I adjust the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder and walk across the polished concrete toward the waiting jet, every step measured, controlled, automatic.
Like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t wake up married.
Like I didn’t marry Viktor Petrov’s daughter.
My jaw tightens.
Don’t think about it.
I’ve spent the entire car ride from the Wynn to the airport forcing my brain into operational mode. Damage control. Containment. Solutions.
That’s how I’ve survived my entire career.
You don’t panic.
You assess.
You execute.
You move forward.
The guys are already boarding when I step onto the stairs, their voices carrying through the open cabin door.
Laughter.
Mock outrage.
Rhys’s unmistakable voice saying, “I told you, I wasn’t drunk.”
“You cried, man,” Connor says. “You literally cried.”
“I did not cry.”
“You literally cried,” Connor repeats, delighted with himself.
“You FaceTimed her,” Declan adds helpfully. “From the bathroom. For forty minutes.”
“I wanted to tell her good night. I was being respectful.”
I step inside the cabin.
Connor Hayes is sprawled across one of the cream leather seats, his long legs stretched out, blond hair a complete disaster.
Rookie forward. Twenty-two.
Fast as hell on the ice and completely incapable of shutting up off it.
“You were being pathetic,” Connor corrects Rhys cheerfully. “You kept saying, ‘I miss you.’”
Declan Hawthorne sits across from him, tattoos crawling up both arms, dark hair falling into his eyes as he scrolls lazily through his phone.
Declan plays left wing like he was born for violence. Calm. Precise. Dangerous.
Next to him sits Marcus Chandler, leaning back in his seat like he owns the plane. He’s in his early thirties, calm under pressure, and somehow always dressed like he’s about to walk into a magazine shoot. Even now he’s in dark jeans and a fitted jacket, looking far too put together for a Vegas hangover flight.
He’s nursing a coffee and watching the argument with the amused patience of someone who’s seen this exact nonsense a hundred times before.
