Page 26 of Playing for Keeps

I don’t have a resume. I’ve never been employed. I’ve performed in various places, but I lack experience in providing instruction. I don’t even know how to be a receptionist.

My eyes dry out from a lack of blinking as I confront the crushing fear of having to go back home. My parents believe they provided me with everything money could buy, and perhaps that’s true. But it came at a cost.

Here I am, unable to flourish without them.

I can’t work in a music school for underprivileged youth.

I can’t work anywhere. I don’t know how.

There’s another tab on the website for volunteers with the program, but I realize I can’t do that either. Volunteering with children apparently requires background checks and clearance paperwork. That seems just as out of reach to me as a job offer.

I slam the laptop closed and walk down the hall to the music/trophy room, smiling at the memory of Gunnar nicknaming it “the McTrophy room.” I pause in the doorway, noticing that Gunnar has been organizing his things here. A bookshelf now occupies one wall, the kind with many cubbies. Each cubbydisplays his hockey awards, and while several boxes remain on the floor, they are neatly stacked.

The chair in the middle of the room and my cello are the focal points now. He’s carved out space for me, no questions asked. This man is as wealthy as my father, I assume, yet he doesn’t use his money as a weapon. Instead, he’s eager to make me comfortable, however I define that.

On the verge of tears, I hear a buzz from the kitchen. My phone dances across the counter with incoming messages. I risk a glance at the screen, fearing more tabloid or family drama, but see it’s from Gunnar.

Hospital gala Friday night. Can you make it? Would love to have you at my side, Salty.

He even sent a little emoji of a salt shaker. I stare at my phone, realizing that there is something I can contribute here in this city. I can be arm candy at a society event. I can help a wealthy man schmooze at a fundraiser. That’s what I was born to do, right? I type a response.

You bet.

I include an emoji of a dancing woman. I spend the rest of the day grooming myself, shaving, polishing, and moisturizing, so I’ll be ready to play my part.

CHAPTER 18

GUNNAR

“How’s married life, Gun-town?”Our first line center flicks a puck at me.

I kick it out of the way without having to look at it. “Better than your wrist shot, Rogers.” It’s not even a lie. Rogers has a hell of a wrist shot, but living with Emerson is incredible.

She’s always really happy to see me when I get home from practice, whether I watch at the door while she finishes playing or if she’s in the kitchen making us a snack when I arrive.

We cuddle on the couch and watch TV until I fall asleep. Then she wakes me up, and I always want to tug her into my bed, or sneak into hers, so I can spoon her all night. But I guess there’s time for that. We’ve got months left on this bargain.

Grentley is back on the ice today, but coach has me in the net while he works on the starting line. Grentley is not happy about it. I don’t blame the guy, but what does he want me to do? I’m playing great, and I know that’s because I’ve got an amazing home life. Brian kept pushing me to appeal to screaming fans, when it turns out I just needed an incredible woman loving me to really reach the next level.

Robert snaps another puck my way, and I have to stretch a bit, but I block it with my glove, dropping it behind the net forAlder to scoop up as he makes an arc along the boards. From my perspective, practice is going great.

I don’t say this to the guys, but I’m sure it’s Emerson's influence. She keeps me in a great mood, allowing me to train better. When I train better, I perform better. I’m even starting to feel like I’ve earned the right to be here. Okay, maybe I got signed in college because of the name on my back. Perhaps I was able to come up early after my brother’s injury because of the same name. But our starter is healthy, and coach still picked me today.

I block another set of shots until I hear the whistle announcing the end of practice. I’m totally caught off guard when Grentley shoves me against the wall in the tunnel to the locker room. “What the hell, man?” Regaining my balance, I shove back at him. Not hard. Because it's the same team.

He grunts and stomps ahead of me, turning a corner without explanation.

“Big baby,” I mutter, yanking off my gear and thanking the equipment manager, who hauls it away. I have a rotation I can barely explain for my leg pads and neck guard, but this guy always hands me the right shit and it hardly even stinks.

I try not to think about Grentley’s tantrum, which is difficult because he’s over in the showers oozing a black cloud of negative energy. The rest of the guys don’t seem to pick up on it. Morale is high as we head into our first real matchup this weekend. I’ve got the gala Friday night and then a home game against Buffalo on Saturday. That means I’ll get to see Emerson in that dress … and then Emerson in my jersey. Everything’s coming up Gunnar.

Brian sends a thousand messages while I’m in the shower, reminding me about the gala and who I have to suck up to at the hospital. I immediately thinkEmerson will help me with all thatand then realize I’ve already come to rely on her for that stuff already.

I know it’s technically pretend, that we’re playing house. We’re also having explosive sex that’s both dirty and more intimate than I’m going to admit out loud.

I finish up in the locker room and whistle my way to the car, driving home to my wife…who I find staring out the window in a semi-dark apartment. “Hey.” I drop my bag and approach her from behind, startling her. “What’s up?”

She turns, smiling, and stretches up to kiss my cheek. “Hey yourself.” She walks to the counter and grabs an apple, beginning to slice it like I didn’t just find her staring into the Allegheny River.

---