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CHAPTER 15

EMERSON

I am having so much fun—actual fun, complete with jumping and yelling. Is this how other people just go about their lives this way? I can hardly believe how much I like this family.

Gunnar’s parents wait with me until he and the twins emerge from the locker room, dressed in jeans and T-shirts for our planned outing to what Gunnar calls a “chill bar” in a neighborhood called The Strip District. The name gives me pause, but my husband assures me it’s not called that for clubs and pole dancing, but rather the steel strip mills that used to operate there.

The door to the locker room opens, and a mass of giant men emerges, many stopping to shake hands with Gunnar’s dad on their way past us. I’m no stranger to having a famous father in my same professional field. But when I see Gunnar approaching, he doesn’t look anxious or upset by his father greeting his teammates the way I would with mine.

Gunnar barely seems to notice at all, in fact. Gunnar locks his blue gaze on me, and … I feel a pinch and tingle between my legs. I spent the day today doing research, hoping to get some time alone with him later to repay all the pleasure he gave me. A muscle in Gunnar’s jaw moves as he swallows, and he walks right up to me, past his parents, dipping to kiss me on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he whispers, his smile illuminating his entire face.

I bring a hand to my cheek, where I can still feel remnants of the black and gold face paint I recently washed off in the bathroom. I took off the turtleneck and borrowed ski cap, so I’m just wearing a jersey and jeans with my hair in pigtails. A casual look I would never, ever have considered in public before today. It’s one thing with this group, at the arena, where pretty much everyone is dressed this way. I’m still anxious about going out into the bar with Gunnar, where I know there will be fans with phones and photos.

But I forget to worry about all that when he tucks me against his side and his brothers announce that Ty and Juniper will drop us at the brewery the team rented out tonight for players, friends, and family. Ty grins as he steers us toward the ancient minivan, and Gunnar rolls his eyes. “Dad, you couldn’t bring Mom’s car?”

Gunnar opens the sliding door for me as Ty points out, “If I had, you and your brothers wouldn’t all fit, now would you? Emerson, you sit behind Juniper. The twins will do just fine in the third row.”

Alder and Tucker groan, climbing up and over the seats and cramming themselves in the back of the vehicle. I bite my lip and stamp down the guilt I feel at taking a spacious captain’s chair while the massive hockey players are so cramped. But the trio of brothers is soon joking with their parents about the game, so I try to accept that they’d tell me if it was actually a problem.

Juniper turns in her seat. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Ty brings the van to a halt and puts on his blinker, in line to drop us at the door. “Ready for what?”

Alder laughs. “Oh, three hundred or so rabid hockey fans. Hey! Tuck, did you say the women’s teams are here, too?”

Tucker grunts an affirmative sound, and my eyes widen. “I didn’t realize it would be so big.”

Gunnar leaps out of the van on the driver’s side and rushes around, offering me a hand. “It will feel small, I promise. We’ll set you up in the corner near the nice PAWs.”

“Paws?”

Tucker claps a massive hand on my shoulder, meeting my eye. “Partners and Wives. They’ll take care of you, even if you did shun them up in the box tonight.”

“Shun?” Had I already made a faux pas in this arrangement? I thought I did everything Gunnar said I should.

I feel mildly better when he elbows his brother in the ribs, making Tucker double over. “Don’t be like that, fucker.” He turns to me. “Em, nobody cares that you sat with my family. I promise they’ll love you. Let’s go inside.”

Our entrée into the building is so vastly different from a post-concert cocktail party that I really am not sure how to walk, where to look, or what to do with any of my body parts. Ever since the tabloid article yesterday and messages from my parents, I’ve been on edge, despite the dopamine injection from orgasms with Gunnar. I’m glad when he laces his fingers among mine, clasping my hand and tugging me forward. His voice booms above the rock music on the sound system as he says, “Cam, Essence, meet my wife, Emerson.”

A white man and a Black woman wearing Fury jerseys turn and smile at me, and the man throws his hands in the air. “Finally! We see her! Essence, she’s more beautiful in person, isn’t she?”

Essence nods. “We read all this crap online and saw all those out of context photos.” I’m not even sure what images she might be referring to, but I wince all the same. Whatever it was will just add fuel to my parents’ outrage. What will it look like if they start responding? Retaliating?

I remind myself that I’m secure right now. I have what I need.

I smile at my new companions. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m new to all of this.” I gesture around.

Cam nods and looks at Gunnar. “Well don’t be a douchebag, Gun. Get her a beer. We’re having the autumn ale.” Cam smiles at me. “I promise it’s good. Come sit!”

He and Essence gesture toward a wooden bench at one of the long tables in the back of the pub, which is spacious, featuring two long bars, hustling wait staff carrying trays of food, and throngs of excited people in Fury gear, as well as a large group of women in hockey jerseys, whom I assume are the women I watched play earlier. I smile and accept the drink Gunnar offers, reminding myself to muster the nerve to approach them and tell them how much I enjoyed watching their game.

Cam is dating a Fury player named Banksy, while Essence is married to the captain, who seems to be named Cappy. Beyond us, only a few of the current players have partners. Essence rolls her eyes and explains, “The team is in a rebuilding phase, which means the guys are young … which means they’re a bunch of promiscuous sex fiends.” As she talks, I notice some of the players getting friendly with women approaching them for autographs. Judging by the body language I’m seeing, the sex fiends will be happy.

Cam leans his elbows on the table and asks, “So do you know anything about hockey?”

I shake my head. “Today, I learned what a puck is.” I laugh nervously at first, then more freely when Essence and Cam chuckle knowingly.

Cam tells me he started dating Banksy about a year ago. “Banksy is my first athlete,” Cam says, clutching his chest. “But I’m still a theatre brat at heart.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m a symphony brat. So, sort of similar.”

Cam leans forward again. “Have you ever been in the pit for any cool shows?”

I shake my head. I’m about to begrudgingly explain my former life, awkwardly, when Gunnar taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, Salty. Come take a photo with me.”

“A photo?”

He nods. “Yeah, they have one of those selfie stations.” He points to the wall, where a group of female fans jump and clap as the Fury players hold glittery props and party hats for photos. My stomach drops at the thought of all that attention, but Gunnar squeezes my hand, and his brothers appear at my other side.

“Welcome to the family,” Tucker says. “We travel in packs.”

Cam and Essence give me a thumbs up, before returning to their beers when I start to move amidst my herd of Stag men.

I chuckle softly as a group of young women starts tugging at Tucker, pleading with him for photos. Some of the fans hold printed copies of the selfie booth images, hold up markers, and ask for autographs. It’s much more intense than the reception lines I’m accustomed to after a performance. And, frankly, the goal here seems more about physical connection than financial gain. However, as I look around at the excitement, I decide it’s all the more genuine. These athletes are performers as well, and why shouldn’t their fans feel thrilled to spend time with them after their game.

I’m probably reading too much into a sour look from one of the women as I make my way closer to my husband, who appears to have been swept up in the crowd of admirers. Alder remains at my side and lifts an arm protectively to usher me closer to the selfie station, but I’m soon jostled out of the way by a group of guys and women who are begging to get pictures with all three Stags.

The next thing I know, Alder is getting cozy with a guy in a tank top while Tucker has a woman under each arm.

I try to push my way back to my table, to the relative comfort of Cam and Essence, at least, when I notice Gunnar hugging one of the female hockey players. He seems genuinely happy to see her, and I had wanted to talk to the women’s team anyway, so I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk toward them through the crowd.

“Gunnar.” I place my hand on his upper arm and then, noticing once again how firm his muscles are, give his arm a squeeze. “Who’s this?”

“Hey! Ashley, this is my wife, Emerson.”

Ashley beams. “Your husband is so rad. He totally saved my post-match interview from being a misogynistic shit show.”

My brows shoot toward the exposed beams in the ceiling. “How did he do that?”

She rolls her eyes and waves a hand. “It’s too loud here to go into. You’ll find it online, I’m sure. But you’ve got a good one. Emerson, was it?”

I nod. “Yeah. Thank you. I really enjoyed watching your game. I didn’t even know there was a pro women’s league.”

Ashley is shoved from behind by a wave of people, and she reaches for my arm, steadying herself. She guides me toward the bar, where there’s more room. “Woo, that’s getting intense over there. Anyway, yeah. The women’s league is new. Supposedly, there will be some expansion teams next year.”

I look around for Gunnar, wondering where he went. I spot him trying to disentangle himself from an older woman who is attempting to kiss him on the cheek, bright lipstick leaving a smear on his face. “Man,” Ashley says. “They really do treat them like meat samples, don’t they?”

I roll my lips between my teeth. “Is this normal? You know this is all pretty new for me.”

“Oh, yeah. I notice it when I go out with my husband. I’ve been at this my entire life, and I still hate it. So, you’re absolutely right on track.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this “chill bar” experience being the norm for the rest of my life with Gunnar, but I remind myself that we are only in this for six months. Six months to get himself situated with his starting position and endorsement deals, and then I will pretend to break his heart and return to…a future still to be determined, I guess.

Gunnar must have shaken off the aggressive fan because, when he makes his way to Ashley and me at the bar, he’s alone, his eyes boring into mine. His arm snakes around my waist, and I feel instantly better, more secure. I listen politely as he and Ashley talk about goalie things. At least, I think that’s what they’re discussing with all this stomach chat and mental preparation references. It’s definitely related to hockey gameplay.

I reach for my neck idly, where in another life I’d wear pearls, but finding none, I remember Gunnar’s offer from the other day, and I remember my research on that. offer…alone in bed with my phone. The thought of it thrills me, which shocked me at first. I saw a few videos of the type of pearly necklace Gunnar joked about. My face heats at the memory of the fantasy my mind created about doing that with Gunnar.

As I remember our time together in the kitchen, I know that anything we do together naked will bring surprise and pleasure unlike anything else. Like he said, we’re in this for half a year. I realize that sex could add yet another layer of complication to our situation, but is the potential for explosive pleasure worth that risk? I can already sense that he’d make every encounter enjoyable for me. I just worry I might not be able to return the favor.

I absentmindedly run my fingers along his forearm, trying to decide, until Gunnar takes a deep breath.

“Ashley, it was awesome meeting you. Hit me up anytime. But I gotta get out of here.”

She nods and gives him a salute, melting back into the crowd on her way toward the other female players. Gunnar abruptly spins me to face him. “Salty. You’re killing me.”

My brow furrows. “What? What did I do?”

He shakes his head. “Tracing those damn fingers all up and down my arm, standing there. Looking hot as fuck in my jersey. And you’re making sex faces. We have to go home.”

“Sex faces? Home?”

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “If I don’t get you home immediately, I’m going to fuck you right here on this bar, and I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

I blink, pressing my legs together at the thought of his naughty words. “Oh.”

“Damn right, oh,” he says, striding toward the door and tugging me behind him. Outside, he raises his arm in the air toward the line of cabs outside the brewery, and before I can blink, I’m skidding across the back seat with a very large, very turned-on hockey player pressed against my side.