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“That’s your wife?” Mathews asks, gawping at the woman sidling up to the ice with Bianca, the Social Media Manager, in tow.

My lips quirk, until I remember, she’s my wife for three months, max, while it’s convenient, and though she is insanely attractive, she’s also an enormous pain in the ass.

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Mathews, or you’ll be riding my stick,” I tell him.

“All of you keep your thoughts to yourself,” Coach Garrison says, bringing his own stick across the back of his shoulders, which we’ve come to learn is his way of getting us to round up in the center circle.

“Harris,” he says to me quietly. “I want to speak with you one-on-one. Don’t go anywhere after the session.”

“Yes, Coach,” I say, nodding. One guess as to what he wants to discuss. All the players and staff have a no fraternization clause in our contracts and the club has let mine slide on the basis Sienna’s employment is temporary. But Coach will want to lay down the law for me, I’m sure.

He’s had his panties in a twist with me since I nearly lost us our place in the playoffs last season by losing my cool and spending too many minutes in the penalty box. What can I say? Sometimes testosterone gets the better of me.

Up until today, I’ve found the no fraternization clause frustrating and unnecessary. Some of our air stewardesses, in particular, have given me the nod after a game and I’ve wanted to share the mile high club with them. Our last Social Media Manager was also pretty good-looking and, in fact, is no longer in that role because of the no fraternization clause – not me; on that occasion, Gronkowski was the guilty party.

Right now, though, I feel like I’m back in high school, trying to focus on class when my mind is elsewhere. In high school, most often my mind was on wanting to get to the rink. Now, I can’t help watching Sienna go about her business, setting up a carpet and interview scene on the ice, where I’m sure we’ll be forced to make social media reels to be rolled out during season, when we’re hard to pin down during road trips. It’s standard protocol, but having Sienna here is not. And she is a distraction.

We run drills before lunch and Coach does give me the short monologue I expect about the club having faith in me and supporting a healthy relationship with Sienna, given this is a short-term arrangement, and provided it doesn’t interfere with my job or hers, especially on the road.

She’ll be coming on the road with the team, like Mitch used to.

I don’t know why that’s just dawning on me but those fantasies I’ve been having of coming home to her getting herself off on my sofa or with the shower head in my bathtub are unlikely to happen.

But also… she’s coming on the road with me.

My… wife. How in hell are we going to manage that without giving the truth away?

“She won’t be sharing your room on the road, before you get any ideas,” Coach said. “You’ll still be rooming with your brother.”

Damn, no one-bed-in-the-room issues. Happily, though, no badgering about my mess when I’m on the road either. Small mercies.

Why am I married again?

14

SEPTEMBER

Sienna

Awkward

This is so much more awkward than I thought it was going to be.

I was completely distracted on the ice, setting up for socials content. Not only did I not know what I was doing but while I was faking knowing how to do Mitch’s job, I was also forcing myself not to gawp at my fake husband. Or real fake. Jax is my equivalent of a Prada purse bought from Canal Street – an illegal counterfeit husband.

I noticed Coach Garrison watching us more than once and I have a feeling that when he took Jax to one side, it was to give him a warning about our relationship.

We’ve assured everyone that this is a legitimate, loving, calm and stable marriage, which we can manage professionally for three months. So long as Jax can stick to my rules, it genuinely shouldn’t be problematic. I’ve thought of everything – no fooling around together or with others, and there’s no danger of either of us catching feelings.

He can’t stand me and at this juncture of my life, the very last thing I need is a man who can’t take anything seriously. The man drives me mad – the mess, the childish jokes, the constant prankster mode, the downright hotness of him in that hockey sweater.

And when I thought this couldn’t get more awkward than setting up for socials on the same rink as him – albeit at opposite ends of the ice – now, I’m heading into the lunchroom for the buffet I could have avoided, if he hadn’t stolen my lunch!

I have no idea what to do when I walk into what is the equivalent of a high school canteen, where I’m the new girl in town, who has no idea how things work. I sense eyes on me – in part because I’m the new girl and in part, I’m certain, because I married the loudest jock in class.

There’s a short line of training staff loading their plates at the buffet cart and seeing as the whole room feels intimidatingly large in this moment, I choose to focus on the activity of getting lunch.

“Hi,” I say, meekly, to one of the medics as I join the line next to him.