Chapter 25 Rosie
“Go, Lochlan!” Jill screams, bouncing in her bucket seat next to me, her husband’s jersey hanging loosely on her petite frame.
Her brown ponytail swishes back and forth like a pom-pom as she hollers at the top of her lung and claps loudly.
“Oh my god, what a great game!” she beams, sinking back into her chair as the whistle blows.
I grin, the excitement that’s buzzing in the air around us pulling me in too. Boone’s having a great game, and I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of the sport and being a hockey wife which makes it even more enjoyable to watch.
Gone is any attempt to answer emails or complete work while he’s playing. I’m locked into whoever’s getting smashed against the boards and the scoreboard.
Surprisingly, these past few months have been… nice. Spending as much time as I can rink-side, watching Boone and the Mayhem dominate game after game, has been an unexpected highlight to the start of my year.
It’s been two weeks since Boone told me he wouldn’t touch me again.
Just after that night in the apartment when he had me on the counter like some kind of Cirque du Soleil routine, legs spread while he ate my pussy and fucked me with his wedding ring like I belonged to him.
And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been trying to drown out thoughts of him ever since.
It’s made everything worse that he’s kept his word. No touching. No flirting. Not even dinners after games since he’s been on the road most of the time.
The only moment where I saw a flicker of the old Boone, the guy who lost control in my house in Brookhaven, was during the devastatingly romantic speech he gave for me at the Brookhaven Women’s Shelter charity auction on Valentine’s Day.
And that kiss… It was so safe and careful. Not even on the lips. But the energy that rolled through him when he did it told me everything.
The restraint in his arms. What he whispered in my ear. The effort it took to hold back.
I felt it anyway. I felt it in his soft touch on the back of my chair. All of it. The yearning.
God, he was magnetic dressed in that handsome tux with his fresh haircut and cleaned up beard. I’m pretty sure half the women in the room were silently wishing that he was the one auctioning off a date, not Penn.
I’ve thrown myself into work like my life depends on it. I’ve spent longer hours at the firm, more cases to ease Cain’s load so he can spend time with Rhiannon and my niece. Hell, I even took on a few of Dierk’s cases and met up with him for dinner one night at his favorite restaurant for steak.
The food was good; the conversation was terrible. But what else do you expect when two lawyers get together to talk shop?
And maybe I’m overcompensating. After all, the Mayhem’s schedule has been stacked with away games all over the country—south, north, west coast—you name it. Boone’s barely been in the city, let alone our apartment.
But hard work has always been my go-to coping mechanism, and this time is no different.
Now, with February coming to a close and the team back for their first home game in weeks, I can’t shake this feeling that’s running through my veins. It’s something sharp and electric. Like the air right before a snowstorm.
And, of course, there’s another storm brewing in the city tonight, threatening to dump two feet of snow and bring everything to a halt.
I hope it does.
Snow always brings a sense of magic or fate; or something equally ridiculous. It’s the same feeling that I had the night Boone and I first split ways after we got married while snowflakes fell from the sky, cleansing the dirty streets of New York City.
And with just one month left in our contract, I have no idea what to do with all this raw energy, scattered thoughts, and the obvious sexual tension that's still between us that he refuses to acknowledge.
“They’ve been playing so well,” I say, my eyes flicking to Jill.
She nods, her ponytail bouncing again. “Two months until conference finals.”
And one month until our divorce.
“Boone’s been incredible,” she adds. “This is the best I’ve ever seen him play.”
“He’s been playing great. How long have you been watching the Mayhem?”
“Seven years, at least. And I’m serious, he’s never been this on fire. Especially with all the talk about his contract ending next year and, you know, aging out.”
I blink at that. Seven years, and this is the best he’s ever played?
I don't know what to make of that. I want to joke that it’s the pent-up sexual tension between us. Maybe he has extra testosterone flowing through his veins. But Boone's calm and collected out there.
He doesn't look fazed in the least or frazzled how I've been feeling.
“So,” Jill says, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial grin, “want to go up to the team suite and see if there’s any good food we can snag? Then we can wait in the tunnel while the guys do their post-game interviews. There’s a TV in the hallway if we want to watch them, but I’m starving.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
Normally, I’d pull out my laptop and get a little work done while Boone wraps up post-game discussions with his coach and interviews. If we’ve got dinner plans, I’ll hang around and wait and if not, I usually head back to the office.
Tonight, though…Boone and I have plans. Dinner. Another photo op to solidify in the judge’s mind just how solid our marriage is before his final court appearance next week with Cain.
One last performance and I haven’t talked to him in a whole week.
Jill leads the way as I grab my bag and follow her up to the suite. Two months of being married to Boone, and somehow, this is my first time stepping foot in here.
The space is sprawling, decked out in the Mayhem’s maroon and gold colors, with the team’s logo stamped on every available surface. The crowd is a mix. There are a few family members with children, but mostly it's young women snapping photos and talking excitedly.
“Stick close, or the puck bunnies will eat you alive,” Jill jokes, gripping my forearm and steering us toward the tables that are piled high with catered food. "I'm mostly kidding, the women who surround hockey are all very nice."
“Got it.” I nod. “The food looks amazing.”
“It is. All catered by a fancy restaurant down the street. It’s just usually not worth the risk to come up here and miss a play.”
Though Boone and I have dinner later, I decide to grab a small plate of fruit and a bottle of water to hold me over. But just as I’m turning to find Jill again and head down to the tunnel, a woman steps into my path, cutting me off.
She’s tall—at least four inches taller than me even with my heeled boots on—with dark auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and a stare that could rival an Arctic chill. And she looks familiar.
“You’re Boone Tremblay’s wife?” she asks, her voice sharp as she raises a perfectly sculpted brow at me.
I don’t blink. There’s only one person who’d be this interested in confirming that fact. Anastasia.
“Yes, I’m Rosie,” I say, keeping my tone even.
She nods slowly, her gaze sweeping over me with judgment. “Anastasia,” she says, her name landing like a challenge.
I pretend it doesn’t mean anything to me, even though it absolutely does. Why is she here? What does she want? Is she looking for Boone? Is he expecting her?
“Hello,” I reply with a polite smile.
Her lips curl slightly, but it’s not a smile—it’s more like a smirk dipped in disdain. "I’m here with Penn.”
Penn. Boone’s old roommate. The self-professed playboy of the Mayhem.
Well, isn’t that just… convenient and honestly a bit fucked up that Penn would date Boone’s ex-fiancé. I keep my face neutral, refusing to give her anything.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Her blue eyes narrow as if she’s searching for a crack in my armor. “It is,” she says, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
Thankfully Jill appears at my side, her expression already tense. Anastasia’s smirk sharpens as she turns her attention to her. “Hi, Jill. So nice to see you again.”
Jill scoffs, folding her arms. “Anastasia.”
Ah. Guess these two have history, and not the friendly kind.
Anastasia’s smile deepens into something feral as she turns back to me. “Give Boone my best, will you? He’s been playing incredible lately. It’s great to watch him still at the top of his game—just like when we were together.”
And with that, she spins on her heel and walks away.
Jill rolls her eyes hard. “Ignore her. Just like Boone has for the past two years.”
I nod, pretending her little dig didn’t get to me, but it’s a lie.
Insecurity outside of my career is practically my identity, and despite this whole marriage being fake, seeing Anastasia only highlights one very glaring truth: I’m nothing like the type of woman Boone would actually choose to marry.
I was hand-selected for this role. I was convenient and willing. This has always been strategic and temporary. And yet I can’t fight the jealousy that’s raging inside my head.
Jill leads the way back down to the main level of the arena where we slip into the tunnel just outside the locker room.
“She’s so obnoxious,” she mutters into her phone as her fingers fly across the keyboard. “I’m telling Cassie what happened. The audacity of her saying that to you.” She scoffs.
At least it’s nice to feel like I have real friends who have my back in this whole fake marriage.
I lean against the wall and glance up at the TV that’s hanging overhead while trying not to think about what just happened.
It’s broadcasting the team’s post-game interviews, currently featuring Boone, Lochlan, and Penn seated at a table together with hair damp from showers and smartly fitted suits.
They were the stars of the game tonight. The ones that the fans want to hear from the most in the race toward the Stanley. The interviewer is asking Lochlan about a particularly impressive save, but I barely register his words.
Instead, my thoughts spiral. I try not to let Anastasia’s words fester, but they’ve already taken root, feeding into my insecurities about my ability to attract a guy like Boone, my negative self-image, and whether I’ll ever feel this way about someone more… my level.
But no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, my attraction to Boone isn’t just an act for me. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m playing a part in a story that could never really be mine.
My cheeks flush because deep down, I know I’m a catch. But the voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like my father—keeps whispering otherwise.
Yes, he spoke of my beauty mirroring my mothers’. But he always said I’d end up with a certain type of guy, and maybe I’ve internalized that more than I realized.
A lawyer, a billionaire, some high-powered man who has as little time for me as I’d have for him. ‘Someone who appreciates you for all that you are, Rosie.’ Is what he'd always said. ‘You're the most beautiful woman in the room, but weak men will always be intimated by you.’
I’m a career wife. The kind who works just as hard, brings in just as much, and meets her match in someone equally driven.
We’d hardly see each other, our kids would be raised by a nanny just like I was, and our marriage would be more of a partnership than a love story.
That thought makes me want to throw up now.
Because after being with someone like Boone—a rough, attentive, desirable, solid man like him—how could I ever go back to the other option?
Boone’s not a weak man, he’s a force of nature, shaped by years of hockey and a life built in the heart of the country.
His muscles don’t come from a gym session between conference calls; they’re earned from grit and sweat, from chasing dreams on the ice and fighting for every inch of his success.
I don’t want soft. I don’t want polished. I don’t want scheduled. I don’t want structured. I don’t want someone who fits neatly into a box my father would approve of. I don't need a billionaire.
I want a reckless, wild, all-consuming love.
I want Boone’s love.
And the thought that I might not deserve it? That I might not be enough for it? Or too much. It kills me.
The interviewer shifts his attention to Boone, pulling me from my thoughts.
“So, what’s got you playing like you’re twenty years old again, Tremblay? I mean, you’ve been on fire this season. Is it simply motivation to get resigned to the Mayhem that has you burning up the ice?”
Boone grins, and instead of looking at the interviewer for his response, his gaze locks directly on the camera lens.
“I’ve had my lucky charm in the crowd this season.”
I draw in a breath at the exact wrong time, mid-chew on a grape, and end up choking.
Jill pats my back, laughing softly. “He’s obsessed,” she whispers, smirking at me. “Just the way we like our men.”
“He’s not talking about—.” But my train of thought is cut off because Boone is now lifting his hand and his fingers are brushing over his wedding band as he examines it.
Then slowly, intentionally, he brings the gold ring to his nose and takes an obvious inhale of the cool metal.
Right on live TV.
Jill’s jaw drops. My eyes practically bulge out of my head.
It’s like the whole thing didn’t even happen because just as smoothly as he did it, Boone redirects his attention to the interviewer and starts talking about strategy for the rest of the season, stats, and all the hockey things that the public want to know.
Jill leans toward me, her voice quiet enough not to draw any attention from the other families waiting in the tunnel.
“Um… did I imagine that, or did your husband just sniff his wedding band?”
“I…” I stammer, trying to process what I just saw. “I’m not sure?” He most definitely did. And I know why.
She smiles knowingly, like she’s having way too much fun with this, then turns back to the TV screen as her husband begins to talk again.
“You two are the best. I’m so glad he found you. I've truly never seen him this happy.”
And just like that, my throat goes dry, and my chest tightens. Because no matter how chaotic this fake marriage has been, or how tangled my feelings are, one truth stands out:
I’m so glad he found me, too.