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 onthe 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 forthree more years?”
