Page 49 of One Pucking Heart

The truth is, it’s not her fault. Beckett and I haven’t been very social this summer. We spent the months of August and September wrapped up in each other. Our obsession with one another borders on unhealthy, especially for two people planning to break up soon.

After we returned from Vegas and Beckett convinced me to enjoy the perks of married life, there has been no turning back. We have more sex than is normal. But it makes sense. Beckett is used to a lot of sex, and I’m making up for lost time. I have two decades of orgasms to make up for, and my faux husband is more than happy to oblige.

In the four months I’ve known Beckett, he’s become my best friend. When we get home from work, we eat dinner together, talk, laugh, watch TV, have sex, shower together, have some more sex, and fall asleep in one another’s arms. It’s a comfortable rhythm that I’ll miss when it’s gone.

I haven’t had the desire to get to know Beckett’s friends or family because I’m hoping the deceit will hurt less if they don’t know me or love me. We made a choice to lie to our families to secure our secret and, by extension, my inheritance, but it still doesn’t feel good.

I shake my head. “No, it’s my fault. We’ve just been so busy and trapped in our own little world.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Iris shoots me a knowing grin. “You two must be enjoying married life. Although I haven’t seen much of Beckett lately, he looks happier than ever when I do see him.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” She bobs her head. “I mean, he’s always been a happy guy, but now, he radiates joy. You know, I admit that I really didn’t understand the pairing or the suddenness of it all, but I love my brother, and all I’ve ever wanted for him is happiness. I guess once he found his person, he didn’t want to wait.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile.

She clears her throat. “Anyway, we should go out sometime for dinner, drinks, whatever. You, me, and the boys.”

“That sounds great. We’ll have to do that.” I look down at her number ten jersey.

She notices my stare. “Are you going to change into your number eighteen jersey?”

“No. I’m here for work, not as Beckett’s wife. I’d feel awkward wearing it.”

She grins. “I get it. Well, I’m going to finalize some things for the press conference after the game. Enjoy your first Cranes game. They’re pretty fun.”

“I will. Thanks, Iris.”

Returning my attention to the ice, I catch Beckett staring up at me. He gives me a wave and his beautiful smile. I wave back. Blowing out a breath, I turn away from the ice and retreat to my office.

The Cranes players not on the ice stand on the bench beside me, cheering wildly for the starting players. I think Beckett and the guys on the ice are doing well. I wouldn’t know because I’m freezing, literally to death, and I hate nothing more or have less of a tolerance for than being cold. For all the schooling I’ve had, apparently, I didn’t learn common sense. This is ice hockey. Of course it’s going to be cold by the ice. Yet I’m wearing a silk blouse that has zero ability to hold in any body heat.

It’s one of the rare October days that feels like summer in Michigan. They’re my favorite—warm and breezy with the backdrop of the multihued autumn foliage. My slacks and blouse are appropriate attire for the weather outside this arena but not within.

Clamping my lips shut, I try to hide the chattering of my teeth and attempt to focus on the game and my players. Part of my job is noticing if someone favors a certain part of their body over the other, which could be a sign they’re compensating because of a pulled muscle. The guys are tough and will play through anything. But I’m trying to show them if we catch tears and pulls early and start therapy, they’re back to prime form sooner. Yet all they care about is staying on the ice.

At this moment, a player could be out there swinging his broken arm like a lasso, and I wouldn’t notice. I can’t focus on anything but how cold I am and, by extension, how disappointed I am in myself that I didn’t think of this prior.

The equipment manager, Eddy, nudges my side with his elbow. “They’re doing great! Aren’t they?”

“Sure are!” I feign excitement.

“This is our year, Doc! You showed up at the right time.” He pumps his arm in the air after one of the players did something… good, I’m guessing.

“Definitely. This is great!” I force the words out and cross my arms over my chest, clamping my lips shut as my teeth start to chatter again. I can’t even jump up and down to get warm in my heels. It’d be a one-way ticket to spraining my own ankle.

The first period ends, and the guys head to the locker room to rest and refuel. I’m eager to follow when Coach Albright asks me to check on his nephew in the sound booth. Apparently, the kid thinks he cut off his finger. I grab my med bag and hurry up the stairs to the sound room.

The kid, here shadowing the sound guys for his high school “discovering careers” class, holds a bloody hand to his chest.

I snap the latex gloves onto my hands. “What happened?” Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around the injured hand. I need to clear off some of the blood to see what I’m dealing with.

“I was cutting my apple,” the kid cries.

“Cutting an apple?” I question. His answer feels out of place in this environment.

One of the sound guys fills me in. “He brought his own snacks, including an apple and a knife. He sliced his finger when trying to cut his apple.”

---