Page 9 of The Fake Husband Play (That Steamy Hockey Romance #1)

Rookie me had no idea how to handle the attention that started coming my way shortly after I joined the NHL, even though Grant did his best to prepare me.

But my much older brother is a busy family man these days, with three kids and five dogs.

I don’t like to bother him for advice unless I absolutely have to.

I’d rather spend our limited time on the phone or in person having fun.

Luckily, several of the more established Badger players took me under their wing last year. They taught me how to nod, smile, and ask the right questions, all while mentally cataloguing everything I’ll need to share with my agent later .

That’s still wild, too, the fact that I have an agent and someday soon, will probably have to hire a contract attorney.

Schwartz, my agent, has handled my contracts so far, but he’s not about to leave a dime on the table.

He said when it comes to genuinely impressive money, we’ll need to call in an expert.

The numbers Simon throws around are genuinely impressive—a sum that could set me up for life and give Mom the option to retire from even part-time work if she wanted.

Still, my thoughts and my gaze keep drifting to the other side of the courtyard, wondering when my mystery girl is going to rejoin the party.

“We’re thinking a multi-platform approach,” Simon continues, pulling my focus back to his slightly sweaty face. It’s warm in the courtyard, but not sweating-through-your-suit warm. This man might need to lay off whatever’s got him so worked up.

Thankfully, I’m pretty sure it’s not his energy drink.

I did my research before putting Lava on my short list. The ingredients aren’t healthy in large doses, but there’s nothing in the drink that would do consumers harm.

I’m not about doing harm, not even in the name of seven-figure signing bonuses.

“Social media, traditional advertising, maybe some appearances at key events,” he continues. “The goal is to build an authentic connection between you and our target demographic.”

“That sounds great, man,” I say, meaning it. “I’ll tell my agent I’m interested, and that he should reach out to you on Monday, if that’s cool.”

“Very cool,” Simon says, looking pleased. “Very cool, man. I’ve already got a one-sheet ready. I’ll be waiting for that email on Monday.”

We shake hands. Simon’s palm is thankfully drier than his face, and I’m jazzed, I truly am, but even as I’m lining up what could be a life-changing opportunity, my attention is wandering. It’s like having an itch I can’t scratch, this need to see her again.

To make sure I saw her, that I wasn’t imagining things.

Then all of a sudden, there —by the champagne fountain, a flash of long legs and dark brown hair circulating through the guests. My pulse spikes, and the moment Simon excuses himself to get a fresh drink, I’m on the move.

I weave through the crowd, past conversations about investment portfolios and vacation homes in places I’ve never been, tracking the top of her head through the crowd like a man with a mission.

I’m halfway across the courtyard when Parker appears in front of me, a big, goody grin on his face. “Dude, you’ll never believe who I think I just saw waiting tables. It’s fucking crazy!”

“Who?” I ask, wondering if this coincidence is about to get weirder.

If Parker knows my girl, I might have to visit that tarot card reader my mom loves. Cajuns are a superstitious people by nature, and a bundle of coincidences eventually starts to feel like Fate.

Might be time to check in with Madam Xenia and make sure Fate is on my side…

“My old babysitter,” Parker says, still beaming.

“From when I was twelve and my parents made me have a babysitter, even though I was totally old enough to stay home alone. But I didn’t mind because Makena was eighteen and hot as hell.

She’s still hot, but way shorter than she used to be.

” He hesitates, his brow furrowing. “If that was her. She disappeared into the back before I could catch up with her and ask if she remembered me.”

Short . That means his Makena can’t be my mystery girl. Red Dress is at least five ten in heels, which is a relief. Parker’s crush on his old babysitter clearly isn’t a thing that’s totally in the past.

“Do people start shrinking in their twenties?” he asks, making me roll my eyes.

“Pretty sure you grew since you were twelve, man,” I say, barely resisting the urge to push past him to get to my own mystery woman.

He exhales a wistful sigh. “Yeah, but in my head, Makena will always be an inch taller and the only girl I can imagine jerking off to. I need to get her number before we go. It would be cool to catch up after all these years.”

I pat his shoulder. “You should. That’s part of the beauty of being back home, right?” He starts to speak, but I cut him off with a wince and a quick, “Be right back, man. Gotta hit the head.”

I hurry around him, but when I push through the cluster of people near the champagne station, Red Dress is nowhere to be found.

It’s just more guests in designer clothes, food servers in their standard black-and-white uniforms, and discreet nooks for chatting, which whoever planned this party was eager to provide.

It was a great move for a networking event, but fuck …

I’m starting to doubt that I even saw her.

You’re probably imagining things. The months of celibacy and grinding on the career are taking a toll.

The inner voice could have a point. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe I’m so caught up in this weird obsession with a woman I glimpsed for thirty seconds that I’m starting to hallucinate.

Either way, this isn’t the time to veer off course. It’s time to get my head on straight, focus on the life-changing opportunities in front of me, and stop acting like a lovesick kid with a crush.

But even as I’m giving myself a very reasonable mental pep talk, my feet are moving toward a long, dark hallway up ahead, away from the polished perfection of the party.

If I were Red Dress, I might pop down here for a moment away from it all…

The hall is luxurious in its own way—this is a five-star hotel—but more understated than the scene I’m leaving behind.

What I assumed were guest rooms turn out to be meeting spaces, all empty at the moment, but that’s no surprise.

The Maison isn’t the kind of place that double books a glitzy party with a shareholder meeting.

I keep going, past room after empty room, but there’s no sign of life. I’m about to turn around when I hear a sound coming from behind one of the few closed doors.

It’s soft, rhythmic, and accompanied by the occasional hitch of breath.

Someone’s crying, quiet, hopeless sobs that seem to be coming from behind a door with “Janitorial” scrawled across it in an elegant font. It’s the kind of crying that suggests someone is trying not to be overheard, which somehow makes it even harder to stomach .

I stop, my chest aching for whoever’s suffering behind that door.

Maybe it’s because I remember what it feels like to cry alone—those nights as a kid when Grant was at practice, Beanie was working a double, and I was sure the guy shouting at his wife downstairs was really going to hurt her. Or me.

Or maybe it’s just that my mama raised me to believe that ignoring someone else’s pain is the worst kind of failure.

We’re not put on earth to ignore each other.

We’re here to connect and share the load and lift each other up, no matter how hard the modern world has tried to convince us otherwise.

Either way, I can’t just turn and walk away.

I knock gently on the door. “Hey, you okay in there? Can I get you something? Maybe water or a tissue or something?”

The crying stops immediately, replaced by the kind of silence that suggests the person on the other side of the door is holding their breath, hoping I’ll go away.

“If you’d rather be alone, that’s fine,” I hurry to assure them. “Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything I could do.”

“I’m okay,” comes a muffled response in a sweet, husky voice. “Sorry, I’ll be back to work in a minute. I just…needed a second.”

The voice is female, with a hint of Louisiana drawl that makes my chest tighten with recognition.

We locals have to look after our own.

“Don’t rush on my account,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not going to go telling any tales. I learned not to tattle when I was still in preschool. Snitches got stitches in my part of town, even when you were three.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then, “Me, too. My foster mom pulled me out of daycare the first week. Said she would rather stay home with me than pay to have me get roughed up in the sandbox. Or get a call that I roughed someone up in the sandbox. I was a problem toddler.”

I find myself grinning as I say, “Doesn’t sound like a problem. Sounds like a little girl who knows how to stand up for herself. In my book, that’s a good thing.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Her voice sounds steadier, like talking to someone—even through a door—is helping.

“Want to tell me who was roughing you up in the sandbox tonight?” I ask. “Sometimes it helps to vent and I’m not afraid to throw hands, if someone’s ass needs a whoopin’.”

“Thanks, but no,” she says, a hint of amusement in the words. “No whoopin’ needed. I’ll be fine. You should get back to the party. I’m sure you have better things to do than talk to a door.”

“You’re not a door, you’re a person. And I’m not big into parties.”

“Me, either,” she says. “I actually can’t remember the last time I went to one. I mean, except the Christmas party at my old job, but I got fired earlier this week, so…”

I wince. “Sorry to hear that. Sounds like you could use a friend. Want to open up the door? I could come sit, offer an ear.”

There’s a long moment of silence. I’m positive she’s about to insist that I should head back to the courtyard again when the door squeaks open, revealing a beautiful woman with her brown hair swept up in a twist and smudged mascara.