Ryan: You are so annoying.
Ryan: I’m on my way. Happy now?
Me: Thrilled.
Me: Now stop texting and driving.
Ryan: Yes, husband. *eye roll emoji*
I laugh, tossing my phone into the passenger seat.
I lean back, resting my head against the headrest, and close my eyes since apparently Ryan is going to be a while still.
For someone who travels a lot for work, you would think I’d have it down pat, but it always seems to take a lot out of me. Add in having to talk with my mom—that’s an hour’s worth of ass chewing—an early-morning shift at the summer hockey camp the Comets run down at the rink, and then a meeting with my general manager and coach, which was a whole other level of exhausting, and I’m fucking beat.
That’s not even including the debacle from this weekend and my lack of sleep from dealing with everything.
I really hope getting Ryan settled in goes quickly. I need a nap pronto.
My ringtone chimes over the car speakers. I peek at the infotainment screen and see it’s Brittney calling. She’s been doing this a lot lately. So often in fact that my inbox is full of messages from her that I refuse to listen to. I should probably delete them.
I ignore the call, and just as I close my eyes, my phone goes off again. This time it’s an incoming call from a number I don’t recognize.
“No, thanks, spam caller.”
I press the end button and lean my head back again.
Not even ten seconds later, my phone rings again.
Okay, this is just annoying.
I hit the answer button without looking at the screen and let out a growly, “What.”
“Well, I hope that’s not how you answer the phone when your wife calls.”
Shit.
“Sorry, my bad, Shep. What’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up? That’s the best you’ve got for me?” He laughs derisively. “You get married over the weekend and don’t give your agent any sort of heads-up about it, and then when he finally gets ahold of you, your response is What’s up?”
He has me there.
“Uh, my bad.”
“I think that’s even worse.” He laughs. “So, are you going to tell me what the hell happened?”
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well, I’m going to go ahead and take a guess that this marriage wasn’t at all planned and there might have been a little bit of alcohol involved.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
“Nah. I’ve just been there before. I got married in Vegas myself. We had Elvis do our vows.”
“You were married before Denver?”
“Nope. That’s who I married. Granted, we were already in a committed relationship, which I’m guessing is a lot more than I can say for you.”
I’m mildly annoyed by how well he knows me, but I guess that’s to be expected when you’ve been working with the same person for as many years as I’ve been with Shep.
Shepard Clark, former pro baseball star and World Series champion, has been my agent since I finally made it to the big leagues. Collin signed with him first, and after hearing his raving recommendation, I decided to give him a shot too. And boy, am I glad I did. I don’t think there are many agents out there who wouldn’t be blowing up their players’ phones if they got married without telling them. But Shep has only dropped me a single text asking me to call when I’m ready. He’s more the type of guy to sit back and let us come to him if we need him. That might not be a good style for a lot of players, but I like his approach. I like that I can still be a grown-ass adult and not feel like I have a babysitter but also know I have somebody there who has my back when I need it.
“I had no idea you and Denver got married in Vegas.”
“Yeah, it was kind of a last-minute thing. She was pregnant, but she lost the baby shortly after. I mean, not that I married her because she was pregnant. I was head over heels in love with the woman, but…I’m rambling. You know what I mean though.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what he means because Ryan and I were not in love.
We were just drunk.
“You would be correct to assume there was a lot of alcohol involved,” I tell him.
“This have anything to do with your ex getting engaged to that dickhead former teammate of yours?”
“It…was a factor. Definitely led me to drinking. Not sure what led me to the altar though. Not really my finest moment.”
“No, I’d say not. So, this wife of yours—that’s Harper’s friend Ryan, yeah?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Do you know her?”
“Sort of. Denver is friends with her. We have a couple of her photographs hanging up around our house. She’s talented as hell.”
Agreed.
“Anyway,” Shep says, “I guess the real reason I’m calling is…do I need to be worried about this last-minute marriage?”
What he’s really asking is: Is this going to fuck up my season?
“No. We have it under control.”
“Do I even want to know the details?”
“Probably not. But it’s fine. I promise.”
“Okay. Comets know it’s all a sham?”
I chuckle. Leave it to Shep to call it what it is. He’s a straight shooter, and that’s what I like about him.
Do the Comets know it’s a sham? No.
I told them I’ve been seeing Ryan for a while now and things were getting serious, so we decided to elope, and they took it at face value. I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I’m not known as a guy who makes rash decisions. I’m the thinker. The levelheaded one. The guy who makes calculated choices. I’m fairly sure that played into them believing this wasn’t just some spur-of-the-moment thing.
Did I still get my ass reamed for making headlines? Fuck yes.
But I think if I keep my nose down this upcoming season, it’ll all blow over. The new public relations rep who joined the organization last summer agreed with me on that too.
Truthfully, they were more concerned about how Brittney being engaged to Colter is going to affect my performance on the ice when we play Florida.
I told them it wouldn’t, and I plan to keep that promise.
Colter isn’t worth my time, and neither is Brittney. What’s done is done. I have bigger fish to fry, like convincing the world I’m in love with my wife.
“What sham? This is real. I am super in love.”
He laughs again. “From a PR standpoint, good answer. As a friend…good luck with that?” I hear a commotion on the other end of the line, and a kid starts to cry in the background. “Oh, fuck. I gotta go, man. Do yourself a favor—never have children.”
Every time I talk to him, he feeds me the same line, but I know he loves his kids.
“Listen,” he says, “if you need anything, just call. If there’s a shitstorm, we’ll work through it. Just maybe give me a heads-up next time, yeah?”
“I can do that. And, Shep? Thanks for being so chill about this.”
“Man, if you only knew half the stupid shit I did in my day…” He huffs out a laugh. “We all make mistakes. It’s just how we choose to deal with them that matters. But know if shit hits the fan with this one, I am married to a journalist, and we’ll help spin the story however you’d like, okay?”
“Appreciate it.”
There’s another loud commotion. “Fucking hell. Duty calls, man. Talk later.”
“Later.”
The call disconnects just as Ryan rounds the corner.
It’s midafternoon and the sun is hanging high in the sky right behind her. From this angle, it almost looks like she’s wearing a halo.
But I know the truth. That’s no halo—those are horns.
She’s full of too much sass for it to be a halo.
I hop out of the car and meet her just as she begins walking up the steps to her apartment. She doesn’t greet me; she just gives me side-eye.
I smirk at her. “Hi, wife.”
“Husband,” she retorts with disdain, narrowing her eyes at me. “Ready to get packing?”
“Packing? You haven’t packed yet?”
“Nope,” she says, popping the P as she pushes her key into the lock. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy? Doing what?”
“Washing my hair.” She tosses the quip over her shoulder as we begin climbing the stairs.
I’m not dumb. I know that’s the go-to girl answer when they don’t want to do something.
I pinch a lock of blonde hair between my fingertips. “If that’s the case, you didn’t do a very good job. It’s looking a bit dull.”
She gasps, whirling around to smack at me. “You ass!”
“Right back at you, babe. You should have thought about that before you decided to skip out on packing your shit up so we could make this move a lot faster.”
“Excuse me if I’m not very excited to pack up my entire life and move in with you.” She turns back around, stomping up the stairs double time.
The only problem is I have almost a foot on her and keep up with her with zero issues.
She doesn’t like this either.
By the time we reach her door, she’s pissed and literally shuts it in my face, leaving me out in the hall.
I sigh, hanging my head, cursing drunk me for what feels like the millionth time for getting into this mess.
I push open her door and am instantly greeted by an adorable black fluffball darting out into the hallway.
“Poe!”
Ryan takes off after her, brushing past me with a glare. She catches the cat just before she darts down the stairs. She walks back to the apartment, snuggling her up to her chest. As she passes me, I hear her whisper into the cat’s ear about what a little brat she is.
“Gotta be careful with the doors. She loves to run out of them,” Ryan says, setting the cat down only once I’ve closed the door.
The cat eyes me from across the room, and I notice that her eyes are the same shade as her owner’s. She takes small, tentative steps toward me, and I crouch down to meet her on her level, holding my hand out so she can get a sniff.
The tip of her nose is chilly as she brushes against my fingers a few times. She must decide I’m pretty okay, because the next thing I know, she’s dropping her weight in the palm of my hand.
“Yeah, she does that. It means she wants you to hold her,” Ryan says from the kitchen where she’s pulling things from the cabinets. And by from the kitchen, I mean directly to my right, because really, this whole place is one big room.
And it’s a tiny room at that. I think my garage is bigger than the whole apartment…and I don’t have that big of a garage.
I look around the open area. Ryan wasn’t kidding when she said there wasn’t much she has to take with her. The place is sparsely decorated, and there’s no big furniture. I’m trying hard not to concentrate on the cheap mattresses stacked on top of one another in the corner.
No wonder she wants a new bed.
There’s a small vanity set up in the corner and a ring light beside it.
“Is that where you make your videos?”
“Yep.”
She doesn’t elaborate, but something in her quick response has me asking…
“Do you like it?”
She pauses in her packing, looking at me. “Huh?”
“Doing the influencer thing…do you like it?”
Her nose scrunches up, and it’s kind of cute. “I hate that word. Influencer. It sounds so…superficial.” I agree. “But, yeah, it’s fun.”
“Would you rather be doing something else though?”
She considers the question a moment. “Yes and no. I love the creativity of it, but I hate the social media aspect of it. Photography is another big passion of mine, and I’d honestly like to do more with that other than take selfies of my makeup.”
“You do some drop-in exhibits downtown, yeah?”
She seems surprised I know. “Uh, yeah. Sometimes. I like doing interactive ones, and they usually seem to be a hit.”
“The one you did with Harper and Collin…that was kind of rough. I saw some of those photographs. They were very…raw.”
“What can I say? I like it rough and raw.” Her eyes widen when she realizes how that sounds. “Emotionally. I meant emotionally. As in I like to capture the raw human emotion.”
I hold back my laugh. “Noted.”
“Anyway, enough about me.” She waves her hand. “Did you talk to your boss people?”
“My boss people?” I grin. “Yeah, I spoke with the GM and my coaches.”
“And? What’d you tell them?”
“The truth.” Her mouth slackens. “That you’re madly in love with me and you couldn’t wait to marry me, so you got me drunk and made me do it in Vegas.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sounds wildly accurate. I’m sure they bought it.”
“Actually, they did.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Yep. They wrote up a quick press release just to get the media who is questioning it off our backs. It’ll go out tonight.”
I fucking loathe the media. It’s my least favorite thing about playing hockey. I avoid headlines at all costs and rarely do any after-game press. Sometimes I’ll have a quick chat with our home announcer, but that’s it. I’m not standing around while a bunch of people shove cameras and mics in my face.
“Wow. That is…wow.” She shakes her head. “So, uh, I guess this is all real, then, huh?”
“Afraid so.” The cat snuggles into me, wanting my attention, so I scratch her ears. She purrs against me. “You said her name is Poe?”
“Yep.”
“Like Edgar Allan Poe?”
“No, like Poe Dameron. Because she’s a badass just like him.”
I grin. Ryan has a nerd side. Huh. Who knew?
“She’s sweet.” I continue scratching between her ears, and she pushes her head into my hand.
Ryan snorts. “She likes to pretend she’s sweet. Really, she’s just a spoiled brat who is a total bitch if she doesn’t get her way.”
“How old is she?”
“About six months. I actually adopted her from that animal shelter Harper and Collin are always volunteering at.”
“Really? That’s where I got my dog too.”
“Those damn do-gooders rubbing off on us. I swore I’d never get a pet, but one look at Poe and I was a goner. She had me wrapped around her finger like you are now. Until—”
“Ow! Motherfucker!” Poe sinks her teeth into my finger, and I swear she grins up at me around it.
“That. Until that.”
I pull my finger from Poe’s mouth, and she jumps from my arms, strutting away like she hasn’t a care in the world.
Ryan pads into the living room and grabs my finger, inspecting it.
“I’m sorry. She’s difficult sometimes. I think she’s just still adjusting to…well, being alive. She’s like a toddler. Totally unpredictable,” she explains, tugging me back into the kitchen.
I let her lead me to a tiny, café-style table. She shoves me down in the chair, then spins around and reaches over the top of the fridge, standing on her tiptoes to get to the cabinet above it. She struggles a moment to reach whatever she’s looking for but then spins back around with the first aid kit in hand.
I want to laugh at her because a kitten bite is nothing compared to the injuries I’m used to. I get hit by two-hundred-plus-pound adults skating over 15 MPH and take slapshots from pucks soaring six times that. This isn’t shit compared to that.
But she seems determined to care for me, so…I let her.
And I don’t know why I let her.
I think it’s because of the way she traps the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she concentrates on squeezing just a miniscule amount of antibiotic ointment out of the tube and rubbing it gently on the two puncture wounds. The way a little crinkle of skin forms between her eyebrows as she opens the bandage and peels back the protective layers. The way all of her attention is focused on getting the Band-Aid to sit just right on my finger.
There’s no denying that Ryan is an attractive woman. Her hair is that peculiar shade of blonde that has all kinds of tones mixed in when you look close enough. Her eyes are the most unique shade I’ve ever seen, a deep dark forest hue around the outer edges that lightens up around the iris. Her nose is just on this side of too small for her face, but the way it turns up at the end is too fucking cute. And there’s a little beauty mark just under her right eye.
She looks like a more natural, modern-day, green-eyed Marilyn Monroe—beautiful with that edge to her that makes you just slightly tremble in her presence, but in the best way possible.
“I can feel you staring at me,” she says quietly as she tucks the supplies back in the kit.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but why should I apologize? She’s my wife; I can stare at her if I want.
She picks up the first aid kit to put it back in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Just like she struggled to get it down, she battles to toss it back up there. Her lean body stretches out long as she presses up on the tips of her toes once again. Her ass pushes out toward me, and my god is it a beautiful ass.
Before I know it, I’ve risen from the table and I’m standing behind her. Her breath hitches when I press against her, and she halts all movement.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t not be next to her right now.
I place my hands on her hips, unable to stop myself from touching her. She takes another stuttered breath, and I swear I can feel her heart beating.
My fingers dig into her waist as I breathe her in. She smells so good standing this close, like sunshine and fresh lemons and just a hint of something else. It’s the same way she smelled at the club when we were dancing, and it’s making me feel the same way it did then too.
She swallows thickly, and I can feel her trembling beneath my touch as I slip my fingers under the hem of her shirt. Her skin is soft, and I bet it tastes as good as it smells.
I lean forward, brushing my lips against the exposed skin on her neck. I brush my lips back and forth and back again, pressing soft kisses everywhere I can.
This is exactly what I pictured this morning as I palmed my cock in the shower—her body beneath my lips.
She makes a low sound in her throat, and it’s enough to pull me from whatever daze I’m in.
What the fuck are you doing, Rhodes? Quit touching her. She’s not really yours to touch.
With reluctance, I step away from her, putting distance between us once again, and I hear her exhale a shaky breath.
“We should pack that,” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice how scratchy my voice is right now or call me out on what just happened.
“Right. Packing.” She clears her throat and sets the first aid kit on the counter beside her. She runs a hand through her hair, then turns to me.
I wait for it. Wait for her to yell at me for putting my hands on her. For kissing her.
But she doesn’t.
All she says is, “Ready to get started?”
