Page 37 of Playing for Keeps

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine, get her in there.”

Someone opens the pen and escorts Emerson inside, where I tug her onto my knee as I kneel by the dogs. I press a kiss to her cheek as a camera flashes and dogs start licking my hands where I have them pressed against Emerson’s waist. She laughs and coos, tossing her head back when one of the dogs jumps up onto her lap. The two of us stare down at the little fella, ruffing his fur while Fury staff takes a thousand pictures. This is going to make Brian cream his pants, but also it’s the fucking best. My gorgeous, curvy wife is on my lap, and I’m being loved by dogs. What on this earth could be better?

“Mr. Stag, we really need to keep things moving.” Wanda’s voice is firm above the din, and Emerson sighs. She rests her forehead against mine and gives the dog on our lap one final scratch.

“Love you,” I blurt out, and then I freeze. Objectively, it’s something I should say where people can hear it. Of course, I would love my wife. But Emerson and I haven’t talked at all about feelings. And…I sort of think it’s true. But that’s impossible. We just met.

I look into her eyes to see if she’s terrified by what I just blurted, but she smiles at me and waves. She blows me a kiss andclimbs to her feet, taking all her warmth with her. I need to get it together and compose myself before Wanda starts letting the fans in here with me and the dogs.

I watch my wife walk away, because I’m never missing a chance to stare at that ass, and then I put on my game face. “All right, Fury fans,” I say. “Who wants to meet a goalie?”

My hour in the puppy pen flies by, and I have a break before I’m supposed to go sit at a table to sign autographs. I wander around a bit in search of my Salty. I grin at a group of kids racing to put on goalie gear the fastest, wondering what that exhibit must smell like, but I decide they probably used brand-new gear instead of seasoned stink pads.

I consider challenging Emerson to that particular activity, but when I see her, all thoughts of enjoyment slip away like a dropped stick on the ice. Emerson is backed against a rail, a terrified expression on her face, while two people loom over her, frowning in her personal space.

I stalk toward her, my strides eating the ground until I’m close enough to hear and realize that these are her fucking parents. What would a fancy-ass conductor and his wife be doing at an exclusive hockey fan event? I approach her side just in time to hear her father sneer, “We need to talk, young lady.”

CHAPTER 25

EMERSON

The oppressive scentof my father’s cologne hits me before his words do. It's the same thick scent he wears to conduct, to berate me during practice sessions, to tower over me at family dinners. I grip the railing behind me. I don’t respond when he says we need to talk, but I glance at my mother. I don’t think I was expecting warmth in her expression necessarily, but I’m stunned to see the icy fury etched into her face.

My father gestures at my shirt—the one I love matching with my new friends. He says, “What kind of outfit is this? You look like a common groupie.” I don’t respond that he and my mother are actually the ones who stand out here, in their finery among casual sports fans. My parents are pinch-faced and broody while everyone else is excited to be here with their heroes.

My mother hovers at his elbow, wringing her hands. “You’ve completely let yourself go. Have you gained weight?”

I swallow my rage and the bile that rises at her hurtful words. “What are you doing here?” My voice sounds small, as if I’m the person I was before I hopped on that train.

My father’s jaw clenches. “The board meeting is tomorrow. We’ve spoken, and they’re willing to overlook your …indiscretions…if you return now. As you know, the symphony needs a fresh, young face to weather this storm.”

“I don’t want?—”

“What you want is irrelevant,” my father snaps, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Look at yourself. I warned you this is what comes from women playing the cello. It’s indecent. Weeks spent spreading your legs for that instrument and some hockey player.”

My mother touches his arm. “That’s enough. Someone might hear.”

My heart pounds. I can hear it, feel it in my throat. I’m going to be sick as my father snarls, “Let them hear.” His face reddens. “Our daughter is debasing herself, living in sin with that overgrown?—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Gunnar’s voice cuts through my father’s tirade. My husband positions himself at my side, slightly in front of me. He appears casual, but I can feel the tension running through his tight body. Strength radiates from Gunnar in contrast to my father’s brittle anger.

“This is a private conversation.” My father straightens his tie. “Family business.”

"Your daughter is my wife," Gunnar's tone remains measured. "And you're making her uncomfortable."

"Wife?" Father scoffs. "That drunken Vegas spectacle hardly counts as?—"

"Security?" Gunnar raises his hand, and I notice two men in black shirts already approaching. "These people were just leaving."

"You can't dismiss me?—"

"Actually, I can. This is a private event, and you're harassing one of our VIP guests." Gunnar's smile is ice cold. “We don’t allow fans who disrespect our guests.”

Summoned by Gunnar’s mere wave, a pair of security guards appears and flanks my parents. Mom starts to protest, but Dad grabs her arm, shooting me a look of pure venom. "When you're done with this rebellion, don't expect?—"

"Get them out of here," Gunnar says quietly.

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