Every fucking option I came up with only created more issues. Then Viktor texted me a few days ago, asking if I would be bringing Veronica to the wedding or coming alone. That’s when I remembered Henneman was cat-sitting for him.
He’s a strategic choice. Keeps to himself. No friends worth mentioning, never bringing anyone around, never making a scene—just another scholarship student who doesn’t make waves.
And that makes him easy to handle. Easy to control.
I look at my teammate, who shifts again, resting his head against the window, the light hitting at an angle that makes the small white scar across his forehead more visible. Even unconscious, he takes up too much space, like his body doesn't know how to be small. Ironic since he’s always trying to shrink in on himself.
Am I really about to marry a man?
What happened in Miami was a blip. Raiyne was a mistake, nothing more. Just a mouth that could’ve been anyone’s. And marrying a man will stop my parents from trying to force Veronica on me.
Henneman is the perfect choice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How’d my life go from graduating this year and going to the NHL to tying the fucking knot?
The ferry lurches slightly as we hit rougher water, and Henneman's eyes flutter open. His amber irises are unfocused, his pupils still slightly dilated.
“Where . . .” His voice comes out cracked, barely audible over the engine noise.
I straighten in my seat. “Connecticut.”
He struggles to sit up, his movements slow, but he’s no longer comatose. The drug is wearing off.
Good.
I need him to be coherent enough to say “I do” without drooling on himself.
“You drugged me.”
I shrug. “You'll be fine in twenty minutes or so.”
His gaze drifts to the water visible through the windshield, then back to me. “This is kidnapping.”
“This is problem-solving.” I grab my phone from the console and send a quick text to the Justice of the Peace, confirming there haven’t been any changes to our appointment. “Don’t act like you had anything better to do today.”
His fists curl on his thighs, knuckles blanched. The faded scars covering them become more pronounced, while the tendons in his forearms stand out like steel cables. He could probably crush my windpipe without trying. “I’m not marrying you.”
“Yes, you are.”
The ferry’s horn bellows and we start to dock. I punch Stonington Town Hall into my GPS and shift the Maserati Grecale into gear. Once the ramp comes down, I drive off the ferry and onto the road.
My teammate stares out of the window as he stretches his arms and flexes his fingers, most likely trying to fightoff the lingering effects of the drugs. His breathing evens out, but his shoulders are still tense. He huffs, shaking his head, still turned away from me. “This is fucked up.”
“It’s necessary.”
He whips around, jaw clenched. “For you. Not for me.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have a choice. I told you what would happen if you refused.”
His lips press into a thin line as he holds my gaze, chin up. “What am I expected . . . to do . . . once we’re married?”
“In public, you smile, and I’ll pretend you actually matter. We’ll hold hands, kiss when people are watching, place a hand on the small of your back. You know, show affection and shit. In private, you're nothing to me.”
He flinches, fingers digging into his thighs.
Good.
If the idea of physical contact with a guy disgusts him, then at least that means he won't read anything into this arrangement. Not like I’m looking forward to it either. But some contact will be necessary.
