Though Boone and I have dinner later, I decide to grab a small plate of fruit and a bottle of water to hold me over. But just as I’m turning to find Jill again and head down to the tunnel, a woman steps into my path, cutting me off.
She’s tall—at least four inches taller than me even with my heeled boots on—with dark auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and a stare that could rival an Arctic chill. And she looks familiar.
“You’re Boone Tremblay’s wife?” she asks, her voice sharp as she raises a perfectly sculpted brow at me.
I don’t blink. There’s only one person who’d be this interested in confirming that fact.Anastasia.
“Yes, I’m Rosie,” I say, keeping my tone even.
She nods slowly, her gaze sweeping over me with judgment. “Anastasia,” she says, her name landing like a challenge.
I pretend it doesn’t mean anything to me, even though it absolutely does. Why is she here? What does she want? Is she looking for Boone? Is he expecting her?
“Hello,” I reply with a polite smile.
Her lips curl slightly, but it’s not a smile—it’s more like a smirk dipped in disdain. "I’m here with Penn.”
Penn. Boone’s old roommate. The self-professed playboy of the Mayhem.
Well, isn’t that just… convenient and honestly a bit fucked up that Penn would date Boone’s ex-fiancé. I keep my face neutral, refusing to give her anything.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Her blue eyes narrow as if she’s searching for a crack in my armor. “It is,” she says, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
Thankfully Jill appears at my side, her expression already tense. Anastasia’s smirk sharpens as she turns her attention to her. “Hi, Jill. So nice to see you again.”
Jill scoffs, folding her arms. “Anastasia.”
Ah. Guess these two have history, and not the friendly kind.
Anastasia’s smile deepens into something feral as she turns back to me. “Give Boone my best, will you? He’s been playing incredible lately. It’s great to watch him still at the top of his game—just like when we were together.”
And with that, she spins on her heel and walks away.
Jill rolls her eyes hard. “Ignore her. Just like Boone has for the past two years.”
I nod, pretending her little dig didn’t get to me, but it’s a lie. Insecurity outside of my career is practically my identity, and despite this whole marriage being fake, seeing Anastasia onlyhighlights one very glaring truth: I’m nothing like the type of woman Boone would actuallychooseto marry.
I was hand-selected for this role. I was convenient and willing. This has always been strategic and temporary. And yet I can’t fight the jealousy that’s raging inside my head.
Jill leads the way back down to the main level of the arena where we slip into the tunnel just outside the locker room.
“She’s so obnoxious,” she mutters into her phone as her fingers fly across the keyboard. “I’m telling Cassie what happened. The audacity of her saying that to you.” She scoffs.
At least it’s nice to feel like I have real friends who have my back in this whole fake marriage.
I lean against the wall and glance up at the TV that’s hanging overhead while trying not to think about what just happened. It’s broadcasting the team’s post-game interviews, currently featuring Boone, Lochlan, and Penn seated at a table together with hair damp from showers and smartly fitted suits.
They were the stars of the game tonight. The ones that the fans want to hear from the most in the race toward the Stanley. The interviewer is asking Lochlan about a particularly impressive save, but I barely register his words.
Instead, my thoughts spiral. I try not to let Anastasia’s words fester, but they’ve already taken root, feeding into my insecurities about my ability to attract a guy like Boone, my negative self-image, and whether I’ll ever feel this way about someone more… my level.
But no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, my attraction to Boone isn’t just an act for me. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m playing a part in a story that could never really be mine.
My cheeks flush because deep down, I know I’m a catch. But the voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like my father—keeps whispering otherwise.
Yes, he spoke of my beauty mirroring my mothers’. But he always said I’d end up with a certain type of guy, and maybe I’ve internalized that more than I realized.
