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Marta mops up the dog’s mess, then anchors him up under her arm and fusses the little chap around the ears. “I’ll take this little one out to the yard. Is now a good time for meatloaf?”

We all chuckle. “I’m going to need a full stomach to listen to all the crap advice you guys are going to give me about what the hell I’m supposed to do next,” I say.

Mom crosses the room to me and holds my face in her palms, rattling my head a little too vigorously, as if she’s trying to shake sense into me. “That’s easy, honey. You’re going to tell your wife the truth about how you feel because the woman I saw at the charity gala last week was not fake in love with you, sweetheart. She was 100 percent smitten with my boy.”

TJ clears his throat and holds up a hand like he’s a kid in kindergarten. “Ah, since we’re having a family confessional, there’s something I’d like to confess.” He looks to Sas, whose eyes bulge as she shakes her head. “The minion wedding ceremony video? That was me. I leaked it. There was no girl involved.”

“The fuck, TJ?” I yell.

“It was mostly Sas’s idea.”

Sas gasps. “It was not! I said it might force them to stay married but I also said it was a terrible idea.”

“Why the hell would either of you think that was a good idea?” I snap.

TJ shrugs. “Because you love her. Because in Las Vegas you told me how much you love her and I thought you needed a helping hand. I was being a good brother.” He turns to Mom for support.

“I do love her but I am still going to fucking kill you, Teej.” He darts through the house and I chase him down. When I get my hands on the kid, I’m going to murder him. While deep down thinking, he did me a solid.

He bought me the gift of time. Time to get to know my wife and that what she needs isn’t a work partner or someone who encourages her to work more; she needs a support, a release, someone to remind her how beautiful life can be away from it all.

Time to date her and give her all the romance she deserves.

Time to have the wedding ring that she wants and deserves made to fit her.

Time to figure out how to ask her to stay married to me, for real.

39

OCTOBER

Sienna

Imperfectly Perfect

My hands are trembling around the manila envelope holding divorce papers as I step into the arena. I flew back from Canada last night, stayed with Lauren and Mitch, who asked me over and over if my plan was a good one. “I’m so tired, would you mind if I go to bed?” I’d asked and lay in their spare room, listening to songs that reminded me of Jax and, honestly, made me broody and yearning in that teenage angst sort of way.

So I got up with the birds and saw an attorney this morning.

I’d say my walking into the arena now is well timed because the coaching staff are just leaving the ice after morning skate. Actually, my timing was dictated by me waiting for the lawyer to hand over the divorce papers for Jax to sign, and the traffic coming back onto the island from Manhattan.

Most of the Dragons are still messing around on the ice, passing and shooting pucks, bantering with each other. Though as soon as the first person notices my arrival by the boards, there are elbows, nudges and whispers, then the whole arena descends into a disgustingly uncomfortable silence.

Only now am I determining that I could’ve approached this differently. Waited until Jax and I were both home tonight. But I don’t know if his home is still mine, or what my next move is because as much as I have always wanted to be independent, the next step I make in life is entirely dependent on what happens in the next few minutes.

Jax hits a wrist shot into the empty net, then Tray tips him off as to why the space suddenly sounds like a morgue. I guess I am holding the death of our relationship in my hands, the fake bit, at least.

With a deep breath, I roll my shoulders back and step onto the ice. Instantly, it dawns on me that I’m not wearing skates but stiletto heels and a pencil skirt.

Jax calls out, “Sienna, no!” Pulling off his helmet and charging toward me.

But it’s too late.

My thin heel slips beneath me. My legs are running slapstick style, skirt making the distinctive sound of ripping, and the Manila envelope flies through the air, contents spilling onto the ice, as I come to land flat on my butt.

Jax skates to me full steam. As I try to get up, he slams on his brakes, doing a full-blown hockey stop and showering me in tiny fragments of ice. I come to sit with my legs spread, skirt ripped, pride annihilated and hair sopping wet. I run a hand over my face and doubtless smear mascara down my cheeks.

“Well, this didn’t exactly go as planned,” I say.