Page 94 of Holding Penalty

Adriano looks genuinely conflicted, mouth agape like he desperately wants to make another negative comment about Ines, but also like he’s spotted something on the tray that made his mouth water, and he doesn’t want to give it up.

For all Adriano’s grandstanding about how he can’t stand Ines, when she bites into her cupcake and lets out a moan of appreciation, I don’t miss the way Adriano’s jaw muscles flex, his eyes bulge, and how he has to discreetly adjust his pants.

“Hey!” Hayden exclaims at Nash as he gathers up as many pastries from my tray as can fit in his massive hands. “You’re hogging!”

“My wife’s pastries. I get dibs,” he says. Somehow his territorial greed for my baking sends a buzz of satisfaction up my back.

Their coach appears and tells them it’s time to head to the media room. Nash slings his arm around my shoulder and walks me over with him. He explains that they’re doing a mid-week press conference just because there’s so much demand from the Austin media to get as much coverage on the team as possible in response to their unprecedented success.

I walk into the media room with them and take an empty seat at the edge of where the crowd of media are gathered. The team steps onto a small, raised stage with a chair for each of them. It’s a more informal environment than the post-game media sessions I’ve seen.

During the first several questions, Nash is still munching away on some of the baked goods he gathered in the catering room. After Vaughn finishes tersely answering a question about his save rate this year, a reporter turns her attention to Nash.

“Nash Miller, should Austin Alligators fans be worried that your clear disregard for your nutrition plan is a sign of overconfidence?” It’s asked in jest, and chuckles break out around the room.

“Anyone who’s ever tasted my beautiful wife’s amazing baking wouldn’t be able to blame me,” Nash says, giving me a fluttery feeling in my belly. That feeling magnifies when he slides his gaze over to me and says, “Piper, come on up.”

I balk, feeling a wave of bashfulness hit me. But Nash just grins and stands up from his chair. Every pair of eyes—and camera—in the room is on me as he walks to the edge of the stage and holds out his hand toward me.

“Get up here,” he says, prideful tone ringing in his voice.

Something about the amused and eager gleam in his eye has me lifting my hand to slide into his. Despite my reluctance to have so much attention trained on me when I’ll be utterly out of place on a stage with NHL athletes in front of local media.

I’m not sure where I’m going to sit when Nash helps me onto the stage, but he quickly solves that problem when he drops back into his seat and pulls me firmly onto his lap.

A fuzzy warmth twists through me when he grabs my knee and swings my legs so that my feet are dangling off the shelf of his muscular thighs.

“If I’ve been playing the best hockey of my career for the last couple months,” Nash says, addressing the reporters, “this girl’s responsible for it. So, I feel in the mood to show her off a little bit.”

I’m blushing so much that my face feels like an oven. It’s rare enough that Nash is cool and composed while I’m flustered, and the wry grin that sits on his face when we make eye contact tells me he enjoys the switch-up.

Eventually, the reporters shift their attention to the defensive players, asking them what they attribute their incredible performances this season to. I make a move to get up and take my seat back in the crowd, but Nash tightens his grip around me.

“Nope,” he whispers in my ear, raising goosebumps on my skin from the warm sweep of his breath. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Isn’t this a little unprofessional?” I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper, too. “Having me up here like this?”

“Professional is the last thing I want to be,” he says, smirking, “with my wife.”

44

NASH

There’s laughter and splashing water from behind the house when I step out of my truck.

My heart is light and bouncy in my chest as I round the side of the house, hearing the bright, tinkling sound of Piper’s laugh on this warm, clear afternoon. A sort of flopping noise joins with the playful sounds, and curiosity stirs inside me.

My mouth pops open with a quiet laugh when I get to the backyard and see what’s happening.

Cheesecake is flipping and flopping around the little inflatable pool, having more fun than I’ve ever seen her, playing around like she’s a puppy as Piper blasts her with water from the hose.

It’s a ridiculous scene. No one’s supposed to have a sort-of-pet capybara and a fake wife. But I have both, and seeing the two of them together like this gives me the most unfamiliar feeling in my heart.

It feels … settled. Even … permanent.

Which I know is crazy, because what Piper and I have is anything but that.

But instead of walking inside, away from Piper, and reminding myself of that fact, I let the smile spread across my face. I let the feeling of rightness and belonging bloom in my chest—as deceptive as it is—and I sneak up behind Piper.