Page 7 of The Fake Husband Play
I nod, immediately clocking what he’snotsaying.
New Orleans doesn’t need another disappointment. We’ve had enough of those to last several lifetimes.
“I understand, sir,” I say.
“You feel the pressure?”
“Every day,” I admit. “But I’m busting my ass every time I hit the ice to make sure we don’t let anyone down.”
“Good.” He stands, conversation apparently over. “Glad to hear it. Keep it up, captain. And keep holding the rest of the team to account.”
I’m halfway out the door when he speaks again.
“Oh, and Graves?”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yes, sir?”
“That second play with Parker. More of that.” He nods slowly. “That’s the kind of Voodoo even a pasty Irishman like me can get behind.”
This time, I’m sure those big, bushy eyebrows are smiling.
I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive past my old haunts, windows down despite the October humidity that clings to my skin like a warm, wet blanket.
But it’smywarm, wet blanket, dammit.
I spent three years in Oregon—two in a feeder team, one with the Badgers—missing the New Orleans air. The way it has weight to it, substance. The air here is full of history, gumbo, swamp farts, and stories, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even the stinky parts of this city feel like home.
Driving through the Garden District, I pass the coffee shop where Beanie used to take my brother and me for beignets when we had a good game. Past the park where I learned to skate on roller blades, since ice isn’t exactly abundant in southern Louisiana. Past the high school where I was simultaneously the weirdo who played hockey, the nerd who sang in the choir, and the badass the gang members knew not to fuck with.
My mama raised me and my older brother, Grant, to be good men, but the streets raised us to watch our backs, hit first, and hit harder. By the time we moved to a better part of town my sophomore year of high school, it was too late to shut that down completely.
No matter how rich or famous I become, a part of me will always be that kid who lived in a car for a year before moving to one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city because that’s all my single mom could afford. Coming back here as an NHL player who lives in a penthouse feels surreal sometimes.
Almost like destiny played a hand…
Maybe that’s why I’m not entirely surprised when destiny takes another swipe at me as I’m winding back by the arena, not far from the water.
The afternoon light has thatparticular New Orleans autumn quality to it, all golden honey and enchanted haze. Spanish moss sways in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a trumpet is warming up for a night of playing truth or dare. The city feels alive in a way no other place ever has for me, humming with possibilities and the kind of magic some people think is just tourist marketing.
But I know better.
I’ve always known NOLA runs on something more than logic. More than even the rules of nature or science.
So, when time suddenly slows as I stop at a red light on Magazine Street, the golden hour light shimmering like the city’s holding its breath, I pay attention.
That’s when I see her…
She’s walking out of an office building with a cardboard box in her arms, the late afternoon sun hitting her like she’s been given her own spotlight. Her hair is dark brown, almost black, falling in glossy waves that make my fingers itch to wind a strand round and round. She’s wearing a modest red dress and low heels and looks tired in a way that suggests her day likely started before dawn and won’t end until well after sunset.
But even bone weary, she’s beautiful.
Princess beautiful.
Movie star beautiful.
Heartbreakingly beautiful…and so damned familiar, though I know we’ve never met. I would have remembered this woman with golden skin and deep brown eyes so full of pain, stubbornness, and secrets.
