-hour practice and a press conference that’ll drag.
I make a mental note to ask Jill and Cassie about their careers if they’re at the practice today. How do hockey wives survive the season full of games, practices, and events these guys drag them to?
Plastering a polite smile across my face, I nod. “Sure thing, I can do that.”
“Good,” Dad says. Then he turns to Cain. “Good news. We got Boone’s court appearance bumped up. It’s in four weeks now. Right before Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s great,” Cain replies, already flipping open his briefcase to jot down notes.
“I need you to wrap up your defense and carve out some time with Boone to go over expectations for the next three weeks. There’s a big storm in the forecast, and I want all our cases airtight. It shouldn’t shut us down, but if it does, and we have to go virtual, I want us to be prepared.”
We both nod in understanding. This isn’t the first time that we’ve had to handle court virtually. When COVID hit, we were forced to shut down our offices temporarily. It was a whole new world of juggling clients, judges, and technology.
Since then, NYC judges err on the side of caution whenever there’s a hint of bad weather, often shifting cases to virtual hearings to avoid commuting. Cain and I are well-versed in handling chaos like this, and I know we’ll be ready.
“Okay, then. That’s it,” Dad says with finality, standing up.
He pauses and adds, “Rosie, since your afternoon is cleared, perhaps after you finish your morning work, you should run home and change. Put on something a little different than what you wore to his game Saturday night. Something a bit… more stylish.”
“Dad?” I faux gasp, my eyebrows shooting up. That is not something I ever expected to hear him say. “It feels a little like you’re pimping me out.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I just don’t want you rolling in there wearing a sweatshirt again.”
“I wore a pair of five-hundred-dollar leather shorts with his name and number on the sweatshirt. What’s wrong with that?”
He hugs me tightly and kisses my cheek with a tenderness that almost softens the blow of his words.
“You looked beautiful, but we need to sell this. Hard. The world’s most watched and wanted hockey player, Boone Tremblay, is married to you.”
I wince at his words because he’s right. Just another reminder that Boone would never fall for someone like me. He dates models, or socialites.
I glance down at my outfit. It’s a perfectly classy, expensive suit. It’s professional and elegant for court but he’s probably right. It’s not something that a hockey wife would wear.
Dad seems to sense my reaction, his voice softening. “This has nothing to do with how beautiful you are. You know I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. You look exactly like your mother, which is precisely why she was such a successful star.”
His smile falters, turning into that familiar look of regret when he thinks of her.
My mother. The actress who walked out of his life but never left his heart. She was stunning, unforgettable, and, in his eyes and mine, perfection. Hearing that I look like her growing up always gave me an extra boost of confidence when mine wavered.
“But” he continues, shaking off the memory, “this is about Boone. About the type of woman that he’s been with before. His ex never wore sweatshirts to his games.”
I nod, even though his words sting in a different way. He’s right. I make a mental note to look up what Anastasia used to wear to his games later.
“Was there anything else?” I ask, wanting to get the day started so I can get back to my apartment to change before his practice.
He smiles and shakes his head again. “Let’s keep up the good work kids. This case, and your divorce, will be finalized in no time.”
Grabbing my briefcase, I say goodbye to Cain and head to my office to get some work done. And three hours later, I’m back in my East Side apartment, my laptop balanced on my knees as I search for photos of Anastasia at Boone’s games when they were together.
To my surprise, there are only five pictures from the nearly two years that they dated and were engaged. And in every single one she isn’t wearing his jersey, his number, or even the team’s colors.
I frown. It feels… off. Almost dismissive and unsupportive.
Boone seemed to like that I showed up wearing his name and number to his game. Sure, I bought the sweatshirt online, but I thought it showed I was rooting for him, even if this whole thing is fake.
I think back to what Cassie and Jill were wearing. Cassie had on a team logo T-shirt and jeans, casual but clearly supportive of her husband. Jill had a team scarf wrapped around her neck, layered over her husband’s warm-up jersey.
If that’s the standard, shouldn’t I be following it too?
But against my better judgment, I follow Dad’s advice and wear something different.
I pull out a fitted maroon dress I’ve worn to court in the past. It hugs my smaller curves in all the right places and feels in line with what Anastasia might have worn.
I pair it with knee-high black boots with a heel, practical for the cold but polished enough to pass Dad’s unspoken approval. Pinning my dark blonde hair up on one side I swipe on some simple makeup. Natural colors and a dab of light pink lip gloss complete the look.
Then I grab my bag and stare at the guest bedroom that Boone should have moved into this weekend.
Curiosity gnaws at me. Did he move in behind that closed door? There’s nothing in the kitchen, the living room, or the shared bathroom that belongs to him. Everything looks the same, like he was never here at all.
I hesitate, tempted to snoop, then stop myself. I decide to respect his privacy and turn away from the door to head to his practice.
It doesn’t matter whether he moved in or not. The facts are that our paths will hardly cross before this is all over…