Page 29 of The Rebound Plan

I drop my head to the counter and groan.

I’ve never, ever flirted with one of my husband’s teammates before. Never. I don’t even flirt with random people, not even to get a flight upgrade or a better seat at a restaurant, two situations that definitely justify a little flirting.

For most people.

Not for me, not anymore.

Because for Shannon Barker from Green Hills, Michigan, flirting has led to sex since she was fourteen years old. That’s how old I was when I went to third base for the first time, gave someone an orgasm for the first time, and got really close myself.

Also the age when I learned that it’s sometimes just easier to finish myself off in the privacy of my own bed once everyone is asleep, a skill I still reach for to this day.

My mother—no dummy—got me on birth control and tried to control me in other ways, but I was a wild child. And when you’re the prettiest girl north of Lansing, you don’t take no for answer. Not when your libido is in charge.

By the age of eighteen, I had my GED and a one-way bus ticket to New York City.

Honestly, it’s a miracle I’m alive today.

So when I met Max, five years into my modelling career, it was a relief that he wanted to sweep me away from the glitz and glamour and chaos and danger.

And for eight years, I’ve lived up to the expectations of my new name. The only thing Shannon Tilman has in common with Shannon Barker is smooth skin and good posture.

And the occasional dirty thought I would never tell my husband about in a million years.

Maybe more than occasional, lately.

I need to be busier when we go home. Enough dilly-dallying on the podcast idea, for example. Kiley thinks we can launch it this fall, but I need to make a firm decision about the name and brand position we’ve been developing.The View from the Wife Seatis the currently leading contender for a title, but it’s a bit of a mouthful, so Kiley is also trying to sell me onWAGLife.

In New York, the WAGs—ironically—didn’t like the term. It was what outside observers called us, but internally, we werespousesandbetter halves. In Hamilton, everyone is a bit more irreverent, a bit silly.

Harper and Kiley will embrace the WAG label if there’s fun to be had in it.

And they are rubbing off on me, although we did have a good debate about if it wasn’t inclusive enough, given that not every hockey player in the NHL has awifeor agirlfriend, although the ones who quietly have partners and boyfriends don’t want to be talked about on a podcast, either.

Kiley’s very smart point is that WAG is the hook that brings people to pull up a chair and listen, and once I have their ear, I can explain how complicated it is to put your life on hold and love someone who has this insane career—and maybe give a bit of quiet insight into those who love from the shadows, too.

She’s not wrong.

And lately, I have been wanting to find that outlet to talk about just how freaking complicated it is more and more.

“Babe, you okay?”

I jerk my body upright and see my podcast partner herself standing on the other side of the kitchen island looking at me in concern. Genuine, searching concern.

And if I were to crack open my chest and show my confused heart to anyone, it would be the girls before my distant husband.

No, I’m not okay.

I wish Icouldunload on her right now.

Max hasn’t brought up the Ice League news yet. Nobody has, and it’s driving me crazy. It’s a ticking time bomb hanging over me, because I know Max has to be stewing about it. HehatesFrancois.

Plus I just crossed a line with Russ, who has a new girlfriend. And also, why the fuck didRussof all people flirt right back? When he has a new girlfriend?

Nothing makes sense.

But now is not the time to unload any of that.

“I’m great,” I manage to say. “Just stretching my back. The car ride up here catching up to me, maybe.”

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