Page 30 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Ollie

Dad: Jesus Christ. I hope to hell you made her sign a pre-nup.

S taring at the text my dad just sent isn’t doing me any good, but I can’t seem to stop. The fact that he doesn’t even ask what happened tells me all I need to know. He’s not surprised. He expects me to do impulsive, reckless things.

He’s resigned himself to the fact that his only child is a screw-up, and while I hate that, I hate the dig at Fallon even more. It’s not personal. He doesn’t even know her name, but it still irks me that his first thought is about money.

I can't worry about him now, though. His disappointment in me is old news, and I need to focus on figuring out what to do about the ring on my finger.

The chapel in the video I posted looks legit, and the fact that I keep screaming “We got fuckin married!” approximately every thirty seconds in the video I posted seem to indicate that Fallon and I are legally bound to each other now.

There’s so much to sort out, and I can’t do it on an empty stomach. My head’s still swimming a little, and I need massive amounts of grease to sober up. But breakfast is going to have to wait. Coach said he’d be here soon, and the man is never late.

Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door and when I open it, I’m surprised to see Coach is not alone. Ms. Valerie Grim is right behind him, clipboard in hand.

Damn. If he brought the PR expert along, he’s well aware of the situation. I guess I only have myself to blame since I’m the dumbass who plastered my nuptials on every social media platform I’ve ever even heard of.

Mickey gives his spinny chair up for Ms. Grim and Coach perches on the opposite corner of the desk from JT. Those two are so alike sometimes it’s eerie.

I hear the blow dryer turn on in the background, so I know we have a few minutes until Fallon joins us, which is good because Coach is probably going to ask me if I got my head stuck up my ass and while it might be a legitimate question, I’d rather he rip me a new one with as small an audience as possible.

Coach Baylor turns to face me, and I look for any sign of judgment.

I’m not usually overly concerned with the way people perceive me—it’s not something I care to waste my time on—but the trust Coach has put into me lately means more than I’d like to admit.

He challenged me to rise to the level of Captain, and I did it.

I earned my teammates’ respect, and Coach’s, too.

And now, instead of being the guy he can rely on, I’m just another item on the checklist of problems he has to solve.

Ms. Grim being here just adds to my stress because she has only ever seen me at my best. Just last week, she commended me for being organized and keeping the carnival committee ahead of schedule. And now, she’s here to clean up my mess.

Not that marrying Fallon was a mistake. I mean, it definitely wasn’t planned, but it feels wrong to put Fallon's name in the same sentence as the word “mess”.

“Let’s not waste any time,” Coach says, his gaze lingering on me and then moving to everyone else in the room.

“When I woke up this morning to a message from Ms. Grim, I figured a clip of Booker’s goal in last night’s game went viral or something.

When she told me one of my players was announcing his wedding to the entire internet, I thought she was joking.

So, before we go any further, I have to ask you, is this some kind of prank?

Some joke? A dare that blew way out of proportion? ”

I may not remember much, but something in my gut tells me that marrying Fallon wasn’t a joke. I’m a self-proclaimed attention-whore, but if this whole thing was the elaborate lead-in to a gotcha moment, then I feel certain that Fallon or I would remember that. “No, sir,” I answer.

“I know I don’t have to remind you that we narrowly dodged scandal this year and that the one thing I asked of all you was to focus on hockey.

” Coach is pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s staving off a headache.

Jesus. The last half hour of my life has been a series of revelations, but it never occurred to me that what Fallon and I did last night could affect the team negatively. Some Captain I am.

I wish I lived in a world where people minded their own damn business, but I don’t. And Coach freaking drills it into us that the only time he wants our names on TV is when we’re winning games. We only draw media attention for what we do on the ice, not how we act off it.

And yet, here we fucking are. I think Coach’s headache is contagious because my temples are starting to throb.

Having expressed his frustration, Coach has shifted into problem-solving mode.

“The fact is you and Fallon are married. The first order of business is to determine the legality of your marriage, and the second priority is to decide what our strategy is. That’s way beyond my scope, so that’s why Ms. Grim is joining us. ”

Those are not questions I can answer, so I’m relieved when Ms. Grim starts talking.

Ollie,” she says, smiling kindly, “it’s good to see you again.

I have a call into the university’s legal department and they’re checking on the establishment where you were married early this morning.

So far, it checks out, but I’ll keep you all posted if I hear differently.

For now, though, like your coach said, we need a strategy.

I’m going to be blunt. The optics on this aren’t great. ”

Mickey raises his hand. “Do people really care that a couple of college kids got married after a night in Vegas?”

“When those college kids are visibly drunk and one of them is the captain of a national championship-winning hockey team? Yeah, that’s headline-worthy,” Val Grim says, giving it to us straight. “And I’m sorry to say this, but sweeping this under the rug will be virtually impossible. “

Coach takes a deep breath. “It’s not the image we want to project or the example we want to set, especially since the athletic department came under fire just last year for.

We had no real involvement in that, but there’s no hiding this,” he says, gesturing to his phone.

“You were very vocal about your nuptials, Jablonski.”

“So what’s next?” JT asks, and I’m damn glad he’s voicing the question because I’m still processing the weight of my impulsive actions.

“The way I see it,” Ms. Grim says, “there’s one option.

You dissolve the marriage and then make a public statement acknowledging the importance of responsible drinking and sound decision-making.

Because you’re a representative of Bainbridge, the college will likely require you to attend substance abuse counseling.

Then we move forward and keep the focus on the team and your season. ”

“There’s no other option?” I hear myself ask.

“Well, you are, by all accounts, legally married. Let me ask you this. Are you both over the age of twenty-one?”

“I’m twenty-two,” I answer. “Fallon’s twenty-one as of midnight last night.”

Ms. Grim scribbles something in a notebook I hadn’t realized she was holding.

I’m still wondering what option two is, but before I can even guess, I hear the bathroom door open, and I watch as all eyes focus on my bride.

I can’t blame them. She’s a stunner. Fallon’s gorgeous when she’s wearing sweats and her hair’s in a messy bun on top of her head.

But right now, framed by the light streaming in through the window, she looks like a runway model.

I know from experience that clothing can function as armor, and that sometimes when you feel like shit, you need to look like solid gold.

I can’t speak to Fallon’s state of mind, but with loose waves that frame her face, barely-there makeup that makes her look like she just got back from the beach, and the outfit I handed her, Fallon looks ready to face whatever lies ahead.

The question is, does she want me by her side while she slays every dragon one-by-one?

It’s hard for me to take my eyes off the leggings that hug her hips and accentuate her waist, the sports bra top thing that shows the sexiest hint of midriff, and the chunky, oversized cardigan that hangs loosely off one shoulder.

But I peel my gaze away from her body long enough to capture her eyes with mine.

She and I have to be on the same page moving forward, even though neither of us can remember a thing.

Ms. Grim clears her throat, snagging my attention and making me realize I’ve just been caught staring at my wife.

“Fallon, let’s catch you up to speed,” she says, and I begin moving my hands to translate.

I can see Fallon has her hearing aids in, but Ms. Grim is a fast talker, and there’s a lot to take in.

“In light of your very public marriage to Ollie, the obvious choice is to dissolve the marriage and make public statements before moving on with your separate lives. There’s really no other option, unless of course you actually got married on purpose and want to stay married. ”

She’s making a joke, I’m sure, but somehow, that option is a lot more appealing than divorcing Fallon.

I wish we could have a moment alone to make sense of everything or get a feel for what’s going on in each other’s head.

But that would look fishy as hell, and I don’t want to give Coach or Ms. Grim any idea of just how surprised Fallon and I were when we saw the wedding band on her finger this morning.

I feel Fallon’s eyes on me and when I look up at her, I understand why.

Her brow is furrowed like she’s about to ask a question, so I take a step forward.

But then, in a move so quick I almost miss it, Fallon holds her hands in front of her, one on top of the other, her fingers loosely curled like claws.

As she moves them away from her body, they twist into the shape of an “s” before she points back at herself with her thumb.

Trust me?

My nod is immediate and decisive. I trust Fallon completely, and a vague memory nips at the edges of my tired brain. We had a conversation about trust last night, about how we’d never lie to each other. But whether we had it before we said our vows or after is unclear.

She moves from the bathroom doorway to the center of the room before taking a seat next to me.

When she tucks her hair behind her ear, I notice that her hearing aids are back in.

I know she prefers to go without them, but they’re necessary to help her navigate the hearing world, especially on a day like today.

She takes us all in and then looks directly at Ms. Grim. “We’re staying married,” she says, answering her earlier question.

The energy in the room shifts and even though I’ve got no clue what’s going on in her mind, I ride the wave, placing my hand next to hers on the bed. When she laces her fingers in mine, I’m hit with the feeling that everything is going to be okay.

It shouldn’t be.

There are so many questions, and not enough answers.

There’s a messy past between us, and a path forward neither of us ever saw coming.

I don’t know if it’s her rebellious streak or my go-with-the-flow demeanor, but I’m suddenly filled with confidence.

You’ve got to commit to the bit, right?

Nothing about this situation is remotely funny, especially not when coupled with the stern expression on Coach’s face, but the way Fallon’s hand feels against mine, tells me I’m all in.

To her credit, Val Grimm rolls on like this is a totally normal situation.

“Okay, so what we need to do is control the narrative. Please tell me you’ve known each other for longer than twenty-four hours? ”

“ Two years ,” I say, signing as I speak. “ Fallon and I met back when her brother was on the team. She visited a couple times.”

Ms. Grim’s eyes go wide, like this is the best news she’s heard since her phone blew up a couple hours ago. “That’s perfect—it’s part brother’s best friend, part friends to lovers.”

“More like enemies to lovers,” Mickey mutters under his breath, earning him an elbow to the ribs from JT.

“All right, so we’re spinning a classic love story.

You’ve been close for ages and got swept up in the Vegas vibe, and celebrating her birthday, and decided to take the plunge.

You’ve already captured the attention of the public,” she says, waving her phone in her hand, “so I want you to keep that momentum up. You’re not going on full blast or anything, but your socials will include each other and no matter what, you’ll project the image of a happy couple.

Any fights or disagreements you have, you keep those out of the public eye. Am I clear?”

Fallon and I nod, like we’re kids in a theater class who’ve been given the lead roles in a big production, but this isn’t a play. It’s real life.

That truth is made evident when there’s another loud knock on the door. Mick pops up and turns the knob.

Booker Zabek stands in the doorway. He’s known for being quiet and controlled, logical and methodical. But right now, he looks like he wants to methodically tear my body apart, limb by fucking limb.

“ What the hell, Ollie ?” he asks, and that’s a sure sign shit is serious, because Booker doesn’t swear, ever.

Before I can open my lips to attempt a response, he starts talking again.

“ We’ve been through this dozens of times.

You know my sister is off-limits. Every single time you made a comment about her or tried to invite yourself to a family dinner, I told you to keep dreaming.

Then I wake up to a million texts and screenshots of the two of you at a wedding chapel?

What part of ‘don’t date my sister’ did you not comprehend? ”

I feel Fallon tense next to me, but every muscle in my body is relaxed. With an easy smile and the cocky swagger that’s pissed off more than one opponent on the ice, I face my friend head-on. “ You said I couldn’t date your sister. You never said I couldn’t marry her.”