Page 1 of Playboy Husband

CALLUM

The second I stepped into the cold air at the rink, it felt like coming home. There was nothing like that frosty scent that carried the sharp bite of rubber, ice, and something frying at the concession stand.

I grinned and inhaled a deep breath. My mind flooded with memories of a time before I’d swapped my skates for a suit. God, I wish was back in college.

With the familiar clatter of sticks hitting pucks in my ears, I strode further into the rink. Nothing would ever be the same as playing Division One back at Cal Poly, definitely not the beer league I was in now, but I still looked forward to coming here every week.

It was better than not playing at all.

Gage was already there when I walked in, sitting on a bench, lacing up his skates while keeping a close eye on the kids currently carving up the ice.

My best friend, wingman, and the only guy I really trusted not to rat me out after a night of bad decisions, looked up at me with that same, easy smirk he’d had since college.

“Any bites on your wife ad, Casanova?” he asked, nodding at my phone in my hand like I was some lovesick puppy who couldn’t let go of the possibility.

I snorted and shook my head. “Not a one. So far, all I’ve heard are crickets. I haven’t even had a Hey, you spelled something wrong response.”

He chuckled, deep brown eyes filled with genuine amusement over my current predicament.

“Do you think maybe you picked the wrong paper? Some obscure, local rag that mostly features architectural developments in the community and business news isn’t exactly a reading magnet for prime dating material. ”

“That’s exactly why I chose it.” I crossed my arms, watching the last group of kids finish their practice. “It seemed like a smart way to weed out the gold-diggers and the socialites. They wouldn’t be caught dead with that kind of website in their browsing history.”

He smirked. “It’s also a real smart way to find the weirdos who have nothing better to do than have that kind of website in their reading list.”

I groaned and raked a hand through my hair. “Those are fighting words coming from a guy who traded hockey for the broker life but still can’t really let go so he coaches kids on the side.”

“Shots fired,” he joked, throwing his palms up in surrender. “Paternal pressure makes you cranky, man. Cranky and mean.”

“I know.” I sat down hard beside him and slid my duffel bag off my shoulder, bending over to fish out my skates.

“Harlan is all over me these days, playing the good old dad and calling his son at least three times a week. There have been days when I wasn’t even sure he remembered my name, but nooo.

Now that I don’t want to hear from him, it’s ‘Callum, you have to get married,’ and ‘Callum, we’ll never take you seriously unless you bring home a wife. ’ It’s ridiculous.”

Gage smirked again. “Careful, your middle-child syndrome is acting up again.”

I rolled my eyes instead of flipping him off since there were so many kids around. “Let’s just say I’d give any car in my collection to go back to flying under the radar. Hell, I’d dive off the fucking radar if I could, but he ain’t having it.”

A few months ago, Daddy Dearest had decided it was time for my brothers and me to get serious.

Apparently, we couldn’t do that unless we were married, so naturally, that meant that despite us all being single—happily so, at the time, I might add—he’d started putting the screws to us one by one to find fingers and put rings on them.

Sterling had fallen first. The oldest. Next in the line as the Westwood and Sons CEO when dad retired. He’d taken it like a champ, following Dad’s orders as efficiently and immediately as ever.

As soon as he and his brand new wife had announced they had a bun in the oven to boot, the mighty Harlan Westwood had turned his sights on Jameson, the second oldest. Jamie had gotten lucky.

After trying to fight Dad’s ultimatum for all of about five minutes, he’d rekindled an old spark that had been smoldering for years, and Sadie had been his wife a month later.

Assholes.

Now, it was my turn, and ever since my brothers had gotten hitched, the pressure had been nonstop. Dad sure as hell remembers my name now. It’s been barrels of fun. Big ass freaking barrels.

“Maybe the best way to get off his radar is to just do it already,” Gage offered as if it was a brilliant, novel idea.

I scoffed. “And by just do it already, you mean get married?”

“Yep.” Skates laced up, he finally stood and grinned down at me. “Let’s face it, man. You’ve never had any shortage of takers, so go out, flash that famous Westwood smile around a little bit, and take your pick.”

“I wish it was that simple.” I really did, but this was the rest of my life we were talking about.

Nothing about this was simple, easy, or even right as far as I was concerned.

“It’s not like I can go up to some girl in a club and ask, ‘Hey, can I buy you a drink? Would you like some ice and a ring with that?’”

What made it even more difficult was that I’d never been the relationship type. Arranging a marriage in modern-day San Francisco was weird enough, but doing it when you didn’t know the first thing about what it would take to actually make it work?

Torture.

I’d been a serious dog in high school, and frankly, I’d been even worse in college. I’d had a reputation for sleeping with anyone who so much as looked in my direction and I’d earned it. Loud and proud.

Now, at twenty-eight, I still wasn’t sure if I was ready to settle down, but the game was getting old and I was tired of running in circles. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I magically knew how not to play it.

“Sure you can, bro.” Gage laughed. “Just tell her the ring she’d be getting with her beer is from the Westwood vault. Your family is like royalty in this town. Any chick would say yes.”

I bent over to lace up my skates. “Any chick who would say yes just because the ring might or might not come from that vault isn’t a chick I want standing at the altar with me.”

“Spoken like a true rich boy,” he joked, but I was pretty sure he was also being serious. “Are you ready? The kids are going to start winding down soon and we’d better warm up or we’ll snap our ankles.”

I sighed and nodded, muscles twitching with the old rush of knowing a game was starting soon. As I stood, I caught a glimpse of a boy who was slicing through defenders like they were cones, an absolute blur on his skates.

“Check out that little dude.” I let out a low whistle. “He’d go pro if he had a better coach.”

“That’s Brody, and this coach would help him go pro if I could.” Gage laughed. “He’s a beast on the ice. Reckless. Wild. Unstoppable. Actually, now that I think about it, he kind of reminds me a little of you, but he doesn’t have the discipline.”

I squinted at the kid. His dark hair was tousled like he’d just wrestled the wind, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “How reckless can he really be? He’s tiny. Maybe the discipline will come.”

Gage snorted. “Trust me, for a seven-year-old, he’s pretty damn reckless.”

“Seven, huh?” In that case, he seemed tall for his age. Not tiny at all. “He’s good. You’ve got to give credit where it’s due. Reckless and wild or not, he’s talented.”

“Yeah, he is good. He’s also a bit of a problem child on and off the ice, which is where the trouble lies, but hey, his mom is really hot, so there’s that.”

Our game was called and the ice cleared, Brody leading the charge. Gage clapped me on the back. “Are you ready to remind those old dudes who’s boss?”

I smiled, lacing my fingers tight around my stick. “We are the old dudes, but sure. Let’s go show the other old dudes that we’ve still got it.”

Putting the kid out of my mind, I made my way to the ice and warmed up with Gage while the rest of our team joined us one after another.

Most came from their day jobs or dropping their kids off at extracurriculars.

We did a few laps to get our blood pumping while we waited for the visiting team to gear up, and then we were off.

As always, the game started fast, our rival team all bark and little bite, but at least a few of their players kept things interesting.

Even though this was just a beer league, I felt that old rhythm kick in as we played.

The rush of adrenaline when I chased the puck, the snap of my skates against the ice, and the sharp edge of the stick in my hands still got under my skin.

Ice rinks, football fields, wrestling mats, golf courses—any place where sports were played, really—were in my blood.

This was where I was most in my element, and despite always having known that a pro career wasn’t in the cards for me, I could still hold my own.

Gage and I traded jokes and digs as we tore up the ice, and by the third period, my muscles were burning, but I was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

Our weekly game was my break from the chaos in my world and the constant pressure from my family’s expectations. Playing made me feel free. And I didn’t have to be a star anymore to love this game—and pretty much any other.

After the final buzzer went off, beers and burgers at a loud, crowded bar nearby were practically mandatory.

I clung to even this tradition like a lifeline, loving the camaraderie of all the guys who talked hockey and life like they were the same thing.

Once we had burgers in front of us, Gage looked over at me, beer in hand and that knowing grin on his face.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Are you going to keep fishing in that weird community paper or move on to the big leagues?”

“Depends,” I said. “What’s your definition of the big leagues?”

“Dating apps.”

I snorted. “No way. I might not be drowning in replies from my ad, but at least I’m not wasting my time on people who are either only looking for hookups or who would recognize me immediately. I’m telling you, I’m not getting hitched to some social-climber, gold-digger, or both.”

“Is this really the time to be picky?”

“We are talking about marriage,” I said pointedly. “Generally, when it’s about who you’re going to be spending the rest of your life with, you’re entitled to be picky.”

When I’d placed that ad, I’d told myself that at least it was a fishing line in the water. A line which, as I realized when I got back to my sleek apartment downtown, finally had a bite.

Exhausted but restless, I powered up my laptop after I got home, my fingers hovering over the email I’d set up specifically for the ad. Eventually though, I clicked on it and blinked hard when I saw the message waiting in my inbox.

My heart galloped and my eyes were glued to the screen. Right there in front of me was a reply that, from the looks of it, had been written and sent by an actual woman.

My future wife possibly.

For a long beat, I just sat there and stared at the words she’d written. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just an idea or a future problem.

Somewhere out there was a woman who had seen my ad and who had liked it enough to respond. That, in and of itself, was a fucking miracle. She was either crazy or she was perfect. My future wife, or my next bad decision.

Or, worst case scenario, the message had come from a middle-aged man who exclusively wore elastic waistband sweatpants, had permanent stains on his fingers from all the Cheetos he ate, and lived in a studio apartment that smelled like instant ramen and his own sweat.

Maybe if I brought Joe Blow home to meet my folks my dad would get off my back about this whole marriage thing. Not likely.

I’d cast my line and caught a fish. All that was left to do was decide if this was a catch and release situation or not.