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There’s a beat, where it feels as if everyone in the room is watching the two of us. “Make sure you’re both on the same page. Communicate. Establish the rules you both agree to play by.”

I come to stand to full height. “And if one of you is or might be seeing other people, have enough respect for each other to discuss it.”

I hope my husband can be monogamous – or simply celibate – for three months. This situation is messy enough already.

It’s barely there but I’m certain Jax nods and I do, too. We have a pact. A Game Plan.

“Okay, I’ll leave you with Bianca. Any questions or if you want to use me as a sounding board, my very cliché door is always open.”

* * *

I spend a lot of the day looking through Mitch’s files, not wanting to bother him with what would be a much quicker verbal explanation of the tasks he does in his everyday job. I also spend a lot of the day being glared at through my glass office wall by Carter, who clearly has it in for me. I want to scream at him, It’s only for three months, relax, dude. I guess that would be unprofessional and so I don’t. The rest of the team seems great, at least.

I end up working much later than the rest of the team, which is nothing out of the ordinary, but it does mean that I’m running late for my hot HIIT class by the time I leave the arena. When I get home – temporary home, also known as temporary husband’s condo – Jax is lying on his bed, star-fished and asleep and wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. The door is wide open and he’s snoring the way I can only imagine a mammoth would have snored in the Ice Age. Who sleeps at seven forty-five in the evening?

I quickly pull off my work clothes and change into exercise wear, then head out to my class. Realizing as I see the leftover packaging of another of Jax’s ordered-in meals scattered around the lounge that it’s been hours since I ate and I’m hungry.

I guess I’ll grab a protein bar before my class, if I have ten seconds to spare, which is highly unlikely.

I end up jogging into class, which is twenty minutes away, and being five minutes late. So I never do get a bar but I do have a sachet of electrolytes in my water bottle to keep me going.

While I’m pumping hard and sweating my ass off, I start to think about my plans for the future. Can I build a new business from scratch? And what’s the endgame? Run it from Canada? Can this even work?

At what point am I going to let my parents in on the destruction of my life over the last few weeks? At what point am I going to answer the phone to Carl?

I’m envious of people who can focus on one thing at a time. Truly jealous of those who are able to exercise and think of nothing but the kettlebell in their grip.

16

SEPTEMBER

Jax

Preseason on the Road

For four days I’ve trained at the rink, napped in that indulgent way that’s legitimate during a hockey season – physical exhaustion and mental reparation – listened to my teammates say things like, “Are you sure Sienna even likes you?” And “You two are either gonna kill each other or fuck each other’s brains out.”

And I’ve spent every minute I’m not in training or napping or playing online games with the guys late into the evening, wondering how in God’s name Sienna functions without burning out. The woman never stops. If she’s not working, she’s thinking about work, which I know because she’ll mumble things to herself in the kitchen about the job. It’s as neurotic as it is adorable, for someone who might make like Medusa and cackle as she turned me to stone any moment.

If my little Medusa isn’t working, she’s exercising, or sitting on her laptop in the lounge or in her bedroom doing something that I think is strategizing her plans for when our marriage comes to an end.

It’s exhausting to witness.

Which further legitimizes my need for naps. One of multiple things Sienna criticizes me for; I’d say top three, actually, alongside not immediately cleaning my food wrappers from the lounge when I’m through eating – what difference does a half hour make? – leaving the toilet seat up in the main bathroom (she has her own en suite), and refusing to accept money from her for utilities. She’s transferred money to me three times now through my phone. As soon as I got the notification that she’d done it, I sent it right back. I’m even starting to enjoy the moody scowl I receive in return. It looks good on those pink lips.

I’ve finished my morning skate and my lifting session, I’ve been in with the medical team and the club psychologist and it’s only 2 p.m. as I stand in the players’ lounge sipping a mandated chocolate protein shake.

Another nap is sounding good right now. Although the guys are talking about fitting in a round of golf this afternoon. Maybe I’ll do that; the sun is shining after all and Greenhills is a pretty neat course. Not to mention that I need to find reasons to legitimately not be home, since Mom is flying into JFK later today from her annual SoCal trip to visit her best friend and ex-teammate. Yep, my mom, Abby Harris, was on the college cheer squad when she met Dad. The cheerleader and the star of the football team. I’m the product of cliché and I’ll be forever grateful that they named me Jax, rather than Jacksonville, where I was conceived.

Actually, my mom’s cruelty makes me briefly feel better about fobbing her off with messages saying I can’t wait to tell her all about Sienna when she’s home from the west coast. I’ve been married more than two weeks; if I don’t give her an explanation soon, she’ll blow a gasket. And I’ve seen Mom blow a gasket; it’s not pretty!

“Jax,” Coach Garrison calls. “Can I have a word with you and Sienna?”

I gulp down my final mouthful of shake. Does he know?

“Sure thing, Coach.”

I follow him to his office, where Sienna is already sitting opposite the desk – if there was a word for extremely, relentlessly punctual people, it would apply to my wife. I guess punctual-punctual will do.