“I’ll cover it, Luka. Taking care of my wife is my responsibility, not yours.” The moment he says the words, I snap a glance at him, his eyes finding mine. “I grew up with certain expectations of what being a man means. I’m not letting Luka cover our living expenses. I’ve got you.”
Luka nods. “Temporarily. This is a business deal. That’s it. Don’t forget Scottie. Otherwise, I don’t care what team you play for… You won’t walk off the ice without crutches.”
“I got it,” Scottie says.
“I have a meeting with Coach Haynes. You two okay to figure it out from here for now?”
“Yes,” I say.
Scottie nods. “I’ll have to go down to my apartment and get some stuff, but we’ll make it work.”
“Good. I’ll see you later, Kat,” Luka says to me. He kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too. Thank you.”
And then Luka’s gone.
Scottie and I stand there for a moment.
“Which room do you want? Right or left?” He asks.
“I’ll take the left if that’s okay?” I ask.
He nods and then turns as if he’s going to head to his apartment.
“Scottie…?” I say.
“Yeah?” he turns back to look over his shoulder.
“Thank you for doing this, but you’re not just doing this for me, are you?”
“My situation is exactly the same as yours,” he deadpans, shrugging like this is all perfectly logical.
I lift an eyebrow. “Oh? You also have a mob father trying to marry you off?”
“No,” he says, straight-faced. “Mine is worse. My mom is trying to guilt-trip me into marrying a kindergarten teacher who dumped me when we were twelve. Evidently, she makes killer sourdough bread, and I’m pretty sure my mother’s entire goal is to get the family recipe. I need you as a cover for a wedding in Montana next week so she’ll finally get off my back.”
“Ah, yes,” I say solemnly, “the infamous sourdough-recipe ploy. You’re right. Our situations areindisputablysimilar.”
He nods. “Oldest trick in the book. My mother is playing dirty.”
“I see,” I say. “An arranged marriage really is your only way out, then.”
His mouth curves into that smirk—the one I’m beginning to recognize as trouble in disguise. “Just for the record, if Luka had been honest with me from the start, I would’ve said yes. To help you, I mean. He didn’t have to trick me into a bet.”
“He tricked you into a bet?” I ask. This is a part of the story my brother left out.
“Oh yeah. Hook, line, sinker,” he says, pointing at himself. “He sandbagged me in a game of pool after I’d had a few beers. I was riding high from our win, feeling cocky, and he played me like a damn fiddle.”
I blink.
That… sounds exactly like Luka.
My father used to make him stand on a stool to reach the pool table, playing for hours under harsh overhead lights. “Play until you beat me.” If Luka didn’t, he wasn’t allowed to join the other children outside. My father believed it would sharpen him—turn him into a strategist, a fierce negotiator.
It did.
Just not in the way my father expected. He built a son who wasn’t afraid of his father. A son who knew his father’s weak spots, his blind corners.
