Page 1 of The Rebound Plan

CHAPTER 1

SHANNON

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where Max is,” I say apologetically. That part is true. But my expression carefully also conveys that my husband’s absence is a strange mystery, and that part is a complete lie.

I know exactly why he hasn’t shown up to this photo shoot—it’s a punishment.

Until a month ago, he would never have done anything this blatant. For the first eight years of our marriage, I always wondered if the occasional edge of anger that I saw was just in my imagination. That’s how good he was at masking.

And then I ruined everything.

The nearest door to the small banquet hall where the photographers and videographers are set up swings open, and in strides a hockey player in full gear except for his skates, which are slung over his shoulder—but not the one we’re expecting.

Instead of Max Tilman, captain of the Hamilton Highlanders (and my husband for at least a few more months), it’s a third line forward named Russ Armstrong.

A big, tall, brooding Scottish distraction. My husband’s teammate.

His gaze slices across the room, immediately locking on my face for a second that feels like a lifetime. His expression tells me that he knows I’ve been abandoned, that Max meant for this to be embarrassing, and Russ isn’t going to let that happen.

Damn them both.

I don’t need to be rescued. And if anyone is going to be embarrassed by a no-show, it’s going to be the narcissistic asshole whose number is unfortunately plastered all over the custom WAG jersey I’ve been wearing for the last hour. It’s a feminine version of Max’s jersey, cut to my proportions.

Maybe Russ knows that I’m not the person to convince that he’s being a hero right now. Instead, he beelines to Mabel, who is the head of public relations for the Highlanders. “Seems like there was a mix up. I’m not exactly a pretty face, but I can fill in.”

“You’re perfect,” she says with the kind of bright enthusiasm I used to be able to channel with ease. “Shannon, we might not…”

I nod and wave my hand at the same time. Of course they won’t need me in the photo anymore.

While Mabel murmurs with the photographer about rearranging the kids who will be in the promo material for our winter Highlanders Ball, Russ and I pretend not to look at each other, which doesn’t really work.

He grunts something imperceptible and crosses to the pile of toys on the black cloth photo backdrop. “Hey, kids,” he says in his slight Scottish burr, moderated by living his entire teen and adult life in Canada. He drops down to an easy squat and holds out his hand to the first child.

I spin around and busy myself with examining the storyboard the photographer has sketched out that won’t be used, Max and me, wearing matching jerseys, surrounded by children in formal suits and tiny ballgowns.

Behind me, there’s a ripple of giggles, and another grunt. Then murmurs.

Suddenly a small child is beside me, tugging at my jersey. “Can I wear your shirt?”

I glance down at her. “This one?”

She nods, pointing back at Russ. “He says it would be funny if I’m wearing a grownup jersey.”

I follow her finger and meet his gaze. “Maybe we can get her one?—”

“The others are all too big,” he says, cutting me off. “Yours is just right to puddle on the floor at her feet.”

Mabel holds up a spare jersey, but Russ is right. They’re all bigger than this little girl. But the one they made for me might just look like a long, slouchy dress on her.

He stands, murmuring a joking apology to the kids who had crowded in around him, and crosses to me in a few long strides. His gaze never wavers from my face, and by the time he stops in front of me, my cheeks are blazing. He lowers his voice. “If you need another jersey to wear instead, you can have mine.”

And suddenly I’m breathless.

I tug the custom jersey over my head, and when it clears my face and I can see Russ again, his gaze has shifted. There’s a primal sharpness to his expression now, something I haven’t seen quite exactly before. Something that feels much more dangerous than anything else we’ve shared over the last five weeks.

It’s not the softness he showed me when he discovered me crying outside a family law office, or the confused awareness that zinged between us that night by his pool.

This look is one of a hunter.

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