“It’s just so degrading and humiliating and so patently false,” I cry, marching down the sand in my bare feet.
“I know,” Rachel says at my side.
The team got back super late last night from their away game, and I showed up at the Price house bright and early with coffees, dragging Rachel out for our morning beach walk. The guys were already all out to the gym.
“How are you so calm about this?” I say, turning to face her. “Rach, they posted photos of me with Jake, and they’re saying he’s cheating on you!”
“Because it doesn’t matter when we all know it’s not true,” she replies with an indifferent shrug.
When she called me the other night, I could hardly believe it. Then she sent the links. The headlines were like something out of a bad teen drama. “Trouble in Paradise?” “The Price of Betrayal.” “The Price of a Lie.”
The pictures linked to all the stories are just as ridiculous. Apparently, paparazzi have been watching their house since the wedding. Someone actually managed to get pictures of my late-night arrival. They snapped photos of me on the porch in the rain. My back is turned, but Jake is standing there shirtless, letting me in so it looks like I’m his new sneaky link.
The articles also include a few shots snapped from the morning we all went for coffee and a walk on the beach. And by all of us, I mean me, Rachel, her guys, even the damn dog. But they only posted the photos of Jake and me together—walking, laughing, throwing a stick for Sy.
“They literally cropped you out,” I huff. “You were right behind us the whole time. I mean, where is the journalistic integrity?”
“I know,” she says again.
“And Jake and I were only waiting outside the café because of the dog. You were inside getting the coffees—”
“Tess, you have to let this go. This happens, okay? I’m fine. Jake is fine. We all know it’s bullshit. We all know it’s a pack of lies. But this is the life,” she adds. “This is what they do. Frankly, this is tame. Did I ever tell you about the time some paps took pictures of me in a hot yoga class, and they said I was in a Wiccan cult?”
I laugh. “No.”
“Yeah, it was like the Witch Trials all over again. Someone actually approached me in a Whole Foods and asked if I wanted to hire their services to exorcise my demons. Honestly, I almost said yes just so I could say I’ve been exorcised.”
I reluctantly laugh, which I know is what she’s going for. Then I sigh. “It’s just so embarrassing. I’m sorry. You know I would never hurt you like that, right? I would never touch any of your men inappropriately…except for maybe a pinch on the butt on St. Patty’s Day,”
“I know,” she says solemnly.
I see her smirk, though, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship. At this point, she’s the only thing like family I have left.
She glances my way. “Our only worry in all this has been you. Tess, this is the absolute last thing you needed right now—”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, not wanting to make this about me.
But she’s not buying it. “What are the chances he just doesn’t see it?”
“Zero,” I reply, watching as a pair of pelicans take flight out of the surf and cross our path.
It was inevitable that my location would leak back to Troy. I just didn’t expect it to leak on the front page of The Sun, implicating yet another Ray as my not-so-secret lover. If he was livid over pictures of me dancing with a Ray, what will he do with news articles that paint me as their new favorite booty call girl?
God, this is such a disaster.
Not to mention I found out while in a post-orgasm haze, sitting naked at Ryan’s feet. Yeah, that was awkward. And now the energy between us feels so strained. He still wants me to file a restraining order against Troy and order a retraction from The Sun. I just want to pretend none of this is happening and plan a donor gala for my sea turtles.
What should have been a blissful moment of connection was ruined. We argued. I stormed off. It was only after I cooled down that I peeked in his room to see him on his back in his clunky knee brace playing Mario Kart. Glancing over at me with a frown, he flipped the covers back on the open side of the bed. I tiptoed in, slipped under the covers, and fell asleep next to him. We didn’t touch or speak.
When I woke in the morning, he was gone. Apparently, a rookie picked him up early for PT. He stayed out late, too, not coming home until I was already in bed. I pretended to be asleep. Without ‘waking’ me, he crawled into my bed and fell asleep. I waited for him to kiss me…touch me…anything.
But again, he didn’t.
“Troy only has a few days left to reply to your request, right?” Rachel asks, pulling me back to the present.
“Yeah, three.”
“And if he doesn’t sign?”
“Then we go to court. But I never expected him to sign on his own,” I admit. “He was always going to fight. I’m putting all my hope in Bea that she can talk him around.”
“And you really think she’ll help you? When has she ever helped you before?”
“None of us want a long, drawn-out legal proceeding as we fight over lamps,” I reply. “Bea wants it all swept under the carpet. If getting him to sign uncontested protects her and the firm from any embarrassment, she’ll apply the pressure. I don’t care how she manages it; I just want it done.”
“I know you do, honey.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders.
Rachel and I continue our walk in silence, our bare feet sinking into the sand, our hands gripping to our warm cups of coffee. It’s blustery for January, and we’re both bundled up with polar fleeces. The beach is quiet. Only a few surfers are out in the water. The surf is icy cold on my toes, but it feels good.
“And you’re sure Jake is okay?” I say, glancing over.
“Honestly, he seems thrilled about it all.”
I raise a brow, flicking a windswept curl out of my face. “Why?”
“Because now he gets PDA from us as we smooth this over,” she replies with a grin. “He already planned a date night over at Top Golf for Caleb on Tuesday. And unless I can talk him out of it, I think he’s gonna make me try indoor skydiving. So, thanks for that,” she adds.
I laugh out loud at the mental image of Rachel floating in one of those wind tube things. “Oh god, I want pictures of you fake skydiving so bad. Give those to the paps. They’ll be frame-worthy for sure. I’m thinking entryway.”
“We’ll blow them up and hang them over the bed,” she adds with a laugh.
I cackle, grabbing her arm. “Ohmygod, and Mars will have to see Jake’s stupid wind tunnel face every time he does you doggy style.”
I make the face, and then we’re both dying, laughing so hard we’re crying.
“Tess!”
As if laughing about him is a summons, we both turn to see Ilmari marching down the sand towards us. He’s got his blond hair pulled up in his characteristic messy bun. And while he’s wearing workout pants and shoes, the man is only in a Rays tech T-shirt. It’s 50 degrees outside.
“Does he even own a jacket?”
“I don’t think so,” Rachel replies. “Kulta?” she calls. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He ignores his wife, glaring at me. In his hand is an envelope, and I think I know exactly what this is about. I square off at him, one hand on my hip as I casually take a sip of my coffee.
“Morning, Mars Attack.”
“What is this?” He holds up the envelope.
Rachel’s eyes go wide as she glances between us. “What’s going on?”
“I assume you’re referring to the invitation I sent you?” I say with a fake smile. “So glad you got it.”
“It’s an invitation to me from me,” he barks.
“So, you’ll be RSVPing ‘yes’ then, right? And you’ll notice, I gave you a ‘plus three.’ So, Rach, you can come too,” I add, flashing her a wink.
“Tess, what is this?” he says again. “I told you to keep me out of it—”
“No. You very specifically told me to keep you out of the decision-making process, which I did.”
Rachel glances between us. “What the hell is happening?”
“This is a punishment for the way I behaved at the office,” he says, not looking at her. “You know I’m sorry for that. I apologized, and you accepted. I thought we moved on.”
“Wait—what behavior? What apology?” Rachel says, eyes wide.
He’s not lying. He did send me an apology email. A stiff, formal apology of three sentences. I was about to call him and chew him out when a delivery person arrived at the office with an edible arrangement of chocolate covered fruits and a massage gift card—both from Mars.
I square my shoulders at him. “Yeah, and don’t for one second think I don’t know you went to Jake to help you make that apology,” I counter. “That’s the reason I forgave you, Mars. Because you showed yourself a big enough person to lean on your partners and ask them for help when you’re clearly out of your depth.”
His anger softens, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“You’re out here giving me all this sage advice about being myself and taking control? Well, congratulations, the lesson stuck,” I say, waving my hand at the envelope.
He bristles again. “This is not what I meant!”
“It’s perfect,” I shout back.
“Well, I’m not doing it. Get Jake to do it. He loves being the center of attention.”
“Oh, yes, you are. Everything has already been arranged. You can’t back out now, Mars Mission.”
“Back out of what?” Rachel cries. “Someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”
Slowly, Mars holds up the envelope. She snatches it from his hand, pulling out the supercute invitation I designed. It’s got a watercolor motif of sea turtles and coral at the top. She reads it over quickly, her panic fading to confusion, which gives way to a smile.
“This is…amazing,” she says at last, looking up at Mars. “Kulta, why wouldn’t you do it? This is what you want, right? To attract donors? To help Out of the Net grow?”
“Yes, but the right kind of donors,” he counters, clearly exasperated. “People who care about the environment, people who want to see legislative changes, better protections for the dunes. Not…this,” he says, pointing at the invitation.
“Look, Mars,” I say, gently plucking the invitation from Rachel’s hand. “We’ll get those donors too, trust me. Plenty of people will be drawn to the work of Out of the Net because they care about the sea turtles. But do you know what else pique’s people’s interest? Stupidly handsome, two-time Stanley Cup-winning NHL goalies with an intoxicating air of mystery.”
He huffs, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.
“You wanna know how you help this organization? Be yourself. I’ve never asked you to be any different, Mars. We don’t need the help of marine biologists and conservation specialists right now. We need attention. We need money. We need donors. You are the perfect person to get us all three. So, I present to you: A Night with Ilmari Kinnunen Price.”
He mutters a curse in Finnish.
I wave the invitation in the air with a flourish. “It’s a black-tie gala where you are the star, and you get to shine your light onto your favorite pet project and ask for donations. You’ll mix and mingle and be yourself, and the donations will flood in, I promise you. And you won’t be alone,” I add. “We’re having reps from some of the other turtle orgs come in. Cheryl and Nancy are arranging it all. We might even have an animal ambassador program. Real live baby sea turtles.” I glance to Rachel with a grin. “Can you imagine?”
“Oh god, Caleb will literally pop a lung trying to play it cool around baby turtles,” she says with a laugh. “I really think this will work,” she adds, glancing up at her husband. “Fans and friends will donate just because it’s you doing the asking.”
“It is not my way to put myself forward and ask for things,” he admits, letting a bit of his insecurity shine through again.
And goddamn it, but I love him more for it. I know I’m asking a lot of him, but I also know he can do it. He’s more than just hockey. They all are. And he doesn’t need a fancy degree to impress people with all he knows about dune restoration and wildlife conservation. Citizen science exists for a reason. He’s perfect just as he is.
He just needs to see it too.
Next to me, Rachel smiles, and I know she’s thinking the same thing. “You asked me to sit next to you on the plane.”
He goes still, not looking at her.
“You asked me for that kiss in the street,” she says, stepping closer, putting her hand on his arm. “You asked me to wear your jersey. You asked me to be yours. When you want something badly enough, you’re good at asking for it. Why should this be any different?”
He glares down at her. You could cut this sudden sexual tension with a butter knife. “You don’t fight fair.”
“Have I ever?” She tips up on her toes to kiss his bearded jaw.
“Look, Mars Attack, it’s time to get you outta the net too,” I say, stepping in before they forget I’m here and start banging in the sand. “You told me to make all the decisions. Well, this is my decision. You’re going to the gala, and that’s final. You’re hosting, and that’s final. I will see you on Sunday two weeks from now at seven o’clock, and you better look un-fucking-obtainable. We’ve got a lot of sea turtles to save.”
