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CHAPTER 18

GUNNAR

“How’s married life, Gun-town?” Our first line center flicks a puck at me.

I kick it out of the way without having to look at it. “Better than your wrist shot, Rogers.” It’s not even a lie. Rogers has a hell of a wrist shot, but living with Emerson is incredible.

She’s always really happy to see me when I get home from practice, whether I watch at the door while she finishes playing or if she’s in the kitchen making us a snack when I arrive.

We cuddle on the couch and watch TV until I fall asleep. Then she wakes me up, and I always want to tug her into my bed, or sneak into hers, so I can spoon her all night. But I guess there’s time for that. We’ve got months left on this bargain.

Grentley is back on the ice today, but coach has me in the net while he works on the starting line. Grentley is not happy about it. I don’t blame the guy, but what does he want me to do? I’m playing great, and I know that’s because I’ve got an amazing home life. Brian kept pushing me to appeal to screaming fans, when it turns out I just needed an incredible woman loving me to really reach the next level.

Robert snaps another puck my way, and I have to stretch a bit, but I block it with my glove, dropping it behind the net for Alder to scoop up as he makes an arc along the boards. From my perspective, practice is going great.

I don’t say this to the guys, but I’m sure it’s Emerson's influence. She keeps me in a great mood, allowing me to train better. When I train better, I perform better. I’m even starting to feel like I’ve earned the right to be here. Okay, maybe I got signed in college because of the name on my back. Perhaps I was able to come up early after my brother’s injury because of the same name. But our starter is healthy, and coach still picked me today.

I block another set of shots until I hear the whistle announcing the end of practice. I’m totally caught off guard when Grentley shoves me against the wall in the tunnel to the locker room. “What the hell, man?” Regaining my balance, I shove back at him. Not hard. Because it's the same team.

He grunts and stomps ahead of me, turning a corner without explanation.

“Big baby,” I mutter, yanking off my gear and thanking the equipment manager, who hauls it away. I have a rotation I can barely explain for my leg pads and neck guard, but this guy always hands me the right shit and it hardly even stinks.

I try not to think about Grentley’s tantrum, which is difficult because he’s over in the showers oozing a black cloud of negative energy. The rest of the guys don’t seem to pick up on it. Morale is high as we head into our first real matchup this weekend. I’ve got the gala Friday night and then a home game against Buffalo on Saturday. That means I’ll get to see Emerson in that dress … and then Emerson in my jersey. Everything’s coming up Gunnar.

Brian sends a thousand messages while I’m in the shower, reminding me about the gala and who I have to suck up to at the hospital. I immediately think Emerson will help me with all that and then realize I’ve already come to rely on her for that stuff already.

I know it’s technically pretend, that we’re playing house. We’re also having explosive sex that’s both dirty and more intimate than I’m going to admit out loud.

I finish up in the locker room and whistle my way to the car, driving home to my wife…who I find staring out the window in a semi-dark apartment. “Hey.” I drop my bag and approach her from behind, startling her. “What’s up?”

She turns, smiling, and stretches up to kiss my cheek. “Hey yourself.” She walks to the counter and grabs an apple, beginning to slice it like I didn’t just find her staring into the Allegheny River.

Emerson slides me half the apple, and I place my hand on top of hers. “What’s up? Something’s different about you.” When she shakes her head, I raise a brow at her. “You were just staring out the window in the dark, and now you’re slicing up fruit like a robot. Talk to me, Salty.”

I bite into the apple, and she slumps forward, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t work with the music program. I can’t work anywhere.”

I slide onto the stool across from her. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“I have no work experience. You can’t gain experience without experience. Apparently.”

“Hmm.” I pop another apple slice into my mouth and nudge the cutting board toward Emerson, who hasn’t had any yet. “I know what you mean. This is actually my first job, too.” She huffs. I laugh. “Isn’t that wild? First job? Pro hockey goalie.”

“My first job was supposed to be with the symphony. So, I guess it’s not wild to me.”

We munch on fruit until the apple is finished. I scratch my neck, deep in thought. “You’ve played gigs before, though. Don’t those count as jobs?”

“You’ve played games before, too.”

“Fair. I got endorsements in college, though. Small ones.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger close together, recalling the low four-figure checks from video games and, once, a soup cracker deal. I pat her hand. “You’ll figure this out, Emerson, because you’re tough and smart. But let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

She shrugs, still looking down, but she agrees to cuddle with me on the couch while watching Yellowstone, so the evening still ends on a good note.

Emerson’s mood is low the next few days, but by Friday she seems to be all business. The plan is for me to rush home after practice, jump into my tux, and she’ll arrange for a car to get us to the gala. I have half a mind to walk since it’s only a few blocks up the hill, but my bride will be in heels, and that hardly seems fair.

We haven’t talked about anything substantial for the rest of this week, and we haven’t hooked up again either. It’s as if we’re really married now, stuck in the rut of routine. But a man can dream about his curvy wife in her sexy dress, right?

By the time I get myself situated on Friday, she’s dressed and smelling amazing. A scarf is draped around her shoulders, and her hair shines, cascading down her back in loose waves. I can’t focus on my tie after seeing her. It feels like the dress has become sexier since I last saw her try it on. Or perhaps she has just grown more beautiful the more I get to know her.

“Salty. Damn.” I swallow.

A gorgeous pink flush creeps up her cheeks, but she says, “You look nice, too, husband.”

“You’re not going to give me a nickname? I worked so hard on yours.”

Emerson snorts. “I’m not really a nickname person. You might be the only person I know who uses one.”

“Ah, babe. You can do it.” I finally get the tie sorted and dust off my shoulders, giving a little spin as she assesses me with a nod and a smile.

She sticks her tongue out. “What about Smalls? Because you’re so big…”

I wink at her. “I remember telling you to always remind me of that.”

We talk about nicknames as we wait for the elevator, as I open her car door, and as we pull up to the event. We get ushered into a new therapy suite in the hospital for kids with injuries. I learn that they have the most up-to-date rehab equipment for pediatric patients.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stag? Right this way.” A staffer greets us at the door. Emerson seems ready to just brush inside, but I pause.

“My wife is Ms. Saltzer.”

The young woman’s brows shoot up. “My apologies, sir. I will make a note of that for next time.” She hurries off, muttering into her headset.

Emerson frowns. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did. They had your name wrong. What if there were place cards?”

She rolls her eyes. “Gunnar. Your whole job here is to make people feel comfortable.” She gestures around the room. “These are the wealthy donors. You are the face of the organization. They can call me Mrs. Stag.”

“Well, I would like them to call you Ms. Saltzer.”

She’s about to snap back at me, but someone else approaches us at high speed. Another staff member, by the looks of it. “Mr. Stag, we were hoping we could get some photographs with you and some of the patients before things get rolling in here, if that’s okay?”

I nod. “Of course.” This is why I’m here. Kids and puppies. Or just the kids, I guess.

Tugging on Emerson’s hand, I prepare to follow the staffer alongside her, but the guy appears uncomfortable. He winces. “Actually … um…”

Emerson smiles and pats my arm. “Gunny, honey, they only want you.” I grimace, and she pats harder. “I will be just fine out here. Go meet your fans.”

And then I’m swept away to some patient rooms, where a few adorable kids tell me about their broken bones and torn ligaments while I sign hockey sticks and jerseys, smiling for the camera. This stuff is easy. I don’t even have to fake any facial expressions with kids. They make the best fans. It’s only when they get older and try to invade my privacy that I get twitchy around them.

“What’s up, little dude?” I approach a hospital bed where a kid with both legs in casts. He looks tired.

“Hi,” he says, in a flat voice.

“What’s up? You don’t like hockey?” I squat down so we’re eye level.

He shrugs. “Not like I can play anytime soon.”

I whistle and gesture to his legs. “Yeah, that looks pretty uncomfortable. But you’ll snap back for next season, right?”

He turns away and stares out his window. “If I can make the team next season.”

“Hey,” I lean in closer to whisper. “I’ve been sidelined for a full season before. In high school. Groin pull.”

He turns back, his eyes wide. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Seriously. I promise they’ll remember you next year.” The kid brightens after that, and I sign a jersey for him, taking a selfie with him before I’m dragged back to the gala. If this is what Brian wants me to do to establish myself as a household name, I’m golden. I love this shit.

The gala room is much fuller now, filled with people in their finest black and whites sipping wine. My gaze locks onto Emerson as she chats with the team owner, and I’m drawn to her like she’s pulling me across fresh ice. She’s so at home right now, talking and gesturing, a smile brightening her face. Except it’s not the same smile I’m used to.

I realize she’s performing right now. My heart sinks at the thought that I’ve placed her in a position her father often does, to schmooze with wealthy people for an agenda. Sure, it’s a hospital fundraiser and an objectively good agenda. But I don’t like knowing that I’m just another man in her life asking her to smile and look pretty for the rich folks.

I’m about to reach for her, kiss her on the cheek, when the director of the hospital shouts, “Ah! Gunnar Stag! The man of the hour.”

I turn to face him, smiling with my own performance expression. Brian prepped me for this. “Flaherty. Great event. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.” We shake hands very enthusiastically. “Have you met my wife, Emerson?”

Flaherty’s expression must be genuine as he smiles at her. “I had the pleasure just moments ago. My heartfelt congratulations. I understand the happy event occurred right after our agreement! I don’t mind if I do assume that our partnership inspired your nuptials.”

Emerson’s laughter is a tinkle, like little bells in the stuffy space. “That must have been it. Gunnar is genuinely excited about interacting with all the children.”

“I’m sure he is, darling. Have you met Bradford Rollings from the Kent Endowments?”

I lose sight of the puck with all the names tossed at me. As the night goes on, I shake hands with various fancy people while keeping one arm around Emerson’s shoulders, impressed at the way she keeps the conversation light and focuses away from herself. She remembers everyone’s names and facts about them. I feel like a stranger in a strange land, but I smile and thank them for their support whenever Emerson squeezes my hand.

I’m surprised to realize that a few hours have passed, and after several speeches and rounds of applause, we’re all dismissed into the night. One thing is clear to me: I owe my wife big time for her help this evening, and even more because giving me this support put her in an uncomfortable position.