Jason scratches his cheek, his face screwed up like he’s thinking about that. “Well …” he hedges. But he’s taking way too long to answer for it not to be true.
“I wouldn’t let him be a target,” Dozer chimes in. “I mean, not any more than normal.”
“Wait. You’re usually a target?”
Jason shrugs. “Not exactly. Well, sort of. I score a lot, so if they can take me out, it’ll make it easier for the other team to win. It’s not like they’re trying to seriously injure me.”
“Oh, just slightly maim you?”
Everyone laughs—except me.
Jason pulls closer, running a hand down my arm in reassurance. “No one’s trying to maim me,” he says quietly. “But if they can bang me up enough to get me off the ice for a few minutes, that’ll help them out. Don’t worry, though. Dozer’s got my back. He said so himself.”
“What about everyone else, though?” I ask just as quietly.
“That’s why you’re having a reception,” Nick puts in. “Besides, they’d only hold back for a game or two to teach him a lesson. Not the whole season. We wouldn’t shoot ourselves in the foot like that.”
Soon, more people show up, and Jason introduces me around. It’s a whirlwind of names and faces that I don’t remember for more than a few seconds. And Jason’s hands are on me nearly all night, distracting me from being able to pay attention to the people I’m meeting—on my hip, my back, my arm, holding my hand, his arm behind me while we’re seated at a booth, and then …
Someone bangs a fork against a glass. Then a chant starts. “Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.” It’s slow at first, then gets faster until the words are all tumbling over each other, and everyone’s banging on their glasses with silverware. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!Kiss! Kiss! KissKissKissKiss.”
Grinning, Jason turns to me, and I do my best to return his smile, trying not to look as gobsmacked as I feel. He stands, holding out a hand and pulling me to my feet when I set my hand in his. Then his lips are on mine, his arms wrapped around me, bending me backward. The room around us erupts in cheers, but I’m only dimly aware of that. All my focus is on the firm pressure of Jason’s lips on mine, the hard muscles of his shoulders under my tingling hands as I cling to him for support, the way his arms cradle me against him, keeping me safe.
My heart races, and my brain flits between the sensations—the crisp scent of his deodorant, the taste of beer on his lips, the feel of his shirt against my fingertips—but mostly I’m caught on the fact thatI’m kissing Jason.
After a moment that lasts far too long and is over way too soon, he straightens and pulls back, still smiling down at me. He gives me one more quick peck, then turns to face the crowd, giving little bows and accepting their applause and congratulations.
I hitch up my smile as best I can, but I can tell I look overwhelmed by the sympathetic looks I’m getting from Marissa and Maggie. Tina reaches out and pats my hand. “They’re not always this rowdy,” she half-yells over the noise.
Her husband laughs next to her. “You’re just not around them all at once that often.”
Chuckling, I sit back down, scooting into the shelter of the corner booth. I know we kissed when we got married, and he gave me that peck when he greeted me tonight after the game, but I guess I didn’t think that hanging out with the team meanthe’d have me tucked against his side all night long or that he’d kiss me like that. Again.
And it’s … doing things to me.
It’s all for show, I remind myself eleventy thousand times.No one knows this marriage is a business agreement, a way for him to assuage his guilty conscience for not looking out for me before and for me to get the support I need to be able to make it on my own again.
That’s the deal, right?
I guess when I agreed to that, I didn’t realize we’d spend time with his teammates as a couple, though. I thought we’d go to a courthouse, say, “I do,” then go about our separate lives while sharing his apartment. At least until I get enough gigs and whatever else to be able to afford a place of my own, at which point we could quietly divorce and go our separate ways.
Except … would we really go our separate ways? If I get established here, I’ll be staying here. For some reason, I highly doubt Jason would just stop talking to me once we’re divorced.
I never really thought that far ahead before now. And I’m not sure why I’m thinking about this when I’m supposed to be meeting his teammates and their wives and girlfriends.
I deliberately push that thought aside and try my best to stay focused on the people around me—and not on Jason leaning into my side and talking quietly into my ear or the goosebumps that raises or how good his arm feels around me or the way he gently caresses my shoulder.
It’s all part of the show, I remind myself yet again, glancing at him at his latest gentle caress. He meets my eyes and smiles, but there doesn’t seem to be any intentional silent communication going on. He’s just … being himself.
I’m relieved when people start to peel off and head out—either to go home, like Tina and Nick, or to continue the partysomewhere else, like I overheard some of the other guys saying whose names I do not remember at all.
Eventually, it’s just Jason and me, Marissa and Dozer, and Maggie and Bouchard left.
Maggie gives me a sympathetic smile. “Is your head about to explode after being introduced to so many people?”
Laughing, I nod. “I don’t think I remember anyone’s names. Oh, wait. I do remember Tina. And Nick.”
“You can just call him Abernathy,” Bouchard puts in. “We all do.”
