“Bet Boone will want to be celebrating all nightinsideof you,” Cassie quips with a wink.
“I know Lochlan will,” Jill says with a sigh. “I can’t wait. He's always so horny after a good win.”
And the worst—or maybe the best part of that is it doesn’t sound bad.
It sounds really nice.
Chapter 10: Boone
I can’t stop grinning as our Uber driver navigates the short stretch of road to the restaurant that Rosie booked for our first official appearance as husband and wife.
This is the high I always ride after a good win—the kind where I played my best, left everything on the ice, and the team came out on top.
But tonight, somehow feels different, like there’s an extra edge to the satisfaction that’s buzzing under my skin. I’d like to claim I don’t know why, but that’d be a lie. It’s because Rosie was watching.
Having her there tonight, sitting in the seat I always imagined my dad would take someday when I finally made it to the pros, lit a fire in me I haven’t felt in years.
My dad never got the chance to show up before he passed away. He never made it to watch me hoist the Stanley overhead. He never saw the years of relentless work it took to still be at the topof my game at thirty-six. Sadly, he’ll never get to see any of the effort he put into training me and my brother’s to be the best.
For most of my career, that seat belonged to my mom. She juggled supporting all three of her sons’ professional careers like it was nothing. She’d crisscross Canada and the States, giving us someone in the crowd, until her health took a dive two years ago.
We’ve begged her to leave the logging farm she’s no longer managing, to come live closer to one of us where we can keep an eye on her. But her roots are planted too deep in that Canadian soil, and her stubborn country pride won’t let her leave.
Born and raised there, she says she’ll die there too. Alongside our father.
I make a mental note to schedule my next break to visit her there.
But tonight, the edge I carried with me wasn’t just about the game or the memories of who used to fill that seat or never will. It was because I felt like I was performing for someone again. And that’s something I’ve always loved to do.
Maybe it’s because I wanted to show off for Rosie—my fake wife—or maybe it’s just the thrill of knowing someone was there solely for me. Not a fan, not someone who wanted an autograph or a selfie. Someone who showed up because they wanted to.And she was wearing my last name.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself. No, that’s not it. She was there because she had to be. She wore my number and name because of optics. Because her dad and brother have concocted a professional marriage to win a case, and she’s simply a pawn in this as much as I am.
Despite knowing that, her presence was still like a magnet to me while I played. Drawing me in and keeping me warm. Stealing my focus every time I looked into the stands.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s sitting beside me, gripping the door handle nervously as the Uber whips through the streets, dodging fans who are exiting the stadium and other partiers out for the night.
She looks adorable in my sweatshirt. It’s swallowing her figure and hits right at the middle of her thighs, making it look like she has nothing else on underneath.
My brain stutters for a second as I look at the tight, slightly sheer, black nylons clinging to her legs. Is that all she’s wearing?
Nope. Don’t think about that.
I hate that she didn’t ask for a real jersey or something more meaningful to wear to my game, but damn if she doesn’t look cute for putting in the effort. I wonder where she got it from?
“Are you cold?” I ask her. The first words we’ve spoken to each other all night.
She shakes her head. “No.”
When we left the stadium, I'd draped my arm around her shoulder and shielded her from the relentless camera flashes as we ducked into the waiting car. It wasn’t snowing, thankfully, but I still wanted to protect her from the wind and people as much as I could.
And when I closed the car door behind her and ran around to the other side to hop in, I realized that all felt oddly natural. Slipping into the role of Rosie’s husband has come much easier than I expected.
She leans over to my side to whisper, her breath warm against my ear. “Shouldn’t an athlete of your… caliber have, you know, a private driver or something and not use ride shares?”
She’s trying to be discreet, probably not wanting to offend the driver, but I catch the surprise in her voice. It’s like she couldn’t quite believe it when a ride share rolled up instead of some luxury car with a private driver.
I grin and shrug. “It’s cheaper.”
