Page 20 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

A New Old Tradition

LYDIA

I don’t know who had less fun on my first full day of fake wife duty.

Me, getting six years’ worth of neglect plucked, waxed, and resurfaced six ways to Sunday in order to be camera-ready.

Or Ingrid, forced to listen to me whine about handsy aestheticians owing me a drink and clothes I’d probably never wear again once my ninety days were done.

“Can’t I at least wear jeans that cost less than three figures?

” I pleaded, staring at myself in the mirror of a discreet, no-sign boutique I never would’ve guessed existed in Minneapolis.

It hosted only one client at a time, and we’d been ushered straight into a large dressing room with a raised circular platform, a rolling rack of clothes that turned out to be exactly my size, and a standing table topped with a bucket of champagne on ice and a tea service filled with little sandwiches and pastries.

Listen, I was never one to turn down a late-afternoon snack, and I couldn’t even be mad at the game-day outfit Ingrid and a triumvirate of ever-texting PR reps had picked for me: a peach- colored bodysuit that comfortably snatched my tummy into a pair of high-waisted jeans, which not only lifted my backside but made me look like a fertility goddess in the hips.

But I could already picture the therapy dogs, kids, and seniors in memory care staining it ten different ways. And at least two of those ways would definitely include bodily fluids—if I even got to return to the anonymous life I once knew after all this.

“Couldn’t I just wear a Raptors hockey jersey, like the other wives?” I asked to Ingrid.

A memory of pulling on one of Yom’s Gemidgee Yolks jerseys for his final championship game—white and egg-gold, with Rustanov stretched across the back—whispered through my mind. Made me quickly add, “We can grab a generic one at the rink shop.”

“Sorry, Lydia,” Ingrid said in that British accent that somehow made her sound both politely apologetic and the iron fist of authority. “PR’s saying this is the outfit. They’ve already let the designers know you’ll be wearing it at tonight’s exhibition game.”

So I walked into MinneDome Arena in the outfit the PR Pantheon had chosen, bracing myself for awkward small talk with the hockey wives and girlfriends—most who I hadn’t seen since the days I thought I might be joining their ranks.

But instead of steering me toward the family section, Ingrid led me down a familiar carpeted hallway and straight into the owner’s box.

It was like stepping into a time capsule.

Nothing had changed. Heavy mahogany paneling, every surface glinting with gold trim better suited to a hotel ballroom than a hockey arena.

A chandelier shipped over from Paris sparkled above a row of reclining leather chairs angled toward the ice.

The full dark-cherry wood bar was still there, along with the buffet table I remembered being more excited about than hockey as a kid.

Tonight, it was loaded with prime rib, lobster tails, hotdish, and an array of local cheeses—exactly what you’d expect from a Minnesota millionaire.

I still didn’t get the appeal of hockey, but my stomach growled in Pavlovian anticipation. I would’ve gone straight for a plate if not for the man standing next to the table.

Mr. Carrington—that was what I’d called him until I was ten, when he told me, “You might as well call me Dad now that the adoption’s official, kid.”

Right now, I didn’t know what to call him. The last time we spoke, I’d hung up on him. And I’d decided my adoptive parents were one more thing on the list of what I’d lost to Yom Rustanov, right under Innocence, Delusion, and my former best friend, Trish.

Mr. Carrington looked smaller than I remembered. Just a few inches taller than me, but still with the same jolly beer belly and slightly graying hair.

I swallowed and forced myself to walk over to the table. “Hi,” I said, picking up a plate.

“Hey there, kid!” he boomed back with a big smile. “Glad you could make it!”

So, I’d be getting the “Your Pal, Joey” treatment. Outwardly friendly while trying to decide how best to use you for his own gain—that was Joseph Carrington’s default.

Anyway…

I skipped over the German potato salad to spoon some hotdish onto my plate as I slipped back into my old, dutiful, and polite-to-a-fault mask. “Thanks for letting me sit up here with you for the game.”

“Of course. You’re still my daughter, aren’t you?” A disgruntled frown made his own mask slip. “Even if I had to find out on SportsGoss that you and Rustanov were back together.”

“Oh, well…” I grasped for both the mashed potato spoon and something to say.

Salvation arrived in the form of Clovis, the arena’s longtime owner’s box butler.

“Something to drink?” he asked with a warm tilt of his head. His mostly bald scalp was horseshoed by a ring of tight black-and-silver curls.

To this day, I still didn’t know if Clovis was his first or last name, but I didn’t care. He was a lifeline. “Yes, please, Mr. Clovis,” I blurted, using the same title I’d been using since I was ten—back when he was the only other Black person my father had regular contact with. “I’ll take?—”

Clovis held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t worry, Ms. Lydia, I still know your order. Or… should I be calling you Mrs. Rustanov now?”

He beamed toward the ice, where the Raptors were warming up, then back at me in a way that made me wonder if I should set him up with Pesya as a consolation prize for letting them both down in just 88 more days.

“A cognac for Mr. Carrington,” Clovis said with a sage nod toward the current Raptors owner. “And for you… a Brandt Crisp.”

Actually, I hadn’t touched that aggressively sweet, apple-flavored Weiss Fox Beer Company hard cider since college—back when my sweet tooth decided what I drank.

These days, Merry and I preferred to unwind with a bottle of red wine after an extra-long shift in the “dog mines.” But I didn’t correct him. Just smiled and nodded. “Thanks. That’s really nice that you remembered.”

Maybe Yom was right. Maybe I did have a tendency to accept discomfort instead of asking for what I really wanted.

Though there were some things I shouldn’t want. Definitely, definitely shouldn’t want….

My gaze drifted to the ice below, where Yom was doing the kind of warm-up stretches that always ended up in hockey thirst-trap reel edits.

“So you’re not pregnant, then?”

The blunt question jolted my eyes back to my father. “What? No.”

“When you and Yom got back together so abruptly, I thought maybe…” His voice softened into his natural, non–pally tone. Almost wistful. “Ah well. You still have plenty of time. C’mon, let’s get in our seats before the game starts.”

His words twisted in my gut, even as I followed him to a couple of seats in the front row. I thought of Merry’s oops baby and how once—long ago—I’d been jealous of it. I’d even let myself imagine my own belly swollen with Yom’s child before I knew what a disaster that would be.

Stupid. Stupid girl.

The first notes of the national anthem saved me from spiraling any further, and Mr. Carrington and I set our plates aside to climb to our feet. By the time it ended, Clovis was back with drinks.

I thanked him, taking the sweating glass of cider and trying not to let my gaze slide longingly toward the neat line of unopened wine bottles at the bar.

“Where is everyone?” I asked Mr. Carrington. “Usually, it’s a packed house in here.”

“Well, it’s just an exhibition game, and I haven’t much bothered with the box parties since losing the governor’s race.”

He stabbed his fork through two tater tots worth of hotdish, his jaw flexing. “And of course, your mom wanted to see you, but she’ll be at the event next Wednesday that I won’t be able to make, so…”

He set the plate aside and turned to fully face me in the seats. “I asked her to wait until I talked to you first. Alone. I mean, that last conversation between us got way out of hand, don’t you think?”

Oh, so this was a lecture, not a reunion.

I let my fork drop as well, suddenly not so hungry.

I felt like a teenager again, getting called into Dad’s office to talk about my grades, or me not trying hard enough, or— “Well, Lyds, here’s an early acceptance letter to University of Minnesota-Gemidgee,” a college I hadn’t even applied to.

“ ’Fraid that’s the best I could do for you with your high school performance, kid. ”

“I wish I hadn’t yelled at you when you broke off the engagement with Rustanov,” Mr. Carrington said, jolting me out of memories of lectures past. “I wish I hadn’t… taken our relationship for granted.”

I stared at him, waiting for the apology to ramp up into a lecture shoe-drop. But he looked serious. And a little sad.

“I’ve learned a few things since losing that election.” He cleared his throat and straightened the cuff of his branded black-and-electric-blue Raptors blazer. “Stanley Cups are nice. But relationships—those are what really matter.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I thought of Merry and Chris, and my throat ached. My chosen family meant more to me than anything—more than luxury boxes and trophies. “Does this… mean you and Paul have made up?”

Dad nodded. “Yeah… yeah. We actually have. No idea what happened, but about three years ago, shortly after I lost the governor’s race, he came back to us a changed man.

No more asking for money. No more coke habit, as far as I can tell.

It’s been real nice to have him in the family fold again after that brutal election. ”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

Even I hadn’t voted for Mr. Carrington, whose politics could most generously be described as business first, eff everybody else .

But I was genuinely happy that Paul had been there when Dad needed him.

It sounded like he was finally growing up and thinking of someone other than himself.

“It must be nice not to worry about him like you used to.”