I glance around the section, hoping to spot another free seat that I could quietly slip into, but the place is packed. No luck there. If I try to sit somewhere else, I’ll probably end up pissing off whoever shows up later with their actual ticket.More conflict.
So, I stand there awkwardly, clutching my ticket, debating whether I should just text Boone to let him know something came up and I’ll meet him after his game at the restaurant.
But then I straighten, reminding myself that this is just another job.Treat it like work, and you won’t be so awkward.Pretend that I’m making my case in front of a judge because the evidence is compelling. My ticket clearly says seat 16 on it.
I start to move, rehearsing what I might say to the woman in my seat if she tries to fight me on this—someone who has no idea who I am or my connection to Boone. But before I even reach her, a blur of maroon and white streaks across the ice. A massive figure thick with pads skates up to the glass and bangs his hockey stick against the plastic.
And holy.Shit. It’s Boone.
Dark hair plastered to his smiling face, broad shoulders that—yes, I know are mostly padding—but still. The guy is big in real life andhugeon the ice. It’s only been three days since I last saw him, but after studying a thousand photos online, I somehow forgot just how intimidatingly good he looks in person.
Won't make that mistake twice.
He lifts the gate on his helmet, shaking his head and motioning with his stick toward the woman who’s in my seat. He bangs on the plastic again until the woman in my seat looks up.
“Get up, Jill! I have a guest today,” he shouts over the noise.
The woman blinks in confusion, her brows knitting together before realization dawns. Slowly—almost comically—she turns to look at me behind her.
And here I am, awkward in social situations that don’t involve me suing someone, Rosie, standing a few feet away, completely caught off guard by this entire interaction.
“Oh… Oh!” Her eyes widen as they land on the front of my sweatshirt, Boone’s name and number proudly displayed like he’s somehow got a claim on me. “I’m so sorry! Hi!”
Boone, still watching, doesn’t seem fazed by my outfit. He winks, a small, teasing motion that sends an unexpected jolt of heat through me, then waves with his stick and skates off to the center of the rink. Clearly, he’s in his element out here.
This is his stage. The ice is where he performs, and tonight, I’ll perform my role too. We can both fake it until this ridiculous arrangement is over.
Three months then I’m free.
Free to go back to my new lake house in Brookhaven, Connecticut. It’s an adorable small-town with family homes that surround a lake, and four seasons that you actually get to enjoy. And it’s where I decided to purchase my weekend getaway home since my brother and his family live there too.
Maybe, if dinner doesn’t run too late, I’ll get to peek in on my niece Piper as she sleeps. After that, I’ll crash into the new bed Cain had installed in my primary bedroom there. That all sounds like heaven right now.
This week has been stressful, with the unexpected twist I didn’t have on my bingo card of an impromptu marriage thrown in, I could go for waking up to the sweet sounds of the lake outside my bedroom window.
Maybe we'll even get some snow.
Jill scoots into the seat beside mine, freeing up my spot.
“Hi there! I’m Jill Franklin. I’m so sorry—I was catching up with Cassie.”
Cassie gives me a polite wave, and I smile awkwardly at them both.
“Boone’s family doesn’t come to games, and he never brings a guest. I had no idea this was your seat, or that you were waiting for me to move. I feel so rude.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I take my seat and adjust my bag with my tablet in it until it’s resting on the floor in front of me between my feet.
Jill gestures to the other woman sitting next to me and I quickly realize that “peaceful” isn’t going to describe this evening. They are both beautiful women, and seem nice, but I’m sitting smack in the center of whatever exciting conversation they were having and feel like a total outsider.
“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Rosie,” I say, keeping it brief.
I don’t elaborate. Despite the glaring evidence of my gaudy engagement ring and the silver wedding band I picked out this week, I decide to let the news speak for itself shortly, which I’m sure it will after we’re photographed together having dinner after the game—or I'll just let them ask.
There’s no harm in people knowing that we got married, it's about to come out, but hockey wives and girlfriends seem tohave an unspoken code about gossiping to the press so I doubt it’ll get out before our guys can leak it.
The chair is slightly more spacious than the standard ones in the stadium, a small perk of front-row, reserved seating. But it’s still tight, and I quickly realize that if I try to get any work done, Jill and Cassie will practically be reading over my shoulder.
Andprobably wonder why I'm not more focused on myhusbandplaying his game.
