Right now, I have something more important to worry about.
Francesca was right about one thing—I do have the means to deal with this.
But I don’t want that to be an annulment.
The reception desk clerk at her hotel is unmoved by my need to find my wife.
It doesn’t help that I don’t know my spouse’s last name.
She stole the wedding license that proves we’re married, I want to snap.
Instead, I opt not to make a scene, and hightail it to the marriage license office instead.Is it possible to get a copy of the paperwork from last night?
Yes, yes it is.
And once I have it in my hand, I understand why my new bride dipped.
There, on the legally binding wedding license we used to get married, our names are spelled out.
Logan James Granger and Francesca Susan Wilson.
She said she wasn’t Italian, she said there was a story, but we set it aside because it didn’t matter. Because books and dancing and sharing a bottle of champagne were more important than minor fucking details like last names, even if those last names are actually important, because mine is a pretty big red flag that I’m a hockey player, and her entire name is shared, in essence, with my coach..
Frankie Wilson.
No. No, no, no.
Coach Wilson doesn’t have a gorgeous-as-fuck daughter who’s almost a doctor, does he?
Could he?
My asshole coach never talks about his family. I can’t stand the guy, so I’ve never paid attention to his personal life.
I search for her online, but come up empty.
I look him up next. It says he’s married and has one child, but there are no details about who that child is.
Which tracks if thechildis a private adult who has been estranged from her father for a decade.
I don’t hold you to anything you said last night. And soon enough, you’re going to understand exactly why we cannot do this.
And she made some assumptions about me, and how I’d react, based on her understanding of hockey players, and her father. That’s why she was so panicked this morning, why she needed to leave before I woke up. At some point between lastnight and this morning, she figured out who I am, and that sent her into a tailspin.
Her words from last night come flooding back. The story about falling for a twenty-year-old her dad saw as a son when she was sixteen. How her father blamed her when the relationship ended, blamed her for ruining the guy’s career.
It could only be Mikhail Ivanovich, the Russian prospect who flamed out spectacularly after one season with the Boston organization, back when Wilson was an assistant coach there.
I remember the rumors. He was in the draft class right before me. Ivanovich had so much promise, was supposed to be the next big thing. And then he just...wasn’t.
And Wilson blamed Francesca. His own daughter. Hisyoung, teenage daughter.
I call her hotel this time, asking for Francesca Wilson’s room.
“I’m sorry, sir, that guest has checked out.”
Fuck me.
She’s gone.
