Page 39 of Playing for Keeps

Essence holds up a finger. “I am exactly where I want to be, Emerson. These guys play 80 games in a season. Trust me, I’ll be at the next one.”

Cam nods and picks the menu up, shoving it toward me until I laugh.

I order chocolate cake and listen to them quote every line of the movie, slowly feeling the tension leave my body.

I feel my phone vibrate with another text from Gunnar:

About to warm up. You good?

I can feel his protective energy from here, and I really do feel better. I send back:

Safe and sound. Go win.

His response is immediate:

Always do when I'm playing for you.

I fall asleep during the movie, waking briefly when Cam tucks a blanket around me. "Rest up, sweetie. Your knight in shining goalie pads will be here soon."

For the first time since seeing my parents, I smile.

CHAPTER 26

GUNNAR

I ama man possessed during the game against New York. At one point, I almost get into a fucking goalie fight with their center, but I secure a shutout for the Fury and hurry my ass back to my wife at the hotel. I’ll pay whatever fine Coach decides…I’m not rooming with Banksy. Not when Emerson is shaken up and needs me.

I blow off a media interview and barely shower, rushing outside to grab a cab and practically sprinting through the lobby to get to the elevators and up to Emerson’s room. I have the key programmed into the app on my phone, so when I slip in, I find Essence and Cam passed out on the couch in the sitting area, and I gently wake them up.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Thank you both so much for staying with her.”

“Of course.” Cam rubs his eyes and looks at his watch. “You shouldn’t be here yet.” He arches a brow at me.

I grin. “I might have blown off some responsibilities and punted to your guy.” I tug at my collar. “I’m not going back to my room with Banksy. Make of that what you will.”

Cam ushers Essence, still half asleep, into the hall and mutters something about getting her to her room before hemakes an entrance. I grin briefly but then head into the bedroom of Emerson’s suite.

She’s on her back with an arm over her face, breathing slow and deep. Good, asleep. Relief floods my system as I yank off my shoes and pants, toss my shirt on the floor, and crawl into bed beside her. She sighs in her sleep and curls against me, and I hold her, stroking her hair and trying not to get out of this bed to murder her asshole parents.

My phone alarm goes off around six, and Emerson groans at the noise. “You can sleep if you want,” I whisper, running my fingers through the silky strands of her hair. “I’m doing the milk thing before ice time today.”

She sits up. “Oh god, I forgot about your ad! You wanted me to be there.”

I gradually sit, feeling the strain of last night’s game in my muscles. I shouldn’t have skipped a post-game massage, that’s for damn sure. “Hey, Salty, you don’t have to do anything that feels overwhelming. I can paint a milk mustache and look cute without you. Promise.”

I wink at her, and she groans. “No,” she says, crawling out of bed and treating me to a glimpse of her luscious thighs. “I can do this. I can be a sideline fan. Or whatever. A fluffer? What’s my role here?”

“Babe.” I stand up. “Fluffer is a completely different industry.” She grins, and I shake my head, looking around for my pants. I’ll have to just wear my post-game suit to the studio and hope they’ll dress me how they want. I glance around the room, noticing a zillion tiny bottles in the trash and room service trays scattered everywhere. “I’m glad you had an okay night despite everything. You feeling okay?”

She laughs. “Not going to lie, I could go for a greasy egg sandwich.” She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

The two of us get ourselves together and walk through the lobby, politely declining the doorman’s offer to call a car. I crave that greasy sandwich Emerson mentioned, and she assures me she knows just the hole-in-the-wall spot to grab it, which we do en route to the studio address that Brian has texted me at least 35 times.

“Gunnar Stag here for the milk ad,” I tell the security guard, and their entire demeanor changes. Em and I are escorted through the building to a bustling studio filled with bright lights, cameras, and a thousand people running around with boxes, trays, and equipment.

“Gunnar!” A young white guy with a goatee and a clipboard approaches to shake my hand…very enthusiastically. “I’m Mitch, and I’m going to get you to wardrobe. And who do we have here?” He raises an eyebrow and glances at Emerson, who smiles.

“This is my wife,” I tell him.

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