She watched.
No—she more than watched.
She participated.
I don’t know what alerted me to Ryan standing in the bathroom door, but I could just feel her presence. It was like I had conjured her up.
My cock stirred to life when I felt her eyes raking over my body, and I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for my dick. I was already aching from the moment we shared in her apartment. There was no way I could stand there and not do anything.
When I heard the soft moans slip through the doorway, I knew she was touching herself too. It took everything I had to keep my eyes closed and not look at her.
I know she heard me say her name. I wanted her to hear me say her name. And man, was it worth it.
It’s been two weeks and we haven’t had a repeat yet. Probably because we went furniture shopping the next day and Ryan has practically been holed up in her room since.
“Please tell me that look on your face isn’t what I think it is and you’re not thinking naughty thoughts when we’re about to help a bunch of kids learn to play hockey.”
I glance over at Lowell as he takes a seat beside me on the bench.
“Want me to lie?”
“I swear, you dudes in relationships make me sick.”
“I’m not in a relationship.”
He slaps his leg. “Oh, right. I forgot. You’re fake married. My bad.”
“Shut the fuck up, you dick.” I glance around, making sure Coach didn’t hear anything he said. “Coach doesn’t know it’s fake.”
“I figured as much. How’d he take the news anyway?”
“He’s Coach, so about as well as you’d expect.”
Coach Heller—or Coach Hell as we call him—is a force to be reckoned with. He might be getting up there in age now, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the old enforcer wouldn’t strap on a pair of skates and whoop all our asses any day of the week.
“He say anything about Colter?”
“Just don’t retaliate.”
“The captain in me says that’s good advice. But the friend in me…well, it makes me want to wipe the fucking ice with his ass when we play Florida.”
I laugh. “Thanks, man.”
“How are things going with the lovely missus anyway?”
Something in the way he says it makes me wonder if he ever had a thing for Ryan. I always thought he might have a crush on her but was too shy to pull the trigger.
That same feeling I had when I saw Miller sitting next to Ryan on the plane streaks through me at the thought of Lowell and Ryan together.
I don’t like the idea one fucking bit.
I push it all aside, not wanting to deal with what it means right now, and shrug. “It’s okay, I guess. We’re mostly still tiptoeing around each other.”
He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you got drunk married. You. I mean, I expect that shit from Miller, but not you.” I glare at him, not appreciating the comparison. “How long are you keeping up the act?”
“A year.”
“A year?” His brows shoot up, and he whistles. “That’s a long time. Think you’ll last that long?”
I do, and that’s solely based on how relieved she was when I told her I’d pay for her grandmother’s care.
Growing up, my parents sacrificed so much for my hockey career, and as much as they tried to hide it, I know what kind of financial burden it was on them. I can’t imagine how Ryan’s felt the last few years taking care of her grandmother. If I can help alleviate that in any way, I’m going to.
My phone buzzes against the bench, pulling my attention.
I look over at the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“You going to answer that?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’ll let voicemail get it. Probably nothing important anyway.”
I’ve been getting a lot of calls lately. Most are from people wanting an interview or quote about my recent nuptials. I’ve ignored them all.
“Rhodes, Lowell, you going to sit around on your asses all day gossiping, or are we going to teach these kids some hockey?” Collin calls from across the ice, throwing his hands in the air and waving ’em like he just don’t care.
“You going to let him talk to you like that, captain?” I say to Lowell as we rise onto our skates.
“Not a chance.”
Lowell charges toward Collin, who sees him coming, and the two tumble down to the ice, wrestling and trading light punches as the kids cheer them on.
I sigh at their antics and skate past them.
Only in hockey.
The house is quiet when I get home from my evening workout, and I’m not surprised by it one bit. Over the last few weeks, every time I come home, Ryan hides in her bedroom. I’m usually able to coax her out for dinner in the evenings, but it’s always like a scene from a movie where the parents who clearly need to be divorced sit at opposite ends of the table and eat in awkward silence.
I think she’s still embarrassed by what happened between us that first night.
But something about tonight seems different. Seems off.
I stop at the fridge for a bottle of water, leaning against the counter as I drink it. I listen closely for any signs of movement in the house, but I hear nothing.
Huh. Weird.
After I finish my drink, I toss the bottle into the recycling and head down the hall toward Ryan’s room. There’s a soft glow of light coming from beneath her door, which isn’t atypical.
I rap my knuckles against the wood, but there’s no answer.
I knock again. Same response.
“Ryan?” I call out.
Silence.
I push the door open gently, and the moment there’s a small crack, Poe darts out of the room, taking off down the hall.
I don’t bother chasing after her. She’ll find her way back here, I’m sure.
A laptop sitting on the desk in the corner catches my attention.
I shouldn’t look at it. I know that.
But I can’t stop my feet when they carry me across the room. And I can’t help it that my fingers accidentally run across the trackpad, waking the computer up.
The screen comes to life, and a photo fills the screen.
No, not a photo. More than that, it’s an invitation to an exhibit featuring photographer Ryan Bell, and it’s tonight.
What the…
She has an exhibit? And tonight?
Annoyance races through me, and a little bit of hurt too.
Why the hell wouldn’t she tell me about it? I’m her husband, for fuck’s sake!
Okay, not really her husband, but at the very least, I thought we were friends. I should be there.
I check the time. It’s 8:00 PM.
Shit. By the time I get there, it’ll be nearly over.
But if I make my shower quick, I should be able to make some of it…
So that’s what I do. I rush to my bathroom and hop in the shower, speeding up my routine. When I get out, I dress in one of the suits I wear to my games. I have no idea if this is a black-tie affair, but the word exhibit sounds fancy enough to me and that’s what I’m going with.
If she wanted me to show up in anything else, maybe she should have told me about this.
I make sure Poe and Frodo both have food in their bowls, then rush out the door. I hop in my SUV, plug the address into my navigation system, and hit the road.
On the drive there, I run a million reasons through my head for why Ryan wouldn’t invite me.
Does she not want to share this part of her with me?
Does she not want me there?
Is she…embarrassed by me?
But fuck all of those excuses. I’m going.
I’m going and I will be the best goddamn supportive fake husband there is.
I pull into a parking garage downtown and pay the premium for VIP parking, then walk the block to the studio.
I’ve walked by this place several times but have never really paid it much attention before. I’m not an artsy type of guy, so it’s never been on my radar.
I stop just outside the window to take a peek at the crowd.
Holy shit. The place is packed, and I’m not as mad anymore as pride fills my chest knowing all these people are here for Ryan.
I open the door and soft smooth jazz hits my ears. People turn to stare, and I see the recognition spark in their eyes almost instantly.
Shit. I did not think this part through.
It’s a crowd. I fucking hate crowds.
It’s funny. Before I got my scar, I had no qualms about being the center of attention. I mean, I was sixteen and a hockey player. I lived for attention.
The moment I walked away from that skate blade, everything changed.
I was still a great hockey player. But more than that, I was a great hockey player with a tragic story, and suddenly everybody cared more about my story than they did my stats.
That was a bitter pill to swallow because I had been playing hockey longer than I’d had my scar. People should have cared about that, not what happened to me. I wanted to quit so many times. Wanted to give up the game I love because I couldn’t stand the attention any longer.
But I didn’t. And while I still hate the attention, I play anyway.
I might have had my good looks taken away from me, but I’m not going to let this fucking scar steal my love of the game too.
People still hide behind their hands and whisper. They still bring it up all the time. Very few have actually outright asked me about it.
But the thing that hurts the most is the stares.
And that’s exactly what I’m getting now.
I don the scowl I’m notorious for and push through the crowd in search of Ryan. Over in the corner, there is a group of people gathered, and I just know in my gut Ryan is at the center of it.
I grab a glass of champagne from one of the waiters strolling around the room and take a healthy drink of it.
Ugh. I fucking hate champagne.
I stand at the periphery of the crowd, watching her command it.
Her blonde hair is twisted into a low-slung bun. It looks messy and elegant all at the same time, and the sudden urge to walk over there, pull it down, and run my fingers through it hits me.
She’s wearing a skintight wine-colored satin dress that hits just above her knee. The shade of lipstick painted across her lips matches it perfectly. That same pair of stiletto heels she threw around the hotel room is on her feet, making her legs look a mile long. A dainty pair of diamond earrings hang from her ears, long enough to brush her shoulders, and there’s a silver bracelet around her wrist.
Somehow her outfit looks simple and stunning all at once.
She’s talking with some older gentleman who keeps putting his hand on her forearm and stepping closer to her despite her continually stepping back. She’s smiling politely, but even from here, I can see she’s uncomfortable with his closeness.
A protective streak I didn’t even know I possessed rushes through me, and before I know it, I’m crossing the small floor and sliding my arm around her waist, hugging her to me.
I instantly feel her relax with my touch. She hasn’t even glanced in my direction, yet somehow, she knows it’s me.
I like that she knows it’s me.
I press a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Hey, wife.”
I’ve called her wife many times, and every time she’s looked at me like she wants to strangle me.
Except for now.
The only thing I see in her eyes now is relief. She’s glad I’m here.
She grins up at me. “Hey, husband. I’m so glad you could finally make it.”
“Sorry. I got held up at the rink.” It’s not entirely a lie. I was down at the practice facility in the weight room and time did get away from me. I squeeze her waist. “But I’m here now. You look stunning.”
Her eyes spark with surprise at my compliment because she can tell it’s genuine.
“Thank you,” she says, and I see the blush steal up her cheeks.
I turn to the older gentleman who kept touching her, sticking my hand out and rising to my full height. I tower over him with ease. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet. I’m Adrian Rhodes, Ryan’s husband.”
He must know who I am because his eyes flare with interest as he slips his hand in mine. “Wow. The Beast in the flesh. My son is going to be so jealous I’m meeting you.” He looks between Ryan and me. “I had no idea you two were married.”
“Newly married,” Ryan explains.
“And wildly in love.” I place a loud, wet kiss to her cheek. “Right, baby cakes?”
Ryan’s lips tighten at the nickname, but only for a second. Then, she beams at me and places her hand on my chest, snuggling closer to me. “So in love, honey bun.”
“How…sweet.” He gives us a curt smile, then excuses himself.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Ryan puts a bit of space between us. “Baby cakes? Wildly in love? Really?”
“Just staking my claim.”
“Claim, huh?”
“Yes.” I drop my lips to her ear and hear the hitch in her breath when my lips graze across her skin. “This marriage might not be traditional, but make no mistake—you’re mine for the next year.”
She lets out a little squeak, and I can see the goose bumps break out across her body. She recovers quickly, bringing the champagne flute to her lips, but with the way the liquid shakes in her glass, it’s obvious she’s rattled.
I straighten back up and look out over the crowd. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”
“I…I didn’t think you’d want to come.”
I pinch my eyebrows together. “Why wouldn’t I want to come? You’re my wife.”
“You hate crowds.”
“I’d sit in a crowd of a hundred thousand people if it meant being there to support you.”
She seems surprised by this, and honestly, I’m surprised too because I actually mean the words.
Her photography is important to her, so it’s important to me. Besides, she’s putting herself out there in a very public way to support my hockey career. This is the least I can do for her.
“Well, thank you,” she says quietly. “I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome. And next time, invite me.”
“Okay.”
For the first time, a comfortable silence falls over us.
I take another sip of my champagne and make a face. Fuck, I really hate this stuff.
“So, this…show,” I say. “What exactly is it?”
“It’s an interactive exhibit.”
“Like the one you did with Harper and Collin?”
“Sort of. This one is about something different though.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s…” She hesitates for a moment. “It’s about flaws.” I stiffen at her words. “And finding the beauty in them.” Her eyes flit toward my scar. “Because they’re all beautiful.”
“Is that so?”
She nods. “Yes. And I prove it to the subjects by putting their images up for sale. With their permission, of course. And they do. Sell, I mean.”
“Hmm.”
“Would you like to try it?”
I don’t answer her because I’m stunned by her request.
“You don’t have to, of course. It’s just…well, I would just like to photograph you. If you’d let me.” She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, not making eye contact with me. She’s nervous. Ryan doesn’t do nervous.
I’m speechless. She wants to photograph…me?
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Forget I asked. I’m going to…” Her words trail off as she begins to walk away.
I don’t let her.
I wrap my hand around her wrist and tug her back to me.
She peers up, her green eyes round with surprise.
“Yes.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes.” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “You can photograph me.”
I don’t know why I say it. I think it’s the sincerity in her eyes. Either way, it’s out there now, and I can’t take it back. Not when she’s looking at me with pure excitement at the idea.
“Follow me.”
I let her lead me to the other side of the room. We’re stopped a few times by people who want to congratulate her on her exhibit that’s wrapping up. When we finally make it over there, she tugs me inside the little makeshift room.
The moment we step inside, it’s complete silence.
“Soundproof,” she explains, locking the door behind her. “So there are no distractions.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
The space is much longer and narrower than I expected it to be. And the only thing inside is this single stall toward the back and Ryan’s camera.
“The idea of the project is that I ask people what they believe their flaws are, and I photograph them.”
“So, what? You just take pictures of people’s imperfections?”
“Yes, but we have to remember that not everyone’s flaws are external. Some people have internal flaws. The subject takes a seat at the stool across the room. I’ll ask a few questions to start, and then from there, you can either show me your flaws or you can talk about them. Either way, I’ll be capturing the whole experience on video and taking photos.”
I nod. “I see. And the purpose of this is…?”
“Sometimes we just need to see ourselves from a different angle. Through someone else’s eyes.”
“That seems simple enough.”
I cross the small room, stopping right in front of the stool.
My hands are shaking just the slightest bit, and I shove them in my pockets so she doesn’t see.
I’m nervous, which is ridiculous really because it’s pretty damn obvious what my biggest flaw is.
She watches me closely, finger poised and ready to press record.
I can tell she’s conflicted inside. The photographer in her is thrilled to have another subject, but the people part of her knows this is hard on so many levels.
Finally, I take a seat.
“Things might get a little awkward at home afterward.”
Her brows draw tight together. “Why is that?”
“Well, because I have to whip my dick out.”
She sputters. “W-What?”
I nod solemnly. “Yeah. My cock. It’s just…huge. So heavy to carry around. A burden, really. Definitely my biggest flaw.”
“See, I would have thought it was your not-so-sparkling personality.”
“Not-so-sparkling? You’re telling me you don’t see the rainbows and glitter always shooting out my ass?”
She tucks her lips together, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you quite finished, Rhodes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I wink at her, the tension in the room now thinned. I rub my hands over my thighs and nod once. “Hit record.”
There’s a barely audible click as she presses the button and a red light sparks to life. They’re the only indications that she’s recording.
“What is your name, age, and occupation?”
“My name is Adrian Tyler Rhodes. I am twenty-seven years old, and I am an NHL defenseman for the Carolina Comets.”
“Do you believe you are flawed, Adrian?”
I don’t know why, but hearing her say my first name does something to me that I’m not expecting. In the time I’ve known her, not once has she called me Adrian. And to my surprise, I like it.
I don’t look at the camera; I look at her. “Aren’t we all flawed in one way or another?”
“I suppose so. Is that why you’re here though? Because you’re flawed?”
“Honestly, I’m just here so I can get my wife to show me her titties later tonight.”
“Even the wonky one?”
“Especially the wonky one.”
She barely holds in her laughter. “If this goes well, I’m sure she’ll take that into consideration.”
“So behave? Got it.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “If you had to pick out a singular flaw for yourself, what would it be?”
I clear my throat and look away from her penetrating gaze. I tug at my dress pants, that nervous itchy feeling returning. “I think it’s pretty obvious, no?”
“Not to me.”
My gaze snaps back to hers, and somehow, I know it’s not photographer Ryan talking to me; it’s the Ryan I know.
“It happened during a routine practice the summer I turned sixteen. It was at a sleepaway hockey camp I attended every year. I knew that place like the back of my hand, and I knew the players out there with me. They were all good guys. Nobody would ever intentionally hurt anyone else, and that day was no different. We were running board drills and I guess I lost an edge, and I went down. Unfortunately for me, the guy I was running the drill with didn’t realize I went down. His focus was solely on getting the puck out, just like it should have been. His skate came back and it caught me right under the visor, sliced me from here”—I point to the spot just below my eye—“to here.” I drag my finger along the scar, stopping where it ends at my chin.
I hear the click of the camera as I move my fingers and try hard not to flinch.
“What happened after that?” Ryan asks, still clicking away.
“I…I don’t remember.” I run a hand through my hair. “I think I passed out pretty quick. Shock, blood loss…I have no clue. I woke up in the hospital looking like a monster.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “My face was a disaster, puffy and bruised. I looked just like you’d imagine. God, I remember the look on my mom’s face when I woke up. She was so fucking relieved that I was alive. And I was relieved too, ya know? I was okay. I still had my vision. I would still play hockey. But then when I looked in the mirror, I…”
I clear my throat, trying hard as hell to ignore the way it’s tightening.
“The hockey camp was out in the middle of nowhere, and the doctor at the nearest hospital completely botched fixing it. He’d never seen anything like it before and had no clue what he was doing. I had two plastic surgeries to fix it, and I still fucking look like this.”
All those same feelings from back then come rushing in.
“Before that, I wasn’t one to obsess about my looks. I was an average-looking kid who blended in with the crowd. But after…after I was this whole new person. Suddenly, I wasn’t average. I was disfigured and ugly. Little kids in the stores would stare at me, and my friends stopped wanting to be seen with me. My scar was all I was. And sometimes…” I exhale shakily. “Sometimes I think it’s all I’ll ever be. I’m going to carry this…ugliness around with me forever. Who the fuck wants to love a beast like me?”
Ryan sets her camera aside, then crosses the small room.
She doesn’t stop until she’s standing between my legs. She takes my face in her hands, running her thumb gently over my scar and the tears that are dripping down my cheeks.
I didn’t even realize I was crying. Why the fuck am I crying?
She leans forward and presses her lips to the jagged, marred skin.
She’s kissing it. She’s fucking kissing my scar.
She’s kissing my scar, and she’s kissing my soul.
“Adrian…” She whispers my name, trailing her lips across the part of me I hate the most and somehow making me hate it less. “You’re beautiful. Not despite your scar, but because of it.”
They’re the same words she said to me that night in Vegas. I wasn’t sure she meant them then, but I know she means them now.
I swallow thickly. “Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“That kissing rule…you said I could only kiss you if it’s warranted, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does this count as warranted?”
She sighs against me. “Yes.”
And I claim my kiss.
