Page 20 of Playing for Keeps

“You are obsessed.” I’m soaring now, warm and comfortable and so, so relaxed.

“Damn right I am, Salty.” And he reaches down to pat the body part in question. “It’s a fine ass. In fact, we shouldn’t do a thing to it. Get your tat somewhere else.”

If I don’t stop laughing, I will get the hiccups, so I tell him I’ll think about which design I want to get and where. To my surprise, I actually consider it. What would it be like to have the design of my choosing permanently marked on my body? I recall the website I saw for that cello band. With their brightly dyed hair and edgy outfits, they seemed like they’d welcome a performer with a tattoo without hesitation. Would ink on my arm distract me as I play? Would I prefer a design that’s more private?

I must drift off to sleep with these thoughts because when I next open my eyes, it’s morning, and I’m snugly tucked in my bed, a glass of water beside me on the nightstand and a note scrawled on a napkin:

SLEEP TIGHT, SALTY

CHAPTER 14

GUNNAR

Emerson is still sackedout when I stop home after morning skate, so I don’t get a chance to talk logistics with her until lunchtime. Tonight’s the home opener, and she’ll be there cheering with my family. The idea makes me happier than I have any business being, and this morning, I was on fire on the ice, blocking shots like it’s my job.

If this keeps up, it will stay my job.

After our team meal, I look around the locker room, realizing I’m going to have to phone my fake wife within earshot of my brothers and, worse, the team.

Sighing, I shoot her a message before I head in for my massage, and mercifully, she calls when I’m alone in the therapy room. “Hey.” I keep my voice low and realize I sound really husky. Whatever.

“Hello. Thank you so much for…Well, I assume you carried me to bed. I hope I didn’t injure your spine.”

There’s a genuine note of concern in her voice that I try to bat away immediately because Emerson is the perfect amount of wife. “You were utterly conked out, Salty. And I barely noticed lifting you.” I hear a small, appreciative sound, and I sit up, swinging my legs around so they’re dangling off the paddedtable. “I was checking in with you about the game tonight.” Emerson is going to sit by the ice with my family for tonight’s game against Detroit. I offered to set her up in the fancy box with the other PAWs, but Dad convinced her she’d enjoy herself more by the glass.

“I’m ready whenever,” she says. I hear the sink turn on and a clatter of dishes, and I frown. I don’t like the idea of her doing my dishes. I guess some of them could be hers, but I really wish she’d leave them for me to take care of. I like taking care of her, darn it.

I scratch my chin. “Mom wondered if you were in for the double header or just wanting to go for the Fury. She’s planning to pick you up.”

“Oh, I can take the bus. I don’t want her to go out of her way to?—”

“Emerson. You’re my wife. You’re not taking the bus.” I grip the padded table so hard I might have torn through the vinyl.

“Gunnar. You’re my husband. I have taken public transportation my entire life.” There’s an aggressive-sounding clunk, and I hope she didn’t crack my giant breakfast bowl.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and explain, “Em. Apart from the fact that I don’t want you riding an unfamiliar bus in a strange city, you have to think about what the press would do about Gunnar Stag’s wife showing up at the arena on a bus.”

She sighs. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Right. So…Mom can either grab you?—”

“What do you mean double header? Are you playing twice?”

“Nah. There’s a women’s exhibition game first. Trying to drum up support for the new pro league. You don’t have to go…”

She inhales audibly. “I want to! I want to see the women play. I didn’t know there was a league for women.”

I scratch my head and jump off the table when I hear the therapist and the next guy arriving for their rub down. “Yeah, it’spretty cool. Okay, so Mom will grab you in…” I look at the clock. “Oh, shit. Like a half hour. Is that still good?”

“Yep. I’m ready. I’ve got my G-Stag shirt and my face paint, and I am ready to go.”

Now I’m dying to see her all dolled up with black and gold face paint. I send a quick note to Mom to bring a spare hat and blanket for Emerson, just in case, and head off for my warm-up, excited to show off for my wife.

I wish I could see my family during the women’s game, but we’re sequestered for film and nutrition, so I have to rely on Dad sending me periodic updates on the women’s team goalie—competent, Uncle Tim’s mood—pissy, and my gorgeous wife—enthusiastic AF. I chuckle at a picture of Emerson pressed against the glass, roaring. I can just make out the gold G STAG letters on the back of her black jersey, which she has on over a turtleneck.

Seeing her amped up like that for hockey, when I know she grew up totally repressed in a house that literally only cared about music…is really doing it for me. Coach glares at me as I slide my phone into my pocket, but I’m feeling more focused and ready than I was a week ago, and this intriguing woman is a big part of that.

For the first time since I joined this league, I’m burning to go when we finally line up in the tunnel to take the ice. I don’t usually do a lap—my gear makes that awkward as hell, and I prefer to get set up in the net. But my girl is sitting by the blue line, and I have to flash her a grin. My girl…I need to stop thinking that way. She’s not mine to keep. But she’s sure as hell mine right now. I wave at her and damn near do a back flip when she blows me a kiss.

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