Page 31 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“Maybe.” A pause. Then, more gently, “Are you nervous about the game?”

Matthieu exhaled slowly, his breath misting slightly against the cool night air filtering through the cracked window. The car smelled faintly of chocolate and caramel, remnants of their half-melted sundaes sitting forgotten in the cup holders. The soft hum of the radio played a song neither of them was paying attention to, the low melody filling the spaces between their words.

“Oh yeah,” he admitted without hesitation. Lying would be pointless. “The team we’re playing tomorrow is really good. It’s gonna be a tough game, and there’s so much pressure on us to win.”

His voice was steady, but its weight settled in his chest like a stone, pressing down, tightening with each passing second. The anxiety was always there before a big game, coiling inside him like a beast waiting to strike. But tonight, with her beside him, that familiar pressure didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

And then—her hand.

Beneath his, it gave the faintest squeeze. Barely there. A whisper of a touch. But he felt it. Felt it deep in his bones, like the warmth of a fire on a bitter winter night.

His gaze drifted to their joined hands, the contrast stark—her delicate fingers under his broader palm. He should have pulled away. Should have kept the distance that had once been so clear between them. Instead, he shifted, adjusting his grip and lacinghis fingers through hers, a silent claim that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

“I’m sure you’ll be amazing on the ice tomorrow,” she said, her voice soft, filled with something he didn’t dare name.

Her faith in him made his throat tighten. It was ridiculous, really—he’d had countless people tell him he was talented, that he was a force to be reckoned with on the ice. But coming from her? It hit differently. It mattered in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Matthieu turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto hers, the space between them suddenly crackling with unspoken words. He should have looked away. He should have let it pass.

But he didn’t.

“There’s only one person I want to impress tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something lower, something meant only for her.

She inhaled sharply, her lips parting slightly, her body going still. The teasing glint in her gaze dimmed, replaced with something uncertain, something fragile.

“The coach?” she whispered, the hesitation in her voice making his chest tighten.

A smirk ghosted across his lips, but it wasn’t confident, wasn’t arrogant—it was softer, more real. He shook his head slightly, watching the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the air between them turning thick with something unspoken.

“Okay, maybe two people then,” he relented, his smile widening when he saw hers finally bloom in response.

The tension in the car didn’t dissipate—it shifted, deepened. The warmth in her expression, the way her eyes shone with something he desperately wanted to name, made his pulse pound.

He was falling for his fake wife.

Hard.

7

JEANNIE

This washer first sports game ever – and to say that Jeannie was completely bowled over would be the understatement of the decade. There was loud music, flashing lights, and smoke machines, and she jumped nearly a foot as fireworks detonated within the building sending a shower of sparks into the air above their heads.

As the players were introduced one-by-one, some booed and some cheered. She had no clue what to expect as they called out Matthieu’s name. She shot into the air, yelling and waving nervously, unsure what she was supposed to do and saw him skating directly toward her. His eyes held hers as he skated out holding his mask at his side and his hockey stick and stopped in front of her. Her heart clenched wildly in her chest, waiting.

He stood there for what felt like forever, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that was staggering, neither speaking - not that the other person would have heard it over the crowd anyhow. He gave her a slow nod, slipped on his mask before her, and bowed.

She smiled.

Oh gosh, did she smile.

Her husband was bowing to her in front of everyone like she was important, special, or something to be revered. Nothing could wipe that smile off her face as she held his gaze, watching as he skated away backward easily, only turning to take his place at the goal.

He was starting.

Matthieu had told her there was a great chance he would be starting the game, but she hadn’t realized what that meant truly until now. Her husband was at the goal, alone, as the other players lined up toward the middle of the rink. Two other men slid back into position in front of Matthieu – but not for very long.

The moment the puck was dropped – it was chaos.

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