“So, this weekend. Another game?”
I blink, thrown off by the abrupt change in her tone. “Yeah. Friday night.”
She nods, tapping her finger against her arm. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
Wait, what? Does she not remember that welive togethernow? Won't we see each other way before then?
But before I can say anything, she turns and unlocks the door. Without another glance my way, she walks out, leaving me alone in the empty room with nothing but my thoughts, and a sinking feeling in my chest that somehow, I'm going to fuck this all up.
Chapter 14: Rosie
Three weeks later…
???
It’s the start of February, and my first month as a married woman has officially ended.
Most people would ask, “How’s newlywed life going?” with stars in their eyes and visions of blissful domesticity dancing in their heads.
But let me be real: my life hasn’t changed much at all. Unless you count the fact that, on alternating Friday nights, I find myself rink-side at one of the Mayhem’s home games.
There, I cheer Boone on while hanging out with my new and ridiculously kind friends, Jill and Cassie, before riding the train back to Brookhaven to escape the chaos of my double life and Boone.
In my quiet little town, I can forget for a moment that I’m Rosie Prescott, the wife of Boone Tremblay, North America’s beloved hockey player. Or that I’m the in-demand junior partner at my firm, clawing my way toward senior status in a marriage that’s nothing but a charade.
Sure, Boone technically moved into my apartment after the wedding, but with his constant travel for away games, grueling training schedule, press obligations, and endorsement deals—and my equally insane hours in court and at the office—we’ve barely crossed paths.
To say we’re ships passing in the night would not be a gross exaggeration. We’re more like two entirely different fleets, stationed in opposite oceans.
Work has been a madhouse. Winter seems to bring out the worst in our clients, who spend the cold months engaging in spectacularly bad behavior that inevitably lands them in legal trouble.
My dad used to say,“There's nothing to do in January but get drunk and break the law.”
He isn't wrong, considering this is the time of year I never saw daylight as a kid because he wouldn’t let Cain or me leave the house for fear of us finding trouble.
But now that February is here, the holiday slump has lifted, and the city is shifting into a romantic haze, prepping for Valentine’s Day, the biggest commercial holiday in the world.
Personally, I’d rather hole up in Brookhaven for a long, unromantic weekend, sipping coffee while a snowstorm buries the streets of New York. And that’s the plan, anyway, avoiding the newest storm that's blowing in and everything else that it symbolizes.
Tonight, though, has thrown me for a curveball. Boone’s team had a rare Wednesday night home game, which means they’ve got an extra-long weekend off ahead of them.
I assumed he’d still have sponsorship meetings or something that’d keep him away from my apartment. But as I punched in the code to my building Thursday evening at seven, tired from work and already thinking about the suitcase I need to pack, I realize Boone’s not busy. He’s here. In my kitchen, like a ghost materialized out of thin air.
I jump and clutch my chest. “Whoa. You scared me.”
The most I’ve seen of him lately has been from the safety of the crowd, watching him tear across the ice in his thick pads and sharp skates while the crowd cheers his name.
Seeing him here, in my space, is an entirely different thing. He’s so big it’s almost like he doesn’t fit in here. And yet… I like it.
“W-what are you doing here?” I ask, my voice catching slightly as I take in the sight of him perched on one of my island chairs.
He’s demolishing what appears to be a massive Italian sandwich, oil and sauce dripping onto the pristine marble countertop since there’s no plate underneath it. And despite the absolute mess he’s making, he looks wildly attractive.
His broad shoulders are hunched forward in a maroon, Mayhem shirt that looks like it was painted onto his skin. Two massive hands are dwarfing the footlong sub like it’s a toy. His messy brown hair looks freshly trimmed, and his eyes sparkle like he’s caught me watching him.
Which, I was. Obviously. Where else would I look when he’s sucking all the space and air out of the room?
“Wasn’t expecting you to be home already,” he says casually, wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.”
