December
A couple of weeks after the wild ride that was Vegas, I’m standing in the Cyclones’ kitchen in Atlanta when Reagan—the social media and marketing manager—walks in.
“Okay, so I’m thinking a sexy calendar,” she says as she slides onto a stool and swipes a bran muffin from the perpetual healthy-muffin-scone-and-pastry tin on the kitchen counter. “Get twelve of them up there, no shirts, holding geese and hens and a freaking partridge or whatever, and title it The Twelve Lays of Christmas.”
I practically spit out my water.
“No way management will allow that!” I sputter on a laugh.
“Forget management,” Stef snorts. She’s back at work now—started back last week—with her thumb healing nicely in a splint, and she manages to open the oven door while expertly balancing a pan of sautéed veggies across her splint. “You’re planning to get the guys on board with this how, exactly?”
Reagan waves an airy hand before flipping her purple-streaked blonde hair over one shoulder. “Oh, please. Half of them have egos big enough to singularly drive the desire to feature in a half-naked photo shoot. And the other half… I’ll guilt into doing it because it’s for charity.”
I throw my head back and laugh. I know which category Seb will be in—the guy may have a big ego, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the past couple weeks to recognize that sexy photo shoots are not up his alley.
Dallas and Jimmy, however, will be all over it. Guaranteed.
It’s kind of surreal—not that two of the vainest men who ever walked planet Earth would want to be featured in a calendar shoot, of course—but that I would even know such a thing about a couple of the Cyclones’ top players.
More than a few things have been surreal since I started this job.
“You’re laughing now.” Reagan points at me. “But you’re the one who’s going to have to twist the arm of that husband of yours to be front and center in the pear tree.”
I snort with laughter. “As if I have any say in that.”
Reagan and Stef join me, shaking their heads.
If you had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be standing here right now, chatting with Reagan and Stef about my hockey player husband, I would’ve laughed you straight out of the RGM arena’s industrial kitchen.
Arriving back in Atlanta after Vegas was a reality check. Because after a whirlwind wedding and life-changing decision, we were back at home, and work, and…
Married. In real life.
Which kinda makes me feel like Sandra Bullock in The Proposal. It’s not quite the main character Sandra Bullock moment I always hoped I’d have, but Seb’s as hot as—maybe even hotter than—Ryan Reynolds, and at least nobody had to go all the way to Alaska in our scenario.
I guess I can hardly complain, though. Because for such a strange situation, it’s actually been pretty straightforward, logistically speaking.
Seb went to see Roger, the immigration and contract sports lawyer that the Cyclones work with, and, well… Seb said he was skeptical, at best, but he couldn’t exactly refute what Seb was telling him.
Meanwhile, I went straight to Jax’s place and packed my things. Thank goodness my brother was still off in the wilderness, sans cellphone, so I didn’t have to play twenty questions with him about where I was going. Lying has never been my strong suit, and lying to my brother is next to impossible. I’ve been avoiding his calls since he got home, opting to tell him via text that I’ve moved closer to work—which is, in itself, not a lie.
I simply failed to mention that I’ve moved into the huge spare room of Seb’s gorgeous apartment in one of Atlanta’s most exclusive residential high-rises. Needless to say, it’s a lot more comfortable than holing up on Jax’s old—but not half as dirty as Seb implied it was—couch with Rick Astley the dog breathing meatily all over me at 5am every day. I now have a plushy king bed, my own ensuite bathroom, and a beautiful view of downtown Atlanta.
Living at Seb’s place has led me to discover two things about my new husband: one, he is a neat freak. To the point where if I leave a bowl in the sink or a towel on the floor, it magically disappears. When he was gone for a few days, playing away games up in New England (Stef traveled with them and I stayed here), I even peeked in his underwear drawer to confirm that, yes, his boxer briefs are ironed and folded to perfection.
Two, he is definitely not into decorating. His place, though luxurious, is pretty bare and sterile. For fun, I’ve added a few colorful throw pillows and blankets and decorative mirrors and pictures to make the place feel more homey. Seb protested at first, but quickly seemed to accept his fate.
I also taped one of our wedding pictures to the fridge as a joke, and for some reason, he didn’t take it down. It makes me smile every morning when I’m grabbing my orange juice—me, Seb and Elvis with our arms around each other, laughing hysterically.
The craziest part is that people actually seem to be buying this story (probably because I’m refusing to show anybody said drunken, traffic-cone-including wedding pictures.)
Stefani hugged me when she found out, noting that she’d seen Seb and me in the kitchen together my first day and thought there was something going on. Tony, the head coach, knows my name now. And the Cyclones players themselves have been sweet as can be—they seem to think that Seb being married to someone from Atlanta will make him want to stay more permanently.
If only they knew the lengths he was going to in order to do just that…
But yeah, everyone’s been really nice. Aside from Adrienne, who, for HR personnel, really lays on the snide comments.
I figure she’s jealous. Which I get.
I mean, have you seen my husband?
With a cheesy grin, I pirouette to the fridge, turning up the knob on the radio so that Taylor Swift’s “Christmas Tree Farm” fills the room nice and loud. I retrieve milk, eggs, cottage cheese, and chives. The team will be done with their morning skate soon, and a high-protein breakfast is surely in order before Reagan drops her Twelve Lays of Christmas bomb on them all.
A knock on the kitchen door has me looking up from my gigantic pan of scrambled eggs, and a woman I don’t recognize steps into the kitchen. She’s gorgeous in that off-duty supermodel kinda way: tall and slender, with flawless, makeup-less ebony skin, and black hair pulled back in a middle-parted bun that would make me look like a Founding Father but makes her look chic AF. She’s wearing yoga pants and a cropped hoodie, along with a dazzling smile.
And I mean dazzling. Because I am well and truly dazzled.
“Chantal!” Stef squeals, rushing to the door. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”
The woman nods in agreement. “Ugh, I know. The littles are keeping me on my toes these days, but I have the morning off—thank you, grandma—so I decided to drop by and surprise Mal for lunch.”
Whoa. This goddess is married to Malachi Holmes?
Chantal hugs Stef and Reagan, and then turns to me with a friendly expression. “You must be Maddie! Mal has told me all about you.” She steps forward and touches my arm. Looks down at me, because unfortunately for me, I only come up to her shoulder region. “I was dying to meet the woman who stole Seb Slater’s heart. Everyone in hockey was convinced that the guy would only ever be married to this sport, and yet, here you are!”
I laugh nervously, sounding vaguely like a car that’s having trouble starting. “Yup!” I chirp, gesturing to myself in all my egg-splattered-aproned glory. “Here I am.”
Chantal, for some reason, doesn’t point at me and laugh, calling BS. Instead, she looks at me kindly. “If you ever want to talk, let me know. Being a hockey wife can be exhausting, and I can’t imagine having to work at the same place as Mal on top of being married to him! Much as I love him.” She erupts into positively flowery laughter, her beautiful face somehow more striking.
“Well, if you have any advice on how to talk Seb into posing for Reagan’s sexy Christmas calendar, I’m all ears!” I say swiftly, changing the subject away from myself.
I’m casual and laughing on the outside, but inside, my imposter syndrome is festering like a stagnant pond.
Chantal giggles. “Tell me more…”
At that moment, the guys burst into the kitchen in a sudden cacophony of yells and shouts and whoops. Seriously, when these men travel as a pack, there’s no describing the decibel level they operate at.
“Smells good, Mad Dawg.” Dallas sidles up to me and ruffles my hair like I’m his pet. Actually, ever since I officially met the team on the plane back from Vegas, we’ve become something that feels close to… friends.
Guess I’m friends with an entire hockey team now.
“Do we really have to call me that?” I shoot back.
“Yup.”
“I’m starving,” Aaron—who is quite possibly the biggest man I’ve ever seen—says from behind his teammate. “Is there any way I could get a protein shake, too?”
I jerk my head in the direction of the fridge. “I whipped up a bunch this morning. Banana, vanilla, and chocolate. They’re all labeled in there.”
“You’re the best.” He points at Seb, who’s walking towards us. “Your wife is a keeper, Slater.”
My husband gives me a silly little smile.
“Don’t I know it,” he says, coming up and giving me a little shoulder squeeze. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say back, my breath catching as I take in the scent of his masculine shower gel and feel the heat radiating from his body. I may be slaving over a hot stove, but I swear that Seb is producing more heat than the burners.
What I have learned about Seb over the course of our very short marriage, is that not only is he an absolutely downright, shameless, incorrigible flirt who can make me feel hot and flustered at the drop of a hat, he’s also a man of his word. He toes the line on rule number one like one of those insane slackliners that dangle over canyons, but he never crosses it. To his credit (and honestly, to my surprise), I’ve only ever seen him flirting like this with me.
Mostly at work, which is where we have to keep up appearances. At home, we don’t see each other a lot, what with his away games and busy schedule. And when we do see each other, Seb keeps things very professional. Respectful.
Just like he said he would.
And I’m not going to lie, I find that I almost look forward to his teasing flirtations and his shoulder squeezes every day at work.
Simply because he has such nice, big hands. Adam had pale, little, soft hands, which I’ve officially decided are my new ick.
The team gathers at the huge oak table at the side of the kitchen, some of them piling onto the long wood bench while others grab a chair. I dish out the eggs and Stef serves up the sautéed veggies she was keeping warm in the oven.
“I don’t know why you all insist on eating in my kitchen these days,” she grumbles, but she’s smiling. “Y’all used to have no problem staying out of my domain and eating in the players’ lounge.”
“That was before we had an in with the kitchen staff,” Malachi jokes, looking right at me and winking from where he’s standing hand in hand with his wife. I give him a slightly perplexed smile in return. I like Mal, but he always looks at me strangely… like he knows something. He then turns to his wife with the sweetest expression I’ve ever seen before announcing, “Okay guys, we’re out.”
Chantal smiles at him, and then looks at me. “Maddie, you’ll be at the toy drive, right?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I turn to Seb for guidance. He gives a decisive nod. “Of course she’s going.”
He then returns to his conversation with Aaron, and I nod, too. Like a puppet. “Guess so.”
“Okay, see you then.” She sounds genuine. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I reply. But honestly, nice as Chantal is, all I can think is that if she’s the image of an NHL wife, how on earth is anyone actually believing that I’m one too?
After Mal and Chantal depart, the conversation turns to tonight’s game against North Carolina. I cart my pans to the sink, and find myself watching Sebastian as I scrub. He’s still speaking with Aaron, head bowed, hands moving fast. I’m pretty sure that the two of them are on the same line—wooo, more hockey speak I learned—and I’m one hundred percent sure that they’re talking hockey right now.
Because that’s what this is all about: Hockey.
And revenge.
Not marriage. And certainly not thinking that my husband is hot and worrying about what he thinks I look like.
I sigh and wipe my hands on a dishcloth, my eyes landing on the ring I place every day on the sill next to the sink.
I don’t wear my ring while I’m working—food prep and jewelry are not hygiene friends. I find I kind of miss it when I don’t have it on. Mostly because I never dreamed I’d own anything so gorgeous. For a time, after Adam dumped me, I believed I’d never even have a ring to place on my ring finger.
I still can’t believe that Seb insisted on letting me keep it. After we got back to Atlanta, I broached the subject of how expensive it was, and he didn’t even bat an eye. Said I needed to have a better ring than Elizabeth for the revenge plan to really work, and I could pawn it and donate the money to charity after we’re done with our agreement.
Must be nice to be rolling in so much NHL player dough that a freaking diamond sapphire isn’t on your spending radar.
Stef putters up behind me, managing to balance a stack of plates on her splint. The lady is an absolute marvel, and I’m happy to call her my boss and friend even after only a few weeks of employment.
“Are you going to the toy drive thingy, Stef?” I ask as I pick up a steel wool sponge to scrub a dirty pan.
“Of course, wouldn’t miss it!” She shoots me a quick glance. “Oh, right, this’ll be your first one. Every year, the team does something charitable for the holidays, and this year, they’re partnering with a local charity doing a huge toy drive. The guys have to dress up as elves and everything.”
This makes me laugh. “How do they decide what cause to support?”
“Well, they all propose ideas and vote at the beginning of the season. Your hubby was actually the one to suggest the toy drive for underprivileged kids.”
Well, if that’s not the sweetest thing I ever heard…
“Hey, Lady M.” Seb—the apparent philanthropist—is suddenly behind me, empty plate in hand. “Thanks for lunch, it was great.”
“Welcome,” I reply, taking the plate from him. He still hasn’t told me where that stupid nickname came from and I’ve basically given up on asking at this point.
“You want help with the dishes?”
I shake my head with a smile. Because the thing is, he means it. Seb really would take the time, roll up his sleeves, and start scrubbing if I so much as hesitated. In the weeks I’ve known him, I’ve learned that Sebastian Slater is much sweeter than people give him credit for. “You have better things to do with your afternoon. Don’t you have a game to prep for?”
“Nah. We have that win in the bag.”
“Overconfident, much?”
He leans forward so his face is close to mine, and he speaks in a low, gravelly voice for only me to hear. “Haven’t you heard? Confidence is sexy.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And arrogance is—”
“Equally sexy,” he finishes for me. “So, you gonna be out there rooting for me, Wifey?”
“I don’t know,” I say with an easygoing shrug as I stack a couple plates to the side of the sink. “It depends what time I get off.”
“I requested you get off early so you can be there. There’s a spot in the family box with your name on it.”
I blink. Turn off the sink and turn to my husband. “Wait, really?”
Seb smiles, but it’s a different smile than usual—somehow sweeter. “Yeah, I want you there. And besides…” He lowers his voice. “It’s a good look, right?”
I roll my eyes with a little laugh. Honestly, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised given that the players’ wives and girlfriends are often present at home games, but this is unprecedented for us—an official, public appearance as Seb’s wife.
And he wants me there.
What I want to do is give him a big, wide grin, and tell him that I’d really like that. But what I actually do is give him a cheeky smirk. “I guess I could make time for it. Have to cheer on my dear husband, don’t I?”
He gives me a wink. “I left you one of my jerseys to wear.”
“I dunno… I was thinking of repping number 35 tonight. Joining the Dallas Cooper fan club.”
All of a sudden, Seb’s hands are on my waist and he’s jerking me towards him. “I’m a jealous man, Madelyn,” he whispers in my ear. “So you’ll be wearing my name tonight, or nobody’s.”
The hot shiver that rushes through me is positively electric. He takes a step away from me, cool, calm, and collected as ever, while I’m a veritable puddle of fluster. Why does my husband have to be so damn sexy? And why does he have to know it?
I can tell that he knows how flustered I am, but he seems to take pity on me, because he simply nods. “See you tonight, Mrs. Slater.”
