Page 50 of Playing for Keeps

The headline alert that flashes across my screen stops me cold: "FURY STAR'S VEGAS WEDDING VALIDITY QUESTIONED"

Emerson squeezes my hand. "What's wrong?"

I force a smile and delete the news app from my phone. "Nothing important. Let's get food." But my gut churns, wondering what fresh hell is about to rain down on us just when things are growing solid.

I'll check the full story later and figure out what we're dealing with. For now, I just want to hold onto this moment— my wife proud of my game, our friends waiting, and the team working together. Whatever's coming, we'll face it like we face everything else. Together.

CHAPTER 33

GUNNAR

“Turn left at Bigelow,”Emerson says from the passenger seat, checking the map on her new phone…one that her family can’t access to traumatize her with their abusive bullshit.

“You got it, Salty.” I grin as I merge onto the road leading to the public ice rink. It’s been a pretty good week, all things considered. She ramped up therapy and promised not to run away from our marriage without discussing things first. I reassured her that she is not threatening my career, and I’m not going anywhere … except to away hockey games. I hate leaving her, but she’s got her thing going with those music kids.

And now we’re going to cuddle cute dogs. Best day ever.

My phone chimes through the car speakers. “Call from…Ashley Weber and Jack Thompson,” the system announces.

I grin and glance at Emerson before accepting. “Ready?” She nods, and I click the green icon.

“Hey, guys,” Ashley’s voice fills the car. “Thanks for chatting. I know you have an event today.”

“We appreciate you both being willing to address this head-on,” Thompson adds.

“Absolutely.” I squeeze Emerson’s knee. Thompson and Ashley are also sick of the press asking invasive questions theywouldn’t dream of asking if I were swapping shop talk with him instead. “Brian says the joint statement is ready to go live when we give the word, and we’ve got social media posts in the hopper.”

“Right on,” Ashley says. “The shelters here in Boston and Pittsburgh are going to receive a lot of attention.” I hear a dog yip in the background during the call. “Silver lining, right?”

Emerson smiles. “I think some of the kids from Scale Up are going to show up today, too. Though I did explain we have a no-dogs rule at music lessons.”

Everyone laughs, and I feel pride swelling in my chest. My wife has fully embraced Brian’s plan of going absolutely public with our joy. She and Ashley have been texting and get along wonderfully. I’m not going to say Thompson is my best friend—he’s a rival goalie, after all—but he and I both have a vested interest in making nice. It’s a good thing all four of us are dog lovers.

I listen as Emerson talks shop with Ashley—not about hockey strategy but the realities of being a hockey player, such as identifying a social media brand. My wife navigates all of this as if she were born for the game, not like someone whose father is trying to destroy her life.

We finalize the timing details as Emerson guides me to the parking lot of the city ice rink. Through the glass surrounding the outdoor rink, I can see the carpet they’ve laid over one end of the ice, creating a space for the shelter dogs. However, nobody explained that to the dogs, who are sliding all over the place with their tongues out and eyes bright.

“Good luck today, guys,” Thompson says. “And Gun, nice shutout against St. Paul, man.”

“Ha. Thanks. See your ass next week in Boston.”

After we hang up, I squeeze Emerson’s hand. “You okay? Ready?”

She nods. “Talking to Zara helps so much. So does the new phone number.” She grins. “Although your mom texts more than my parents ever did.”

“Yeah, well, there are a lot of us Stags to wrangle,” Emerson laughs. We’ve been trying to pinpoint a date for our annual Stagsgiving feast. Since so many of us play professional sports, we can never celebrate holidays on the actual day. Mom finally secured a ten-hour block when all 25 of us can make it to the mountain vacation house, even if it means sticking Odin and Wyatt on a red-eye flight back to London after dinner.

Emerson furrows her brow as she glances at the latest text thread regarding sleeping arrangements. “Is there truly enough space for all of us? For an entire weekend?”

“Always room for family, Salty.” I kiss her cheek. “Let’s go pet some puppies.”

She smiles and tucks her phone into her leggings. I watch her get out of the car rather than run around and open her door, just this once. I want to admire her backside in the leggings. She’s wearing a Stag jersey, obviously, and the combination of my name on her back and those tight pants … I need to remember that we’ve got dogs waiting for us. Sexy thoughts about my wife’s curves will have to wait.

The scene at the ice rink is controlled chaos. At least thirty dogs of various sizes romp on the ice while my teammates crouch and crawl among them, wearing jeans, skates, and jerseys. The twins lie on their backs on the ice, covered in pit bulls. Behind the boards, dozens of phones record the mayhem while Brian directs photographers to “get the wholesome shots.”

Seeing me and Emerson arrive, Brian waves. “Ten minutes until we open to the public,” he announces. Then turns back to the press. “Take lots of pictures. I don’t want any questions about the validity of this puppy love.”

Brian’s use of the word ‘validity’ lands like a slapshot. I remember that I deleted the news app from my phone after I saw something that people—probably Emerson’s parents—are saying our marriage isn’t real. I have got to stop acting without thinking, and I know I need to talk to Brian about this, but just as I decide, a shelter volunteer releases the hounds.

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