Page 2 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate

Whatever he’s holding up looks official.

The blue-and-white document has both of our names on it: Finn Carrington and Noah Fitzpatrick.

It’s our marriage certificate.

CHAPTER TWO

Four days earlier

Noah

The yard has turned into a sludgy disaster. Rain rivulets down anything that can be termed a slope, and large brown puddles sit in the flat areas of the tiny yard in front of my triple-decker. I pull my hoodie up and sprint inside, ignoring the squelch of mud beneath my sneakers and the way the cool rain drenches my sweatpants.

I fumble with my key, my hands cold and slippery, and walk the two stories up to the apartment I share with three other guys. The dirty dishes that sat on the sink two days ago still remain, and the trashcan still bulges with cardboard pizza boxes, plastic macaroni-and-cheese trays, and burrito-smudged tinfoil.

It’s fine.

I’m in the AHL. I might not make a lot, but I get to play hockey for a living. This is my best life. Absolutely.

Clashing TV and video game noises blare and boom from my roommates’ rooms.

I consider knocking on Trevor’s door and reminding him about the dirty dishes, but I don’t want to be that guy. I didn’t think I was that guy when I interviewed for this room.

Instead, I put on the rubber gloves tucked beneath the sink. I may as well do the dishes myself. I don’t mind. If I can play hockey and stretch my body to the limit on a regular basis, blocking speeding pucks with my legs and torso so I’m speckled with bruises,I can deal with dirty dishes.

The rain hasn’t let up, hitting the windows with force, and though Providence’s downtown is nice, the last thing I want is a cold. Runny noses and throaty coughs don’t pair with hockey.

After a moment’s hesitation, I vacuum the living room and straighten the clutter. My body aches. If the bathtub didn’t always look terrible, I would fling myself into it, maybe with a bag of ice, but no matter how well I scrub it, I’ll have the memories of what it used to look like.

I showered at the rink after practice, so instead, I collapse onto my bed. Squeaking sounds from the next room, and I’m pretty sure Trevor isn’t seeing anyone. I pop in my knockoff AirPods and turn the volume up as I scramble for something to mask the sound of Trevor’s mattress shifting under his not unsubstantial size.

I wonder if I should follow Trevor’s cue and venture to the sleazier side of the internet. I could use a distraction. But the last time I went to an X-rated site, I found myself wandering porn categories I don’t normally visit. And even though the experience was...enjoyable, my stomach still tumbles. The less I think about that, the better.

Instead, I scroll SlickSlide, then go to OurVids to check if Finn Carrington has a new video. Thankfully, he does, and a jolt of excitement moves through me like it always does when I see his raised eyebrow and smirking lips on his profile picture.

I also have a missed call from Boston. I’ll get to that later.

I click on Finn’s video. His golden-brown hair curls in a tousled way like he stepped out of a nineteenth-centuryportrait. If people in nineteenth-century portraits wore tanks that displayed muscular arms and said “dude” all the time. His eyes dance, and I find myself staring at them, wondering whether they’re more blue or gray. The colors shift like the Atlantic, calm and reassuring.

I massage my sore muscles absentmindedly while I watch my hero make a green smoothie, explaining everything he puts in it. He cuts up a mango and lobs it into a blender with some spinach and a long list of other ingredients.

Finn Carrington also plays hockey. Unlike me, he’s in the NHL. He plays for the Boston Blizzards, one of the best teams on the ice. I watch his video and write down the ingredients he uses for his smoothie. I wonder if they sell African Baobab powder at my grocery store, then snort. Of course, they won’t.

I click on Amazon absentmindedly, still focused on Finn and his always enthusiastic tenor voice. He’s my age, but he got into the NHL right away, and he plays on the first line beside Evan McAllister himself.

Finn chugs his green smoothie, and I avert my gaze as his Adam’s apple moves. Which is crazy because there’s nothing sexy about Adam’s apples. Or guys, for that matter. Not unless you’re gay, which I’m not.

Probably not.

A night of wandering the internet’s interesting corners doesn’t mean anything. Even if it’s not exactly my first time.

My phone rings.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Noah. Good,”Coach’s voice is stern, and I stiffen immediately.

“Isaiah’s out for the season,” Coach continues. “You’ve been called up to Boston.”