Page 71 of Slapshot Bride

Lying here in his bed with his scent still clinging to the pillow beside me, all I feel is safe.

For a moment, I just stay there, mentally calibrating my day.

Since he got the camera for me, I’ve been busy.

Booked and busy. The words cross my mind, and I laugh, seeing the vision.

Two months ago, if anyone had told me I’d own a camera again, and be on the road to living my dream life, I’d have cursed them out for trying to mock the picture-perfect life Preston and I have built. But right now, I can’t even bring myself to think of the living conditions I had to endure back then.

Waking at the crack of dawn. Getting dolled up and pretty just to stay home all day, wander in his estate, with maids and housekeepers waiting on me. It seems like a picture-perfect life, packaged with emotional abuse, hidden from the public eye.

Now… Now I can be Riley Brooks, the woman who rediscovered her passion in photography and is on her way to building a career.

And the agenda for today; edit some of my recent pictures, with Easton as my muse, and share my first posts on my newly created social media pages, that are on their way to becoming my business accounts.

And that’s all of the motivation I need to roll out of bed.

My feet carry me toward the bathroom.

I have been using the guest bathroom this whole time, but today, I don’t have the willpower to walk down the hall, not when the master bathroom is right there, ten steps from the bed, and Easton is at a meeting until at least three. Not practice. Pre-season prep.

He mentioned over coffee yesterday that pre-season is starting up, the first game is six weeks out, and the meetings are about to start eating his mornings. He said it apologetically, like he was warning me of his busy schedule.

I step through the door. His bathroom is bigger than mine. The shower is slate-tiled with two heads. The counter is mostly empty, a leather tray with his watch, a bottle of cologne, a cedarwood body wash, and a sandalwood shampoo.

I pull off the t-shirt, turn the water on, and step in.

The water is hot, and the shower is the size of a room. I stand under both heads at once. I reach for his shampoo. I lather it through my hair with my eyes closed against the spray, and somewhere in the middle of it, without deciding to, I start singing.

I’m not a singer, and maybe that’s stopped me before.

But not today.

Sit Still, Look Pretty by Daya sails from my lips as I nod along to the makeshift beat, adding a little shoulder movement while I rinse the shampoo from my hair.

Wow.

Either the acoustics in this shower are incredible, or I’ve seriously underestimated my talents all these years.

By the time I rinse the conditioner from my hair, I’m fully committed to the performance.

There’s shoulder movement, a little hip action, and at one point, I point dramatically at an imaginary audience that is, quite frankly, lucky to have me.

When I finally shut off the water, I grab one of Easton’s enormous towels and wrap it around myself, but the concert is far from over.

My eyes land on a hairbrush on the counter, and naturally, it becomes a microphone.

I’ve moved on to Aretha Franklin now, belting out “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” like I’m her long-lost successor while closing my eyes and really feeling the music.

I throw one arm dramatically into the air, add a hip pop that would probably embarrass me under any other circumstances, and finish with what I consider a very respectable hair flip.

Then I open my eyes.

Easton is standing in the doorway with his mouth slightly open, staring at me.

Every muscle in my body locks in place, leaving me frozen with one arm still raised above my head and the hairbrush hovering in front of my mouth.

For several excruciating seconds, neither of us says anything.