Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

EMORY

Next on my list of things to do for my wife was to get her a new car because I'm truly terrified of the one she drives around in. But somehow, instead of purchasing a new vehicle for Scottie, I got her a fucking pet instead.

I park behind her 1999 Honda and know she's already inside the house. She's probably pretending to be asleep, like this morning when she was obviously avoiding me. The meowing starts up again, and I turn to stare at my new companion.

"If you do that all night, I'll take you back to the dumpster."

He meows again, but I prefer that over the hissing he was doing when I tried to get him into my car. I ended up scooping up the cat food that Scottie very graciously spilled all over the parking lot and lured the nuisance into the backseat.

"Don't bite me," I warn, reaching for him. He backs his skinny frame into the passenger door in fear, so instead of grabbing him, I open my door and step out onto the sidewalk to wait for him to glide out.

I casually step up the porch stairs and stand near the door with his laser-focused gaze glued to my every move. I walk halfway inside and stand there, wondering if he'll follow me.

I'm not a cat person.

I'm not even a dog person.

Truthfully, I don't think I'm a people person either.

I never even had a pet growing up because we were too busy. We spent all of our days at the rink, practicing and traveling to weekend-long tournaments, only to come home on Sunday to do it all over again the next week.

I smell Scottie the second I step into the entryway. Her scuffed-up white Converse are sitting beside the door, right next to my hockey bag, and I listen intently for any movement. A black furball rushes into the house before I can shut the door. He sniffs Scottie's shoes before letting out a high-pitched meow.

Next thing I know, Scottie slides into the foyer on fuzzy socks that have cherries all over them, an oversized T-shirt, and tiny shorts. Her hair is in a bun on the top of her head, and the smile she wears is enough to make me do a double take.

When she sees me staring at her mouth, she quickly fixes her face and snaps back into the defiant brat she is when it comes to me.

"You're that concerned about me going to the strip club that you kidnapped Shutter?"

"Kidnapped? Don't you mean adopted?" I shut the door behind me with my foot. Shutter scurries away, darting behind Scottie's bare legs, only to glare at me from afar. "I told you"—I drop my keys right beside hers on the small table by the door—"I always get my way."

Scottie's sarcastic laugh is barely audible. She bends down and scoops Shutter into her arms, and I'm a little perturbed that he doesn't hiss at her like he did to me.

"Did Mr. Cocky scare you?" She rubs her nose along his face. I can hear his purring from across the room. "Did you get him a litter box?"

I'm quick to answer. "No."

I didn't even think of that.

I open the door behind me. "He's an outside cat."

Scottie glances down at the black cat in her arms and begins to talk to him like he's a human. "Did you hear that, Shutter? He called you an outside cat. The audacity."

"I'm serious, Scottie," I say. "Outside. Now."

She rolls her eyes, but for once, they're actually soft and playful. I may even go as far as to say there's a spark of happiness in them.

All over a dumpster cat.

"Fine," she drags out the word as she passes by me. Her elbow skims my chest with Shutter cradled in her arms. She places him on the porch and looks down at him. "One second."

I stand back and watch her rush down the hallway. I hear her clanking around in the kitchen, and my eyebrows rise as she comes back with two bowls. One is empty, and the other has water in it. She places them down in front of Shutter, who's waiting patiently on the porch, and gives him a pet in between the ears. Then she turns and walks back through the door with a tiny smile on her face.

The air around her shifts. It's like this cat took away her hard exterior and replaced it with a version of her that I've yet to see.

After I give Shutter one more scathing look, I shut the door and head for wherever Scottie ran off to. She sits on the couch with her blanket and the mug Ford got me for Christmas that reads, I banged your sister, acting as if I don't exist. She stares at the blank wall, like it's better to look at or something.

"Are you purposefully acting like I don't exist?"

She turns to me. "Hmm?"

My lips flatten, and I sigh. I cut right to the chase. "I have a game tomorrow."

Steam floats in front of her face from the mug. "I'm well aware." Her lips fall to the rim, and she gently sucks whatever liquid is inside.

Is she fucking with me?

I sigh loudly. "I expect you to be there." My gaze falls to her naked finger. "With your ring on."

She peeks at me from atop the rim and gives me a subtle nod.

"You have a box seat, next to the other wives."

That gets her attention. Scottie's shoulders tense, and she places the mug on the coffee table. "What? Why? I can't just sit in the stands and enjoy the game?"

I leave her for a second and head to my bag. "You're Mrs. Olson now," I call over my shoulder. "That means you sit with the rest of the wives."

There's an argument waiting to be had, but instead of putting up a fight, Scottie leans back into the couch cushions and gives me a sharp nod. "You're right."

My extra jersey flies through the living room and lands on her lap. Her fingers graze the blue material slowly. "That's what you'll wear instead of that worn shirt you love so much."

Scottie's finger trails the letters of my last name with her lip trapped in between her teeth.

"Do you remember our backstory?" I ask.

Her gulp echoes around the room before she pins me with a determined look. "Yes."

I shift uncomfortably. "I was…busy in college."

Her eyebrows knit together. "Busy?"

Why do I feel guilty all of a sudden?

I flex my jaw and cut right to the chase. "I fucked a lot of women."

Her mouth flies open. "Oh."

This is uncomfortable. "We can just chalk it up to me trying to…get over you?"

She nods, and her face softens. "Yeah, okay. I'll do what I need to do to make us believable."

I turn and head for the stairs to get away from her. I thought I enjoyed irritating her the most, but there's something highly addicting about her obeying me with those pretty, doe-like eyes.

Here goes nothing.

Blood flies to my fingertips and the icy rink air cools my already sweaty skin. In reality, the crowd is loud and rowdy, but when I'm standing in front of the goal, I hear nothing but my own heartbeat.

I'm laser-focused.

As always.

Until I happen to look up at the jumbo screen in the middle of the arena and see Scottie's face in the center. At that exact moment, the sounds of the arena come swooping in, and I grip my stick tighter.

The announcer's voice echoes throughout my helmet, and my pulse races. It's absurd how my life is such a concern in the hockey world. Fans quiet down to hear, because apparently my love life is more exciting than the game we're about to play.

My agent says that being the talk of the hockey community is a good thing, and my recent marriage and exposure to my private life will make me more desirable to other teams because it'll bring in more revenue, but it's still irritating.

Never mind my stats.

Let's chat about the ring on my finger and my pretty wife in the stands, wearing my number on her back. I won't tell her, but she wears my jersey well.

The only good thing that's coming out of this is that the media is talking about the photo of Scottie and me almost kissing on social media instead of the recent allegations placed against me that can't possibly be true because I'm married.

I shake my head and give the okay to my teammates, who start flinging pucks at me from left and right. With each block, I start to focus a little more and stop thinking about what Scottie is talking about while she sits with the other wives.

I'm not worried about her fitting in or playing the part.

I've seen her turn it on and off before. She's climbed on top of a stage in sky-high heels and a red wig. It only took spending a few minutes with her to know that the Cherry persona was just a ploy.

Just like her Mrs. Olson persona.

When the game is about to start and the warm-up music dies down, I allow myself one quick glance at her in the box off to the left of the rink. Our eyes catch, and the smile she throws me is so believable I almost find myself falling for it too.

I send her a quick wink, just in case other people are watching us, and then get in the zone.

My new wife is watching.

I might as well play a damn good game.