Chapter 14 Rosie
Three weeks later…
◆◆◆
It’s the start of February, and my first month as a married woman has officially ended.
Most people would ask, “How’s newlywed life going?” with stars in their eyes and visions of blissful domesticity dancing in their heads.
But let me be real: my life hasn’t changed much at all. Unless you count the fact that, on alternating Friday nights, I find myself rink-side at one of the Mayhem’s home games.
There, I cheer Boone on while hanging out with my new and ridiculously kind friends, Jill and Cassie, before riding the train back to Brookhaven to escape the chaos of my double life and Boone.
In my quiet little town, I can forget for a moment that I’m Rosie Prescott, the wife of Boone Tremblay, North America’s beloved hockey player. Or that I’m the in-demand junior partner at my firm, clawing my way toward senior status in a marriage that’s nothing but a charade.
Sure, Boone technically moved into my apartment after the wedding, but with his constant travel for away games, grueling training schedule, press obligations, and endorsement deals—and my equally insane hours in court and at the office—we’ve barely crossed paths.
To say we’re ships passing in the night would not be a gross exaggeration. We’re more like two entirely different fleets, stationed in opposite oceans.
Work has been a madhouse. Winter seems to bring out the worst in our clients, who spend the cold months engaging in spectacularly bad behavior that inevitably lands them in legal trouble.
My dad used to say, “There's nothing to do in January but get drunk and break the law.”
He isn't wrong, considering this is the time of year I never saw daylight as a kid because he wouldn’t let Cain or me leave the house for fear of us finding trouble.
But now that February is here, the holiday slump has lifted, and the city is shifting into a romantic haze, prepping for Valentine’s Day, the biggest commercial holiday in the world.
Personally, I’d rather hole up in Brookhaven for a long, unromantic weekend, sipping coffee while a snowstorm buries the streets of New York. And that’s the plan, anyway, avoiding the newest storm that's blowing in and everything else that it symbolizes.
Tonight, though, has thrown me for a curveball. Boone’s team had a rare Wednesday night home game, which means they’ve got an extra-long weekend off ahead of them.
I assumed he’d still have sponsorship meetings or something that’d keep him away from my apartment.
But as I punched in the code to my building Thursday evening at seven, tired from work and already thinking about the suitcase I need to pack, I realize Boone’s not busy.
He’s here. In my kitchen, like a ghost materialized out of thin air.
I jump and clutch my chest. “Whoa. You scared me.”
The most I’ve seen of him lately has been from the safety of the crowd, watching him tear across the ice in his thick pads and sharp skates while the crowd cheers his name.
Seeing him here, in my space, is an entirely different thing. He’s so big it’s almost like he doesn’t fit in here. And yet… I like it.
“W-what are you doing here?” I ask, my voice catching slightly as I take in the sight of him perched on one of my island chairs.
He’s demolishing what appears to be a massive Italian sandwich, oil and sauce dripping onto the pristine marble countertop since there’s no plate underneath it. And despite the absolute mess he’s making, he looks wildly attractive.
His broad shoulders are hunched forward in a maroon, Mayhem shirt that looks like it was painted onto his skin. Two massive hands are dwarfing the footlong sub like it’s a toy. His messy brown hair looks freshly trimmed, and his eyes sparkle like he’s caught me watching him.
Which, I was. Obviously. Where else would I look when he’s sucking all the space and air out of the room?
“Wasn’t expecting you to be home already,” he says casually, wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.”
Home? As if this is our home. Which I know it’s supposed to be, but he sure hasn’t made it feel like one.
Every time I’ve come back late at night during the week, with him already here, he’s not lounging on the couch bingeing Netflix or hogging my TV like every other guy I’ve ever dated. No, Boone retreats to his room like some kind of disciplined monk who doesn’t want to disturb me.
I know there’s no TV in there—unless he snuck one in while I wasn’t paying attention. And it’s always so quiet. Too quiet.
The guy genuinely prioritizes self-care in a way that I’ve never understood. He seems utterly unbothered by the outside world and is focused on nothing but his hockey career. And that includes leaving zero mess or personal effects in my apartment.
I don’t know what I was expecting rooming with a professional athlete, but it wasn’t this.
Boone takes another huge bite, then washes it down with a long gulp from an ice-cold water bottle that's sweating all over the countertop. I half expect the chair beneath him to groan under his sheer size, but it holds steady.
“I was starving. I’m always starving after a game day,” he says, wiping his mouth again.
I set my briefcase on the counter and lean a hip against it, crossing my arms as I watch him eat.
“I’m pretty sure you’re just always hungry. I saw the mountain of food you stocked in the fridge.”
He grins; a lazy, confident curve of his mouth that makes me feel like I’ve walked into a trap.
“Does that bother you?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m glad you moved your stuff in. But please know you can bring your other stuff over. You don’t have to keep everything in your room or at Penn’s place.”
He studies me for a few beats like he’s trying to understand me, then nods.
“Sure, Rosie.”
He takes another bite of his sandwich, this time holding my gaze. His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he’s cataloging every detail.
The way he looks at me feels intimate. Too intimate.
Like he shouldn’t be staring at me that closely, especially when we’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of words since that almost-kiss during his interview.
The one I dodged during the interview for both of our sanity and, let’s be honest, to protect his career from my father’s wrath.
It’s not like I’ve been avoiding him outright... except, okay, I have been avoiding him. Work’s been crazy, sure, but mostly I’ve been dodging Boone because I knew I needed to.
Whatever compelled him to lean in on camera—whether it was the heat of the moment or some misplaced sense of connection—it was dangerous. For both of us.
It’s my job to keep him grounded, to remind him that this is nothing more than a business arrangement, an act we’re playing for the cameras and his contract.
We’re acquaintances, cohorts working toward a mutually beneficial goal.
But standing here, watching him now. relaxed, messy, unapologetically himself, it’s another reminder of exactly why I dodged him.
Because Boone Tremblay isn’t just good at making bad decisions. He’s tempting to me. And I’ve got no business being tempted by a professional athlete I’m fake married to.
He’s just so damn… cute. I can’t explain it. Out on the ice, Boone’s like a grizzly bear—ferocious, intimidating, all raw power and precision. But off the ice? In private? He’s more like a cub. He’s playful and kind.
“You look pretty,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Just that. Nothing more, nothing less. He takes another bite of his sandwich, his eyes searching mine for a reaction.
The simple compliment makes heat creep up my neck. I wet my lips, shake my head like I can brush it off, and scoop up my briefcase.
“Thanks. I’m going to shower, and then I’ll be heading out early to Brookhaven. You’ll have the place to yourself again this weekend.”
“Wait!” he calls after me. I pause mid-step, turning back to find him grinning at me, leftover sandwich abandoned on the countertop.
“Cain didn’t tell you?”
I frown. “Uh... Cain didn’t tell me what?”
Boone’s grin widens. “That I’m coming with you this weekend.”
I blink because no, my brother did not tell me that. “Um, no, you’re not.”
Four weeks of marriage, and Boone has never come with me to Brookhaven. That’s my place. My sanctuary away from the chaos of New York City, away from my double life as Rosie Prescott, fake wife of a Tremblay, and I can’t, for the life of me, imagine why Cain would ever agree to this.
Boone nods, wiping his mouth with another napkin like he’s enjoying my growing panic.
He takes a sip of water, then pounds his chest theatrically. “Fuck, that went down the wrong pipe.”
I wait for him to finish coughing.
“Storm’s supposed to be bad. They can’t risk me being stuck here while you and Cain are in Connecticut if my pre-trial next week gets moved to virtual.”
“Is it really going to be that bad?”
He nods again, but this time with a smugness that suggests he’s a little too happy about the incoming blizzard and this twist in fate.
“So, Cain wants you to come back with me?” I clarify, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yep,” he says with a smile that borders on victorious.
I sigh, knowing I don’t have a choice in the matter if that's what my brother wants.
“Fine. The train leaves in an hour. I’m going to shower, pack, and then we can take a ride share together, since I know how much you love those.” I toss over my shoulder as I walk away. His loud laugh follows me.
“I’ll be ready in thirty minutes. Can’t wait to see your home, Rosie!”
And something about that simple statement tells me this weekend and the impending storm is going to change everything.
◆◆◆
Three hours later, our train is pulling into the Brookhaven station.
When we boarded, Boone had immediately apologized, saying he wouldn’t be great company for the ride. He was still exhausted from last night’s game and the post-game interviews—which I hadn’t stuck around to watch.
I’d had to head back to the office to wrap up a few loose ends on a high-stakes international case and felt like I’d done my time as his wife for the week.
The truth is that I’m getting tired of the acting and the way it’s been pulling me away from the legal work that I enjoy doing most.
“Mind if I nap?” he’d asked, looking genuinely wiped out.
“Be my guest,” I’d replied, grateful for the chance to work in peace and not worry about making small talk.
It worked out perfectly. Boone crashed hard, his head leaning back against the window, arms crossed over his broad chest like a fortress while his long legs stretched out.
Meanwhile, I’d used the quiet to catch up on emails, sort through my notes, and enjoy the rare tranquility of the train ride.
There’s something about leaving the constant noise and chaos of New York behind that always soothes me. The soft hum of the train, the blur of trees and fields rushing past—it’s like a deep breath for my spirit, a much-needed reset before stepping into the quiet simplicity of life in Brookhaven.
But I quickly realized I wasn’t going to get much work done on this trip. Tried being the key word. Because every time I opened my laptop, I’d find myself glancing at Boone, stealing peaks to watch him sleep like some kind of fool with a crush.
And every time, I’d get hit with the weight of just how insane this whole situation was. Marrying him, pretending this arrangement isn’t slowly unraveling every part of my carefully controlled life, it’s all catching up to me.
That, and I kept wondering: where the hell will he be sleeping this weekend?
Of course he’ll sleep at Cain’s house. They’ve got a spare bedroom. There’s absolutely no reason for him to stay with me at my place. Cain wouldn’t allow it anyway. I can only imagine what he’d say, or worse, what he’d think if Boone stayed with me.
But a small part of me hoped he would anyway.
I've gotten used to having him sleeping just down the hall in my apartment during the week when he’s not traveling.
After not having roommates since college, I’ve appreciated the simple comfort of knowing someone else is nearby, even if we’re not talking.
As the train pulls into the station, I nudge Boone’s foot gently with the heel of my shoe.
“Hey, Boone. We’re here.”
He mumbles something in his sleep, stretching his arms over his head like a big kid waking up from nap time.
I watch him unwind his long limbs, stretch his legs in those grey sweatpants that mold to his thick thighs.
His grin is lazy, his eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep when he finally notices me.
“You’re a beautiful view to wake up to," he says, voice gravelly and warm.
I try to shake off the warmth that’s crawling up my neck. I know now that this is just who he is but that doesn’t stop me from liking the way it feels to be admired by him.
“Come on. Cain’s picking us up. And whatever you do, don’t let him hear you use that cheesy pick-up line on me.”