Page 30 of Season's Schemings

“Do tell.”

“Look, that’s not who I am. Dallas, maybe. Me? It’s not like that. I don’t do serious relationships because hockey is my first—myonly—priority. Not because I’m against girlfriends as a principle or have some ridiculous roster of women. I’ve never gotten serious with anyone because I don’t have the time or the energy to put into a relationship.”

I’m… surprised. Pleasantly so.

And his smile tells me he knows it.

“So, to recap.” Seb’s tone is teasing again as he holds out a hand to count down on his fingers. “We’ve been dating for a while, eloped last night, you live with me, and we’re one of those married couples who never, ever have sex or anything close to it.” He pauses. Smirks. “I mean, we’ll have to havesomephysical contact or nobody will buy this.”

“We can hold hands,” I say primly, like I’m some kind of buttoned-up spinster-type with a million cats. “And hug.”

“What if someone breaks out the mistletoe at Christmas?”

I level him with alook, and he laughs. “What? I’m just trying to be a good Boy Scout and be prepared for anything.”

My mind instantly replays that thrilling moment last night when his lips brushed mine, and I find myself relenting. “Aquickkiss.Ifthere’s mistletoe.”

“Is butt-grabbing permitted during said mistletoe kiss?”

Yes… wait, why am I thinking that?“No!”

“Hmmm.” His eyes travel over my burning face. I could fry up some eggs for brunch on these cheeks right now—FACE cheeks, not butt cheeks.

Frick. Now I have butts on the brain. My poor, hungover self cannot cope with Mr. Flirty Flirt over here, smiling at me with his incorrigible charm and making my imagination run wild.

And unfortunately for me, his smile only grows. “Let’s jot that one down as a ‘maybe’, huh?”

What on earth have I gotten myself into?

11

SEB

Hello.

It’s Seb

Sebastian

Slater

Your new husband

Wow.

The late afternoon Vegas sunshine streams through my hotel window as I stare at my phone screen, then smack my head back against my pillow. I’ve been married for exactly thirteen hours, and I have already lost all my smoothness.

To ensure that I do no further textual damage, I throw my phone across the bed, then rotate my shoulders, relishing in the feeling of the stretch on my sore muscles.

When my alarm went off earlier today—in the midst of a very logistical (and frankly, unexpectedly fun) discussion with Maddie wherein I made her blush about once every five seconds—I had no choice but to say goodbye to her at my hotel room door and then sprint my hungover ass all the way to the City National Arena where the Cyclones had scheduled ice time for noon.

And let me tell you… practice today wasdifficult.On many levels.

I’d almost forgotten about it in the chaos of the utterly bizarre sequence of events that were last night and this morning. And given that my recent nuptials mean that I am no longer warming the bench for the foreseeable future, it was a practice that I should have been throwing all my effort behind.

By the time I got down to the arena, it was clear that Mike had already briefed Tony and the other coaching staff on my surprise news. Needless to say, my agent was a little stunned when I called him this morning to tell him I was married. But he took it like any good agent would, tuned out the ridiculous details, and focused on the crux of the matter: I could still play hockey, and that was what mattered.

My coaches, however, seemed to be much more amused. Andy Fitzpatrick, an assistant coach who looks exactly like a boiled egg wearing glasses, was practically frothing at the mouth when he saw me.

---