Page 16 of Playing for Keeps

Emma eventually suggests we all relocate to the table so we can sit and talk more comfortably, and I make the mistake of checking my phone as I walk toward the dining room. I notice a series of increasingly angry messages from my father, asking when I’m going to stop this farce and come home for my audition.

DAD

Your mother can't show her face at the Met anymore. I hope you're satisfied with yourself.

DAD

Do you know how many young women would kill for the opportunity you're throwing away? You're not just disappointing me. You're taking someone else's chance.

DAD

I’ve told the symphony board you suffered a mental breakdown and are away seeking treatment. Your violin audition slot has been postponed for 30 days. When you're done with this tantrum, it's waiting for you. It's the only thing waiting for you.

I exhale a shaky breath and slide the phone back in my pocket, before taking a seat by a man who has never once spoken to me that way.

CHAPTER 10

GUNNAR

Thingswith my family and Emerson are going so much better than I thought they might. However, I’m not sure why I was worried. Emerson is awesome. She fits right in, and I even saw her laughing and joking around with my aunts in the kitchen.

If I didn’t know this whole setup was a sham, I’d probably believe she’s part of the family. We’re a few hours into the meal, lounging around the table and talking. I have my arm over the back of her chair, allowing me to periodically run my fingers through her hair, which feels as silky and amazing against my rough skin as I imagined. However, having my arm on her chair means I can feel it vibrating each time she receives a text or notification from her phone in her pocket…which starts happening a lot more once Aunt Alice clears away the last of the serving platters.

“Hey.” I lean in to whisper in case she doesn’t want people to hear this. “Do you need to take a call? You’re blowing up, babe.”

She shakes her head, pressing her lips together in a way that makes me uneasy. Something’s wrong. I don’t get a chance to follow up because Dad slaps the table and says, “So, Gunny. Tell me what Brian has cooked up for you this week. Your brothers mentioned a certain sports drink…”

Emerson turns to look at me, her face brightening. I can’t help the grin that’s spreading across my own face. “Yeah, there’s that, but he’s also talking to some cereal folks, and I might get to do a milk ad.”

Mom squeals. “With the little mustaches? I love those! Your father never got to do a milk ad.” She jumps up and kisses me on the cheek. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. All of this so early in your career. It’s great.”

Her words drill into me, splintering my bones with their emotional impact. This is why I’m keeping up the ruse, right? I didn’t get here on my own two feet, but I can take these steps to make sure I have something of my own down the line. I’ve been watching Grentley. He’s days away from a comeback, and then I’ll be warming the bench if I don’t step up.

I pull my mom in for a side hug and tell her, “I’m excited to get the ink dried. Thanks, Mom.”

She doesn’t step away but pats me on the head again and says, “We’re not done talking about a proper wedding reception, though, young man. Count on it this summer, okay? After the season ends.”

I should speak up and tell her we don’t want anything like that, despite the futility of trying to talk this family out of a party once they get their mind set on it. But just then, Emerson’s phone starts going crazy, and there’s no way to ignore the beeps and vibrations shaking her chair.

Her cheeks flush adorably, and she reaches into her pocket. Then she drops the phone, hands shaking, and her face pales.

Concerned, I reach for the screen and see a headline preview.MUSICIAN ON THE LAM. Emerson Saltzer, daughter of New York Symphony director Chaz Saltzer, has fled the classical scene to take up domestic duties at a hockey rink. Sources say she had a hasty marriage to goalie Gunnar Stag…

A low whistle sounds over my shoulder, and I realize my brother is staring while I read Emerson’s phone screen. “Hey, fucker. Get out of here.” I shove Tucker back, but he already has his phone out, frowning at the screen.

“Shit, Emerson. I’m sorry they got to you. I hate these articles.” Tucker shows the screen to Alder, who passes it to Wes and on down the line.

Dad’s brow furrows. “What are they saying, son?”

I wave a hand, wanting to make sure Emerson is okay before I get into all this with my family. Growing up with the spotlight, we’re used to junk press. From the look of my wife, she is definitely not used to being dragged through the wringer each time she goes out in public wearing the wrong outfit or gets too drunk at a party. “You want me to take you home?”

She nods almost imperceptibly, but I’m on my feet in an instant. Seeing the distress, Aunt Emma rushes to the kitchen cubbies and gathers Emerson’s things, stuffing them in my arm in a flash. “Let us know what we can do, okay?” She jerks her head toward Uncle Tim, who is snoozing on the couch. “Your uncle can unleash his beast mode if you need.”

“I know.” I kiss her on the cheek and wave to the room at large. Mom mimes putting a phone to her ear, and I’m sure I’ll be hearing from them all later, but right now, my main priority is my really upset fake-wife.

In the car, Emerson scrolls through her phone. I glance over at screens full of messages, and then I hear the tiny metallic sounds of a voicemail.

A woman’s voice spews hateful words, and I just catch enough snippets to learn it’s Emerson’s mother saying them. “…I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t run off with that jazz musician from the Village. But really, Emerson. A hockey player?”

---