Page 4 of The Fake Husband Play (That Steamy Hockey Romance #1)

The question catches me off guard, but only for a second.

After all, I don’t have anything to hide.

Every fist fight I started in high school kept me and the people I loved safe.

I don’t regret a single one of them, which makes it easy to shrug and smile.

“Depends who you ask, I guess. My mama wasn’t too happy about all the street signs I stole on weekends, but I never got caught. ”

Merwood grunts. “Your mama still lives here?”

“Yes, sir. She’s got a cute little place in the historic district. She’s turning it into something really special. Beanie’s got a knack for decorating.”

“Beanie?”

“Nickname,” I explain. “Everyone’s got one in NOLA. Mom got hers for being the tiniest, feistiest nurse in her graduating class. They said she was like a Mexican jumping bean, only Cajun.”

“Good. Feisty is good.” He leans back in his chair, studying me with the intensity of someone trying to read fine print.

“Seems like only the strong survive down here. This city’s been through a lot.

Is still going through a lot. A new team like this isn’t just about hockey.

It’s about hope for the future, about giving people something to be proud of. Something to believe in.”

I nod, immediately clocking what he’s not saying.

New Orleans doesn’t need another disappointment. We’ve had enough of those to last several lifetimes.

“I understand, sir,” I say.

“You feel the pressure?”

“Every day,” I admit. “But I’m busting my ass every time I hit the ice to make sure we don’t let anyone down.”

“Good.” He stands, conversation apparently over. “Glad to hear it. Keep it up, captain. And keep holding the rest of the team to account.”

I’m halfway out the door when he speaks again.

“Oh, and Graves?”

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“That second play with Parker. More of that.” He nods slowly. “That’s the kind of Voodoo even a pasty Irishman like me can get behind.”

This time, I’m sure those big, bushy eyebrows are smiling.

I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive past my old haunts, windows down despite the October humidity that clings to my skin like a warm, wet blanket.

But it’s my warm, wet blanket, dammit.

I spent three years in Oregon—two in a feeder team, one with the Badgers—missing the New Orleans air. The way it has weight to it, substance. The air here is full of history, gumbo, swamp farts, and stories, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even the stinky parts of this city feel like home.

Driving through the Garden District, I pass the coffee shop where Beanie used to take my brother and me for beignets when we had a good game.

Past the park where I learned to skate on roller blades, since ice isn’t exactly abundant in southern Louisiana.

Past the high school where I was simultaneously the weirdo who played hockey, the nerd who sang in the choir, and the badass the gang members knew not to fuck with.

My mama raised me and my older brother, Grant, to be good men, but the streets raised us to watch our backs, hit first, and hit harder. By the time we moved to a better part of town my sophomore year of high school, it was too late to shut that down completely.

No matter how rich or famous I become, a part of me will always be that kid who lived in a car for a year before moving to one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city because that’s all my single mom could afford. Coming back here as an NHL player who lives in a penthouse feels surreal sometimes.

Almost like destiny played a hand…

Maybe that’s why I’m not entirely surprised when destiny takes another swipe at me as I’m winding back by the arena, not far from the water.

The afternoon light has that particular New Orleans autumn quality to it, all golden honey and enchanted haze.

Spanish moss sways in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a trumpet is warming up for a night of playing truth or dare.

The city feels alive in a way no other place ever has for me, humming with possibilities and the kind of magic some people think is just tourist marketing.

But I know better.

I’ve always known NOLA runs on something more than logic. More than even the rules of nature or science.

So, when time suddenly slows as I stop at a red light on Magazine Street, the golden hour light shimmering like the city’s holding its breath, I pay attention.

That’s when I see her…

She’s walking out of an office building with a cardboard box in her arms, the late afternoon sun hitting her like she’s been given her own spotlight.

Her hair is dark brown, almost black, falling in glossy waves that make my fingers itch to wind a strand round and round.

She’s wearing a modest red dress and low heels and looks tired in a way that suggests her day likely started before dawn and won’t end until well after sunset.

But even bone weary, she’s beautiful.

Princess beautiful.

Movie star beautiful.

Heartbreakingly beautiful…and so damned familiar, though I know we’ve never met. I would have remembered this woman with golden skin and deep brown eyes so full of pain, stubbornness, and secrets.

I slam on my brakes hard at the red light, completely forgetting what I was doing in the wave of certainty that I have to meet her. Now.

Now ?

Is that crazy?

More importantly, is there anywhere around here to park and go after her before she disappears? Parking in this part of town is notoriously?—

Drivers lay on their horns behind me, jolting me back to reality.

The light’s green, traffic’s moving, and by the time I look back to get a bead on my mystery girl, she’s gone, vanished into the five o’clock foot traffic streaming out of the surrounding office buildings like she was never there at all.

But she was real, and that sense of recognition and clarity lingers, like waking from a dream and remembering something important I’d nearly forgotten.

I drive the rest of the way home on autopilot, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly I’ve remembered. I only know that things suddenly feel different than before.

Back in my new penthouse, I pour two fingers of good bourbon into a tumbler and do my best to talk some sense into myself.

I don’t believe in love at first sight. Attraction at first sight? Sure. Lust at first sight? Absolutely. But love requires time, understanding, choosing to put in the work with your person even when they’re driving you crazy.

That “work” part is the reason I haven’t had a girlfriend in three years.

I’ve been going too hard at hockey to have time for a relationship.

It wouldn’t have been fair to a woman back then.

Hell, it wouldn’t be fair now. I’m the Voodoo captain, the leader of my new team.

They’re depending on me, my city is depending on me, and I don’t intend to let either of them down .

But two hours later, I’m still thinking about the way the sunlight caught Mystery Girl’s hair…

Just as I’m considering opening a dating app just to see if she might be single and looking to mingle, my phone buzzes with a text from Parker: Hey, you up for an emergency team meeting at my place tomorrow night?

And by emergency, I mean I bought a new PlayStation and need people to come over and shout at the television with me.

I shoot back— I don’t go out on practice nights, man. Sorry.

Oh, come on, it’s not OUT out. It’s in, just in at my place instead of yours. And I’ll buy pizza. Come on, bro, I’m a sad clown. I know I grew up here, too, but all my friends and family moved away, and I’m lonely.

Lonely…

I know that feeling. My teammates in Portland were great, but as a rookie, I was always on the outside looking in. I had to prove myself before I was fully accepted into the cool kids’ clique. By the time that happened, I was already in talks to join the Voodoo.

Fine, I’ll bring beer, I reply. But I have to be home by ten. I need my beauty sleep.

Yeah, that’s fine. But don’t bring gross fancy beer. I’m a simple man, Grammercy. I need a beer that’s going to go down smooth, not some hopped-up I.P.A. looking to put hair on my chest. I already have enough chest hair. My ex-girlfriend complained about it. On the regs.

I laugh out loud. Sorry about that, but yeah, I hear you. I feel the same way. I’ll bring a case of Pabst, how about that?

Sounds perfect. Capo’s bringing tacos, and Nix is doing a veggie tray. He’s watching his figure for some reason. Blue can’t make it, but he’s up for dinner at your mom’s place sometime soon. If that’s a real offer .

Of course it is. Beanie loves to feed people. Growing up, she fed my entire team at least once a month. She’s not the kind to make an idle invitation.

Cool. Your mom is the best. My parents hated it when I invited people over. Hell, I’m pretty sure they could barely stand ME sometimes.

His text makes me frown. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have Beanie. No matter how hard things were when I was little, I grew up knowing I was deeply loved, and that at least one wonderful woman thought me and my brother were worth fighting for.

Not everyone gets that.

After confirming with Parker that I’ll get a date set for dinner soon, I set my phone aside and head for the shower. But under the hot water, images of the woman from Magazine Street float through my head all over again.

It’s ridiculous. I saw her for maybe thirty seconds, but I can’t shake the feeling that something has fundamentally shifted. That Fate made me take that drive after practice just so Red Dress and I would cross paths, even if it was only for a moment.

I tell myself I’m reading cosmic significance into something because everything feels heightened right now with my new team, my new life.

Surely, come tomorrow morning, I’ll be back to normal.

But when I close my eyes later that night, I dream of deep brown eyes and magic…