Page 32 of The Fake Husband Play
It also wants to find out what he’s packing in those sexy suit pants he was wearing the other night…
Maybe Iamthe horniest hockey fan on the internet.
Last night wasn’t my first steamy dream featuring Grammercy Graves. Nope, the first was three whole years ago, back when he was playing for the EugeneSasquatch, when he was just a nineteen-year-old kid trying to prove himself worthy of the NHL.
Mimi was barely three, and we’d spent the day at a doctor’s appointment, where she screamed through a round of shots they’d hoped would help with her pain and swelling. Afterward, at the grocery store and still cranky from her shots, she’d had a meltdown for the ages because they were out of the chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs. Once I’d finally gotten her into bed that night, I’d collapsed on our ancient couch with a cup of lukewarm tea and flipped through channels, looking for something to help me forget that I was a twenty-year-old single mom of a newly-diagnosed chronically ill kid, and had no clue how I was going to manage.
I almost scrolled past the hockey game on ESPN+. I’ll watch a WHL game from time to time, but minor league games aren’t must-see TV for me. But the team’s name—the Eugene Sasquatch—made me laugh. Then, they flashed a pic of their mascot, Sebastian the Savage Squatch, on the screen, and I was hooked.
I came for the comedy and stayed for the kid from Louisiana, a boy from New Orleans who skated like he owned the ice and scored like every puck that hit the inside of the net was a gift from the gods.
The joy on his face when he played was infectious.
He wasn’t bad to look at off the ice, either…
I knew that for a fact because I’d instantly googled the man, confirming he was Grant Graves little brother and the kind of hometown boy I loved to root for. Louisiana isn’t a hotbed for creating pro hockey players, so we’re extra proud of the ones we’ve got. I told myself it was just NOLA pride that had me flipping through his headshots to pick out my favorite ones, but the truth was that the crush wasinstantaneous.
Sitting there in my pajamas, stress-eating leftover mac and cheese straight from the pot, I found myself whispering “Let’s go, NOLA Squatch!” every time he touched the puck.
Within a month, watching Grammercy play had become my escape. I stalked the cable listings, making sure to record every Eugene game ESPN+ broadcast so I could watch them later. As soon as Mimi was in bed, I’d plop down on the couch and get swept away in my fandom. And yes, I ordered a Eugene Squatch Lover T-shirt as a silly birthday gift for myself that year, but I wasn’t a Squatch fan. Not really.
I was a Grammercy Graves fan, this beautiful Southern boy who was making magic happen on ice.
I followed his career in the minors for two years, and no one cheered louder when he was drafted to join the Badgers, his very first NHL team.
And now, that man from the TV screen is going to be my husband.
My actual, for real, but also kind of fake, but still legalhusband.
“Stop trying to wrap your head around it,” I whisper to myself. “It’s nevernotgoing to be crazy. Just embrace the crazy and…go for it.”
With a bracing breath, I hurry up the last few steps and push through the courthouse doors. The lobby is all marble, old wood, and that particular deep south government building smell of floor cleaner and mothballs they use to keep the bayou rot away.
Very romantic.
But whatisromantic is the man standing not far from the information desk, his hair still damp from his after-practice shower…
He put on a suit. For me. And he’s holding a bouquet so gorgeous, I’m already a little choked up even before he crosses the space to greet me.
“Afternoon,chère,” he says, in that soft, husky rumble that does illegal things to my pulse. “Happy wedding day.” He holds out the bouquet, a cacophony of peonies in pink and peach, delicate roses, daisies, and sprigs of green that smell fantastic.
I cradle it like a newborn baby as I coo, “Oh, it’s perfect. I love it so much. It’s just majestic and beautiful and amazing.” I glance up, wincing as I realize how ill-prepared I am to live up to these standards. “I’m sorry. Your boutonniere is pathetic in comparison.”
“Stop it,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t even need one. But a bride has to have flowers, and I knew you’d be busy this morning getting ready for the move, so…”
“I was busy, but a groom deserves flowers, too. Even if they are a little…unconventional.” I reach into my purse, pulling out the boutonniere I whipped up with Mimi’s craft supplies. It’s not anywhere close to professional quality—my daughter has all the artistic talent in our family—but it was made with care and appreciation.
“For you, sir.” I hold it up between us, stomach flipping as a touched grin stretches across his face.
“Wow, you made it?” he asks, the awe in his voice making me rush to assure him, “I did, but it’s not good. I promise. Mimi’s tissue flowers are way better. If I’d been thinking, I would have asked her to make me some last night.”
He shakes his head. “No way. I like that you made it. Makes it even more special. How do I put it on? Ihaven’t worn one of these things since senior prom in high school.”
“You just pin it, like this.” Propping my bouquet in the crook of my arm, I step in to slide the straight pin I attached to the flowers through his lapel. As usual, he smells amazing—soap and a hint of cedar and sea air, with a bottom note of Grammercy, an intoxicating smell more addictive than anything I’ve smelled before.
Being this close to him isn’t any less exciting in broad daylight. If anything, he’s even more attractive, all dressed up and freshly showered and waiting here, just for me.
For Mimi, I try to remind myself, but it’s hard not to feel like the center of the universe when he’s staring down at me like this. Like my middling crafting skills have touched his heart, and he’d like to touchmein response.
