Page 11 of The Fake Husband Play (That Steamy Hockey Romance #1)
Chapter
Six
ELLY
I am currently in Grammercy Graves’ fancy car…
Sitting next to Grammercy Graves , the only man to ever melt my panties through a television screen with nothing but a wink and a grin.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be having a full-blown fangirl meltdown, complete with hyperventilation and pinching myself repeatedly to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
But right now, my heart is racing and my thoughts rush in frantic circles, imagining all the scary things that could be happening with Mimi at the emergency room. All this luxury—the plush seats and futuristic dashboard; the posh British voice guiding us through the city streets—feels surreal.
It’s like that Sliding Doors movie.
I stepped into that closet as one woman and stepped out another, a version of Eloise Thibodeaux with a shinier, easier life. A life where I don’t have to fight for an Uber in the Friday night rush. A life where a very kind (very handsome ) and shockingly down-to-earth guy has my back.
Grammercy is even more amazing than I imagined he would be, and I’ve done my fair share of fantasizing about this man. But the way he listens? The way he seems to care about the struggles of a complete stranger? The way he smiles, like he means it.
Like he genuinely thinks I’m funny…
Hell, I may need to have my heart checked while we’re at the hospital. I’m pretty sure the force of this man’s sweet, sexy grin has done permanent damage to my aorta.
Even the way he drives is perfect.
He drives like he plays hockey, controlled but fluid, confident without being cocky. His hands rest on the steering wheel like they belong there, and every few seconds, he glances my way, monitoring my emotional state along with the traffic.
And how is my emotional state, you may ask?
Frantic, but not losing my mind with worry, which is kind of crazy.
Usually, I would have WebMD-ed my way into a panic attack by now.
I’ve done intensive research on juvenile arthritis.
But every time Mimi ends up spiking a sudden fever or developing a new co-morbidity, it’s like I’m back at square one, scared and desperately searching for a reason to believe my baby is going to be okay.
And yes, Mimi is still top of mind—I won’t be anything close to resembling okay until I’m with her—but another part of my mind is replaying that moment in the closet. The one where Grammercy caught me as I fell and pulled me against him.
The way his hands lingered on my waist as his gaze dropped to my lips flickers on repeat on my mental screen, making me keenly aware of how close we are right now.
How good he smells…
How much I want to bury my face in his neck and memorize the scent of his cedar and sea air cologne…
Get it together, woman. Your daughter is in the hospital with a fever that could fry an egg.
Valid, Inner Voice , I acknowledge. So valid.
I’m already in the middle of a shame wave when my phone buzzes against my thigh, finishing the job of jolting me back to reality.
Nancy:She’s doing better! After the IV meds, her fever is down to 102. She’s still asking for her mama, but the pain seems to be backing off, too.
Elly: Thank God! Tell her I love her to the moon and back, and I’ll be there soon. I got a ride from a nice guest at the party, so I didn’t have to fight for an Uber downtown.
Nancy: Good! Drive safe, and I’ll let Mimi know her mama is getting close. She’ll be so happy.
“Mimi’s fever is coming down,” I say, breath rushing out as I sag into the seat, letting my phone flop back into my lap. “My babysitter said the IV meds are already working. ”
“That’s great news,” Grammercy says. “But I’m not surprised. I’ve heard good things about the Children’s Hospital. We’re lucky to have such a great place for NOLA kids to get help.”
“As long as they take your insurance.” The words come out sharper than I intended, and I immediately feel like an ungrateful jerk. After all, I still have good insurance. For now… “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound bitter or ungrateful.”
“You don’t,” he says, eyes locking with mine as we pause at a red light. “You sound like a mom who loves her kid and hates that the world is so fucking unfair sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Thanks,” I say, touched. And yes, a little tingly.
But damn…he gives some electrifying eye contact.
I’m almost glad when the light turns green, and I can breathe easier again as he focuses on the road.
In just a few minutes, we leave the familiar chaos of the French Quarter behind, heading into the Garden District. Grammercy’s sleek car speeds past sprawling mansions with yards overflowing with oak trees and secrets.
You can feel the ghosts in this part of town, but I kind of like it.
Knowing how fraught our city’s past has been makes me feel less alone.
People have always struggled in NOLA. But people have also risen and triumphed and changed things for the better.
People have partied and danced and laughed in the streets with the people they love, and that’s part of the spirit that haunts New Orleans, too.
Dark and light. Love and hate.
Hope and despair…
We have it all, and I love that about my hometown. It’s why I’ll probably never leave, no matter how hard things get. I’m a part of this land, this city, the spirit of the place where the bayou meets the sea.
“I love this part of town,” I say, gazing out the window.
“Me, too,” he says. “It feels haunted, but…in a good way. If that makes sense?”
I jerk my focus back to his profile, wondering if reading minds is one of his many talents. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He shoots another stomach-pitching grin my way. “Guess great minds think alike, Miss…” He arches a pointed brow. “No pressure, but I would like to know your name. If you feel like sharing it.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I say, exhaling a shaky laugh as I realize he’s right. “I’m Eloise, but everyone calls me Elly. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too,” he drawls. “I’m?—”
“I know who you are,” I cut in. Pretending otherwise would be a big fat lie.
I’m not about to tell him that I’m his number one podcast stalker fan, but there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to fudge the truth.
“Grammercy Graves, Stanley Cup winner, hometown boy, kid brother to Grant Graves, rookie of the year, former Badger, now with the Voodoo and primed to give us an opening season NOLA will never forget.” I exhale an only slightly awkward laugh.
“I’m very excited to have you home and playing for us. Very, very excited. Big fan.”
“Really? You follow the game pretty closely, then, huh?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice, and I think, a sliver of delight.
That sliver is enough to keep me gushing, “I’m a complete hockey nerd.
Have been since I was a kid.” Hockey has always been a safe place for me, something I can geek out about without feeling like a weirdo.
That’s one of the best things about being a sports fan—the other fans are always there to normalize your crazy.
“My foster dad was obsessed with the game. We used to drive all over the south, catching minor league games whenever he could get time off work. We even saw your brother play once before he joined the Hucksters.”
“That’s so cool,” Grammercy says, his smile widening. “And rare down here. When I first started playing as a kid, half my fifth-grade class had no idea what ice hockey even was. They thought I was making it up.”
“Well, not super surprising given the Louisiana heat, but Papa Jim was raised in Minnesota. He grew up playing on frozen lakes and community rinks and watched every game on TV. He taught me to love the game, especially the old-school style.” My brows drift up.
“He had a lot to say about faking injuries to draw a penalty or running down the clock when the team’s already ahead.
Nothing pissed him off more than a pansy-ass game. ”
Grammercy laughs, a rich sound that fills the car and makes my lips tingle. “Sounds like my kind of man.”
“He was the best,” I agree, hesitating only a beat before adding, “He would have loved your game. If he were still around.”
Grammercy sobers, and I immediately regret bringing down the vibe.
Again. Between my rough childhood, dead foster parents, and sick kid, I’m well aware that my life skirts a little too close to “gothic tragedy” for a lot of folks.
I’ve had more than a few people learn my backstory and decide to steer clear of me altogether.
There’s a certain segment of the population that believes misery is catching. Or that you must have done something to deserve your hard road, either in this life or the last one.
But somehow, I know Grammercy isn’t like that, even before he says, “I’m sure he’s still around. In his way. I don’t think the people we love are ever gone for good. Not when we carry all the memories we made with them and aren’t shy about sharing them.”
I just about melt through the buttery leather seat.
Could he be any more perfect?
“I agree,” I say. “I tell Mimi stories about Papa Jim all the time. I want her to know him, too, as much as she can. He passed before she was born, but he was such a lover. He would have adored every curl on her sweet little head.”
I sit up straighter, pulse picking up again. “Speaking of, we’re almost there, and there’s a shortcut to the emergency department. When we reach the hospital, take the second turn, then pull around behind, and we’ll pop out right in front of the ER.”
“Will do.” Just a minute later, we’re pulling into the hospital complex, the sprawling buildings of Children’s Hospital rising before us like a mini medical city.
I’ve been here too many times in the past few years.
I know all the shortcuts, every sneaky place to park, and the smell of institutional disinfectant haunts my dreams on the reg.
The familiar silhouette makes my stomach clench with another wave of anxiety.