Page 27

CHAPTER 26

GUNNAR

I am a man possessed during the game against New York. At one point, I almost get into a fucking goalie fight with their center, but I secure a shutout for the Fury and hurry my ass back to my wife at the hotel. I’ll pay whatever fine Coach decides…I’m not rooming with Banksy. Not when Emerson is shaken up and needs me.

I blow off a media interview and barely shower, rushing outside to grab a cab and practically sprinting through the lobby to get to the elevators and up to Emerson’s room. I have the key programmed into the app on my phone, so when I slip in, I find Essence and Cam passed out on the couch in the sitting area, and I gently wake them up.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Thank you both so much for staying with her.”

“Of course.” Cam rubs his eyes and looks at his watch. “You shouldn’t be here yet.” He arches a brow at me.

I grin. “I might have blown off some responsibilities and punted to your guy.” I tug at my collar. “I’m not going back to my room with Banksy. Make of that what you will.”

Cam ushers Essence, still half asleep, into the hall and mutters something about getting her to her room before he makes an entrance. I grin briefly but then head into the bedroom of Emerson’s suite.

She’s on her back with an arm over her face, breathing slow and deep. Good, asleep. Relief floods my system as I yank off my shoes and pants, toss my shirt on the floor, and crawl into bed beside her. She sighs in her sleep and curls against me, and I hold her, stroking her hair and trying not to get out of this bed to murder her asshole parents.

My phone alarm goes off around six, and Emerson groans at the noise. “You can sleep if you want,” I whisper, running my fingers through the silky strands of her hair. “I’m doing the milk thing before ice time today.”

She sits up. “Oh god, I forgot about your ad! You wanted me to be there.”

I gradually sit, feeling the strain of last night’s game in my muscles. I shouldn’t have skipped a post-game massage, that’s for damn sure. “Hey, Salty, you don’t have to do anything that feels overwhelming. I can paint a milk mustache and look cute without you. Promise.”

I wink at her, and she groans. “No,” she says, crawling out of bed and treating me to a glimpse of her luscious thighs. “I can do this. I can be a sideline fan. Or whatever. A fluffer? What’s my role here?”

“Babe.” I stand up. “Fluffer is a completely different industry.” She grins, and I shake my head, looking around for my pants. I’ll have to just wear my post-game suit to the studio and hope they’ll dress me how they want. I glance around the room, noticing a zillion tiny bottles in the trash and room service trays scattered everywhere. “I’m glad you had an okay night despite everything. You feeling okay?”

She laughs. “Not going to lie, I could go for a greasy egg sandwich.” She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

The two of us get ourselves together and walk through the lobby, politely declining the doorman’s offer to call a car. I crave that greasy sandwich Emerson mentioned, and she assures me she knows just the hole-in-the-wall spot to grab it, which we do en route to the studio address that Brian has texted me at least 35 times.

“Gunnar Stag here for the milk ad,” I tell the security guard, and their entire demeanor changes. Em and I are escorted through the building to a bustling studio filled with bright lights, cameras, and a thousand people running around with boxes, trays, and equipment.

“Gunnar!” A young white guy with a goatee and a clipboard approaches to shake my hand…very enthusiastically. “I’m Mitch, and I’m going to get you to wardrobe. And who do we have here?” He raises an eyebrow and glances at Emerson, who smiles.

“This is my wife,” I tell him.

Mitch grins. “Well, Mrs. Stag, let’s get you?—”

“She’s Ms. Saltzer,” I correct him. Emerson looks exasperated.

“Emerson,” she says. “I’m just here for support.”

Mitch nods. “I’m so sorry about the name mix-up. Emerson, let’s get you set up with craft services while we get this guy 'stached up.”

He guides her away, and she waves as a flock of black-clad studio staff tugs me toward a dressing room. Before I can form words, I’m stuffed into fake hockey gear and a generic Fury jersey, my hair greased up to look sweaty, and a white gloopy mustache painted on my face.

Mitch claps his hands in approval at the sight of me and points a finger toward the ceiling. “This is very important, Gunnar. You must not actually drink the glass of milk when you’re doing the commercial. It’s not milk. Okay?”

I hear Emerson giggle from the side, and she waves at me, holding a giant glass of (apparently) actual milk. This whole place is a buffet of dairy, which makes sense. Emerson holds a plate of cheese and seems to be eyeing a giant tub of yogurt. I pat my stomach, already hungry after digesting the egg. “Babe, save me some of the Gruyere.”

She nods, and, after finishing her milk, sets the glass to the side and gives me a thumbs up. I enjoy having her here and seeing her relax with the support staff. I appreciate when she’s nearby because I know she’s being cared for and happy.

It turns out that shooting a milk commercial is pretty easy. There will be footage of a body double in a hockey goal, saving shot after shot. Why they don’t use me for that part, I’ll never know, but Mitch says not to worry about it. My entire job is to act like I’m exhausted, peel my helmet off, fake-chug a glass of milk, and then slap the helmet back on. Brian says I’m not even allowed to talk on camera because that’s a different set of rules, and there’s an actor’s union involved. Works for me.

I raise and lower the helmet a few dozen times until the director yells, “Let’s wrap. Great work, Gunnar.”

I hear Emerson whoop, and, apparently with Mitch’s permission, she rushes toward me with a cube of cheese on a toothpick. “You look so cute.” She feeds me the cheese and pecks me on the cheek.

“Okay, you two are adorable.” Mitch shakes his head. “Super sweet. But Gunnar, we have another athlete coming in, so…” He drifts off, pointing toward the dressing room, and I nod, rushing to get changed and return to Emerson.

She’s holding a brown paper bag, grinning, when I finish up. “That was so fun. I like the open bar. Of cheese.” She hands me the bag. “I stole some Swiss for you, husband.”

“Best wife ever,” I joke, draping an arm around her shoulders. Once we’re back outside, I pull her toward a bench and gesture for her to sit. “Can we talk about the rest of today? I want to make sure you’re okay since I’ll be tied up from basically now until midnight.”

She purses her lips and nods, tapping her hands on her legs. “Yeah, I hate that I missed watching you play last night. It’s Grentley’s turn to play today, right?”

I nod. “Listen, if you want to go back home, we can arrange that. If you want to stick around, I’ll make sure Cam and Essence are good to guard you with their tiny lives.”

She puffs out a laugh and stares at the bustling morning traffic of the city. New York is far busier than Pittsburgh, with an angry edge to it. Or perhaps that’s just my rage simmering not too far below the surface. “What are you thinking?” I squeeze her hand and look into her eyes.

She smiles and tilts her head. “You referred to Pittsburgh as home, and … it felt right. Is that weird? I’ve barely lived there for a month …”

“Not weird at all.” I adjust my posture so I’m facing her, sitting sideways on the bench. “Having you at my place feels right. I can’t imagine the apartment without you. I’m serious.”

She smiles for real this time, looking up into my eyes. A sunbeam breaks through a cloud and reflects off the building behind us, bathing Emerson in a peachy glow. She’s so damn beautiful that I can’t help but lean in and kiss her, deeply and properly, drawing a breathy moan from her throat that I want to memorize and cherish forever.

I’m falling for this woman. Hard. I know it in every fiber of my being. Then I remember that what we have is precarious, built on impulsive, reckless mistakes. I exhale slowly through my nose. “What are you thinking?”

She bites her bottom lip, her teeth digging into the plump, delicious flesh. “There’s a lot I could accomplish today with Scale Up. It might help me feel more grounded if I stay busy. I hate missing your game, but …”

I draw her in tight and press a hand to her head. “Salty, whatever you need. Always. You come first, okay?” She nods against my shirt, and I hold her for a few more minutes before pulling out my phone to call Brian, who immediately sets some plans in motion to get her back to Pittsburgh.

We go to the hotel, gather her things, and I wait with her until the black sedan rolls up to take her to the airport. I kiss her more thoroughly than I ought to in public, and I’m fairly certain some people take pictures of us, but what the hell do I care if others see me making out with my wife?

Morning skate is terrible. I’m distracted, and Coach is pissed. I ride the bench the entire game while Grentley secures us another shutout. Nobody asks me to stick around for media interviews, so I take my sweet ass time in the shower and wait for the team bus. We’re flying back tonight, so no one goes out to get wasted before our next series of home games.

Fine by me. The sooner I get back to my wife, the better.

I pull out my phone to call her from my seat on the bus, and my heart skips a beat when I see my notifications.

FURY AND FLAMES: HOCKEY'S HOTTEST SCANDAL

BuzzLine Sports Exclusive

Star Pittsburgh goalies Gunnar Stag and Ashley Weber have been spotted getting cozy at multiple league events, raising eyebrows across the NHL. Sources close to Weber's husband, Boston netminder Jack Thompson, suggest that his recent slump may be linked to tension both in the crease and at home. The Fury's rising star Stag, despite his recent marriage to NYC socialite Emerson Saltzer, has been photographed engaging in "intense conversations" with Weber at charity events and post-game meetups. "Their chemistry is undeniable," says one source who wishes to remain anonymous. "It's not just about hockey." The league office has expressed concerns regarding professional conduct, especially given Thompson's position as Boston's franchise player. Representatives for all parties declined to comment, but one thing is clear: this season's goalie matchups just became a lot more personal.

RELATED:

Thompson's Save Percentage Drops Amid Personal Drama

Who is Emerson Saltzer? The Maestro's Daughter Making Waves

Top 10 NHL Power Couples

I nearly choke on my own saliva reading that absolute garbage of a “news” story, but I don’t have long to simmer over it because Brian starts calling.

“Yeah.” I don’t even bother with a greeting, and he doesn’t waste any time on small talk.

“G Stag, we might be fucked. You need to tell me if there’s anything to this.”

I tug on my hair with my free hand. “Jesus, Brian. Of course not. You have to know I’m gone for Emerson, man. Fuck.”

He hums. “That’s interesting. Okay. Well, this is going to get worse before it gets better.”

I kick the seat in front of me, thankfully not hard enough to damage it or my foot. “Brian, I can handle this and any fallout, but I don’t want Emerson dragged into this. Do you know her parents came to the fan fest last night and screamed at her? It was disgusting.”

He gasps, which is super unusual for him as he’s more prone to cursing and yelling at his staff. “Oy vey, Gunnar, you need to alert me when these things happen. Remember, I can take care of anything I know about in advance. Why didn’t you tell me they came to the arena?”

“I don’t know, man, I was a little focused on getting them the hell away from my wife.”

The team begins to file onto the bus, and half of them are staring at me. I flip off the twins, but they sit in the seats directly in front of me, turned around and staring while I talk to our shared agent.

Brian sighs. I can just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. “Gunnar, this isn’t good, dude. I received some intel that the source had really specific information about you and Emerson. Now I find out her parents crashed your fan fest?” He’s likely about to start chugging Tums.

“What are you getting at, Brian?”

“Gunnar, I’m going to need some time with this. I’ll speak to the coaching staff, but please promise me that you and Emerson will avoid any contact with her parents. Expect calls in the morning.”

“Yeah.” I stare at my brothers, who have their phones in hand and eyebrows raised. They know. I guess word is out. “Thanks, Brian.”

He begins yelling into his other phone before he even hangs up with me. It’s a long and miserable journey back to Pittsburgh.