And neither of us can afford to fall, because in two days, we’re going to break up—disastrously, publicly, heartbreakingly.
And if we don’t? It’s not the first time the thought has crossed my mind.
I pull out my phone, swiping into the photos app, and find the screenshot I took of the contract clause.
Both parties agree to maintain the appearance of a genuine romantic relationship through all wedding events. Upon completion of the Wedding (Event #4), both parties will execute a staged public breakup at the Wedding Reception (Event #5), with Party B (Chloe Dawson) initiating the breakup and Party A (Brody Kane) positioned as “at fault,” followed by a mandatory thirty-day no-contact period. Any premature breakup, exposure of the contractual nature of the relationship, or other deviation from this termination plan will result in forfeiture of all benefits: Party A loses NHL contract renewal, and Party B forfeits all payment and owes financial penalties.
If we don’t break up, I lose all the money, and he loses…everything.
I turn off the light and head to bed.
Two more days.
We can do this.
thirteen
brody
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I lie on the sofa, my feet dangling off the end, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling beams while the fire crackles and pops and slowly burns down to embers. Whoever picked out the furniture for the honeymoon suite obviously didn’t anticipate anybody sleeping on the sofa, because it’s about as comfortable as rocks, but I’ve slept on worse. Airport floors. Team buses with broken suspension. That hotel in Calgary where the heater died and we all huddled in our winter coats until maintenance showed up at three a.m.
This isn’t about the couch.
This is about the fact that Chloe is just on the other side of that door, sleeping in a bed covered in rose petals, completely unaware that I’m lying here having what Conrad would probably call an “emotional crisis.”
The dragon with the sad heart.
That’s what she called it. The grumpy dragon who keeps everyone out because he’s too scared to let anyone see the real him.
She sees me.
And for some reason, that doesn’t terrify me like it did.
In fact, I ache for it.
At some point, I give up on sleep. The fire has died down to glowing coals, casting barely any light. I sit up slowly, quietly, muscles protesting the hours of contorting my body to fit onto the small couch. But when I stretch, I can still feel the phantom warmth of her head against my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her, pulling her in.
I want to spend every night like that for the rest of my life.
The thought hits me like a body check I didn’t see coming.
Who are you kidding, Brody? The contract ends tomorrow, after the wedding reception.
After which, Chloe has to dump you…or you lose out on the money.
My chest tightens.
I need coffee. And air.
I grab my phone—6:17 a.m.—and slip out of the room as quietly as possible, pulling on my hoodie and shoes in the hallway. The resort is silent at this hour, just the hum of heating systems and the distant clatter of someone setting up breakfast in the restaurant downstairs.
The lobby is empty except for a young guy behind the front desk, who looks like he’s been up all night, scrolling through his phone with the glazed expression of someone counting down the minutes until shift change. The massive fireplace is cold now, just ash and the smell of yesterday’s wood smoke.
I follow the signs to the coffee bar—a small counter near the restaurant entrance with an espresso machine that looks like it probably takes an engineering degree to use. But there’s also a regular coffeepot, thank you, and I pour myself a large cup. Black. Hot enough to burn.
