Chapter 38 Boone
Boone: Rosie, please talk to me. I’m sorry I went off script. I’m an idiot. Please answer my calls.
No response. Again.
Fuck me.
I pull up Rhiannon's phone number next.
Boone: How badly did I fuck up?
Rhiannon: Like, on a scale from 1-10? You’re at an 11.
Boone: Fuck!
Rhiannon: You went off script and blindsided her with an “I love you” in the middle of your fake breakup. That’s not cool.
Boone: I know. I’m an idiot. I just couldn’t say all that shit they wanted me to because it wasn’t true and the look in her eyes was so… sad, fuck.
Rhiannon: I get it, but thankfully, my husband’s amazing and saved your asses along with the Prescott PR team. Have you seen the news?
I groan and reach for my phone, scrolling through the search results while lying in Penn’s spare bedroom that used to be mine and now feels like my own for of purgatory.
Two days of moping in this tiny room, barely moving, just stewing in my screw-ups, regrets and Rosie's sweet rose scent.
The first article tied to my name pops up with a headline that makes my stomach churn:
“Mayhem in Paradise: Trouble for Hockey’s Favorite Center and His New Bride?”
Fuck me.
The lead photo is a shot of me leaning toward Rosie on the street, my face deadly serious while hers looks like a deer caught in headlights. It’s convincing and painful to look at when I know the truth of what was happening there.
The article spins the PR-approved story: I’m clinging to my hockey career and refusing to settle down because I'm passionate about the sport and want to lead the team to another victory now that my case has been dismissed, while Rosie wants to leave it all behind and start a family.
It’s all the fake, rehearsed bullshit we planned, instead of what I actually said to her in that moment.
That I’d leave hockey behind for her.
That I want kids.
That I want a family.
That I love her.
I fire off a text response back to Rhiannon.
Boone: I saw.
Boone: So, what do I do?
Rhiannon: You give her a second to breathe.
Let her realize what you said was true and not acting.
That you just have shitty timing of telling her how much she means to you.
Let her see that she loves you too. And that, despite embarrassing her like that, you’re just a big idiot who’s a fool for her and that's why you did it. And then apologize some more.
Boone: I feel like I should be offended by that, but that’s the perfect way to describe me right now.
Rhiannon: ;) Good luck.
◆◆◆
I open and close my text messages, then drag my finger downward like that can somehow refresh them.
It can’t, but I’m desperate, and Rosie hasn’t answered a single one or called me back.
It’s the weekend now, which means she’s back in Brookhaven. Probably sleeping in the middle of the bed where we made love. Hopefully, she's seeing all the little things that remind her of us, of what we’ve started and what was good between us.
At least, that's what I hope she's thinking when she sees them and not that she made the biggest mistake of her life by letting me inside.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. She just needs some space, like Rhiannon said.
Cain’s words from weeks ago flash in my head—about fighting for her like no man ever has. I wonder if this is the test he warned me about. If I fail this, I know I’ll lose her for good.
No. This isn’t a test. This is me being a dumbass, screwing up what should’ve been simple.
If I’d just stuck to the script, said the things she told me to say despite knowing they’re a lie, I’d be with her right now.
Maybe in her apartment, or maybe in Brookhaven, buried inside her instead of sulking here with my dick aching in my sweatpants waiting to sign divorce papers that she wants tomorrow morning.
“Fuck me,” I mutter to the ceiling again.
As if on cue, the door flies open, and Penn barrels in without a care in the world for personal space or my impending divorce.
“Guess privacy’s not a thing now that I've moved back in?” I grumble as he flops down onto my bed like it’s his personal couch.
“Yeah, well, Coach has been trying to get ahold of you,” Penn says, nodding at my phone. "And he just called me instead to see if we're together. You know how I love sleeping in on Saturday's. It woke me up."
I glance at my missed calls log and low and behold, there are two from Coach. I ignored them, of course. I was too afraid Rosie would call at the exact moment I was on the phone with him, and I’d miss her.
You’re a big, dumb idiot, Tremblay. She’s not going to call you!
Perfect. Just what I needed to top off this disaster of a weekend. Before I can hit redial another very unwelcome face greets me in the doorway to my old bedroom.
"Hey, Boone," Anastasia says with what I'm assuming is supposed to be a sultry smile. She's dressed in nothing but Penn's jersey and I'm certain she's naked underneath since it hits mid-thigh.
It does absolutely nothing for me except make me wonder what I ever saw in her. How could I have ever proposed to her when I know now what real love feels like?
God, I dodged a bullet there.
“Oh, Anastasia spent the night,” Penn says innocently nodding at my ex in his doorway.
“This is great,” I say, sitting up because now it's a fucking pre-my-life-with-Rosie reunion.
I hit redial on the last call from coach as Penn leans in, shamelessly eavesdropping like the nosy little shit that he is.
“Tremblay!” Coach’s voice booms so loudly through the speaker I flinch, holding the phone away from my ear.
If I were still a drinking man, I’d reach for a whiskey right now to take the edge off these past few days. But I gave up all my vices years ago. Plus, they’ve’ been replaced.
With Rosie.
Too bad I can’t lose myself inside her today.
“Coach, how can I help?” I ask, trying to act like I haven’t been ignoring self-care in days because I don’t want to wash off my ex-wife’s shampoo and soap.
“Get down to the stadium right now. Caleb wants to meet with you.”
I look at my phone to check what day it is. “On a Sunday?”
“Yes. And it wasn't a suggestion. See you in thirty minutes.”
Before I can respond, he hangs up on me.
“Fuck, what could Caleb want now?” I mutter to myself, rubbing the back of my neck.
The case has been dropped, my reputation is pristine, and I’m the poster boy for hockey again—model player, obsessed with the Mayhem, and, according to the media, willing to put the team above everything. Even my “new bride” who now wants to divorce me because of that commitment.
Penn snickers from his spot on the bed. “Hey, at least this time it’s not because of me.”
I glare at him and drag my sorry ass out of bed. I never sleep in, but it’s already ten in the morning, and I’ve wasted half the day staring at my phone willing Rosie to call or text back.
“Somehow I’m sure you’re to blame for this.”
“What the fuck man?” he asks, genuinely looking upset.
I want to tell him he’s the only reason there was a case in the first place. The only reason I got on Caleb’s bad side. But the truth is, he’s also the only reason that I met Rosie in that club. He paid for the dance with her. And he’s the only reason I had to marry her to fix my reputation.
Maybe I should be thanking Penn.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I snap instead.
“Jeez, you’re dense.” He rolls off my bed and hooks his arm around Anastasia in the doorway. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”
I roll my eyes. Throwing on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, I shove my feet into sneakers and rake my fingers through my hair. It’s a half-assed attempt at looking presentable before jamming a beanie over the mess and heading out to grab a cab.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking toward Coach’s office at the stadium when the door swings open, and there he is—the owner of our whole damn club. The guy behind this mess.
I haven’t seen him since the charity dinner in Brookhaven where he dropped ten thousand dollars on the game winning puck from last season and the director of the women’s shelter cried.
And before that, it wasn’t since that cutthroat meeting at the Prescott's firm, where everyone thought the best solution to my PR crisis was to marry me off to a woman I thought was a stripper. And I’d thought they were out of their minds.
Turns out, they handed me a key to meeting the love of my life.
Caleb doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. He shoves a bottle of champagne into my chest, grinning like a man who just closed a million-dollar deal.
“Congratulations!”
Coach is beaming behind his desk like a proud parent. I glance down at the bottle in my hands and then look up at them confused. I don’t drink champagne, but I get the feeling now’s not the time to mention that to the man who signs my paycheck.
“What’s this for?” I ask. “Because I won the case?”
Coach shakes his head. “Have a seat, son.”
I step inside, side-eyeing Caleb, who stays by the door, doing that thing he does—standing just close enough to unnerve you and never taking a seat unless it's to talk about something bad.
I drop into the chair across from Coach’s desk, wishing this could’ve waited until practice tomorrow. Or better yet, until after I’ve signed the divorce papers with Rosie.
Then Coach drops a bombshell I didn’t see coming.
“We want you to renew your contract with the Mayhem.”
“What?” I whisper in shock.
Caleb steps forward, hands in his pockets, all business. “Three more years. You’re still at the top of your game, killing it on the ice. Winning the case and the press with your fake wife only made you play better. And we’re confident the team’s going to win the Stanley in a few months.”
“Wait, hold up—you’re asking me to sign on for three more years?”
They both nod like this is the best news I could ever hope to hear. Three months ago, it probably would’ve been. I’d have kissed them both, celebrated, and called my financial advisor to confirm I was set for life.
And beyond the money, I’d have been thrilled—ecstatic, even—to keep playing the game I love for three more years. I was hoping for a one-year extension but three is… unexpected. Unprecedented for a guy my age.
But now?
Now, with everything that’s happened, and with Rosie and the mess I’ve made hanging over me, I don’t know what the hell I want any more except that I want her and hockey isn’t nearly as important.
“Can I have a week to think it over?”
Caleb’s brows crash down like I’ve personally insulted him. Coach leans forward, studying me with sharp, assessing eyes.
“You don’t have any other offers, do you, son?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I’d never consider that. I'm loyal to the Mayhem. I just need a little time. To process everything that’s happened recently. To figure out what’s next.”
Coach nods, but Caleb looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.
“Monday,” Caleb snaps. “That’s all the time you get. We need to make an announcement to the fans and investors by then.”
I know that’s bullshit. They could stall for longer if they wanted to. But I let it slide because, honestly, a deadline is exactly what I need.
By Monday, I’ll know where things stand with Rosie. I’ll have to. Either she’ll be there ignoring me, signing paperwork that legally separates us, or she’ll be telling her dad to fuck off.
This gives me a timeline.
Just one day to figure out my career, my future, and, most importantly, how to win her back.