Chapter 30

Thirty

EMORY

"Well, your little hockey groupie was right. Number eleven tore us to pieces."

I turn around and glare at Kane. "Hockey groupie ?"

"I'm sorry. I mean your wife. " He rolls his eyes, and my ears burn.

I can't blame him for being angry and not choosing his words wisely, because that's how we all get when we lose, but if he ever calls Scottie a groupie again, I might snap his hockey stick in two and shove it down his throat. Kane is a punk with a temper, and if I wasn't trying to fix my reputation, I wouldn't let this one slide.

All it takes is one look from me to know he's overstepped, especially in front of the rest of the team. He turns his back, and we all silently undress, waiting for Coach Jacobs to come into the locker room and roar about how disappointed he is in the sloppy plays that were executed. That's what makes being a goalie so difficult. My teammates practically play a completely different game than I do.

I'm in between the pipes, blocking shots with every ounce of determination I have while they fuck up on the ice over and over again, allowing thirty pucks to fly at my face. I can't do a thing about it either, other than weave and block until they get their shit together.

It's always easy to blame the one letting shots get through, and my ego isn't that big—except according to Scottie—to think I've never fucked up a game from not doing my best at blocking, but everyone in this locker room knows that this loss had nothing to do with me and everything to do with their miscommunication.

I'm prepared for a fight to break out with the tension filling up the locker room. Rhodes and I make eye contact. We're both ready to step in if necessary, but I'm hoping that everyone can keep their shit together so we can climb onto the bus and head to the plane before it gets too late.

There's nowhere like home, even if I'm sharing it with a little blonde-haired devil.

My bed is calling my name, and I better not find fucking cat hair in it.

When Coach finally makes his presence known, he just stands in the middle of the locker room, puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head—which is honestly worse. I don't know if he was expecting some backtalk or choice words between his players like in the past, but the team stays silent. Most of them bounce their steely gazes to Rhodes and then to me. When neither of us say or do anything, they take that as their cue to stay silent too.

Nothing is said until we get onto the plane.

As captain, Rhodes feels obligated to say a few gruff words that hover between anger and encouragement, but that's it.

My guess is there will be a shit-ton of drills run tomorrow during practice and maybe some tweaks of the lines.

When we land in Chicago and I turn my phone back on, I realize I forgot to call Scottie after the game. I'd said I'd call her afterward, because I knew the team was listening to my conversation, but she's the first thing I think about when the plane's wheels hit the runway.

I reread our texts, and strangely enough, they pull me away from the anger lingering over our loss. After Coach barks at us to be at practice tomorrow, I climb into my car and pull open the camera app.

It wasn't until I was away and thinking about her that I thought to look at the camera.

Did it border on unethical?

Sure did.

Was it a stalker-ish thing to do?

Fuck yeah.

But she kind of asked for it when she came to one of my games, waited until I was alone, and cornered me in the bathroom. That's stalker-ish.

The security company recommended I put cameras in every room of the house, in case of theft, but the real reason I agreed was because of the crazed women showing up on my doorstep. I wouldn't put it past one of them to get in my bed naked.

When I look at the cameras, though, no one is in my house except the person that's supposed to be there.

My fingers tighten the longer I stare at her sleeping on my bed. She's wearing the same thing I saw her in earlier: tiny shorts and a thin jacket that's barely covering her shoulder. She's curled into a tiny ball on the opposite side of where I sleep, with her blonde hair exposing the slope of her neck.

There's a pinch in my groin, and I exit out of the camera app with too much force. I throw my phone off to the side and shift my car into drive.

I was the one who insisted she sleep in the bed with me, but that was before I knew what kissing her felt like. Now, I'm not sure I'll get any sleep with her beside me, whether she's awake or not.

"Seriously?"

A hiss slides out of Shutter when I step onto the porch. He arches his back at me, and his green glowing eyes are more of a glare than anything.

I'm happy to see that Scottie actually followed my command for once and put him back outside, but did she somehow inform him that I'm the one responsible for his living arrangements on the porch instead of inside my house?

You'd think he'd like me, since I'm the one who rescued him, but that's clearly not the case.

When I get inside and shut the door, flipping Shutter off in the process, I notice that the couch is still empty. The house is as pristine as it was when Scottie stayed up all night to clean, and the blanket and pillow she uses hasn't moved an inch since I've been away. I'd hoped she'd be in her rightful spot in the living room by the time I got home so I didn't have to deal with waking her up.

A noise from upstairs pulls my attention. After dropping my bag near the door, I kick off my shoes and head for my room. The closer I get, the more I recognize the familiar voices of some of the most well-spoken sports commentators on TV.

They're recapping the game from earlier, but I can't pay attention because of the sleeping woman on top of my bed. Unable to stop myself, I move closer to the edge of the mattress and trace the delicate curve of her bare shoulder with a lazy gaze.

Despite how tired I am, my dick still makes himself known.

Fuck. This is getting weird.

I turn around in frustration.

I feel like the biggest fucking pervert in the world for standing in the middle of my bedroom with a semi, just from looking at a woman in my bed.

Especially her.

My teeth grind so hard my jaw throbs.

I glance at the TV in disbelief. As if I needed the reminder, a photo from my social media is on the center of the screen behind Charles Cannon and Mike Hale.

Scottie must have taken it the day she made breakfast, unbeknownst to me.

The focus of the photo is her holding a coffee mug with her biscotti nearby, but in the background, slightly blurred, there I am, without a shirt on, eating the pancakes and bacon she made.

Mike makes a joke that my new wife must be my good luck charm because of how well I performed during the game, despite the failed efforts of my teammates. They mention the upcoming Hockey Fights Cancer charity event, and a zip of excitement flows throughout me because she'll have to go with me.

My excitement has nothing to do with wanting her to be my real wife or anything. It's just that she's entertaining to be around. She doesn't put up with my shit, and her clever comebacks keep me on my toes.

If anything, I'm less bored with her around.

After giving her one more quick look, I decide that after I get ready for bed, I'll wake her up.

I eye the shower, silently thanking myself for rinsing off in the locker room, because I might accidentally spend too much time washing my dick with the thought of my fake wife in the next room showing off her soft skin without having any idea what it does to me.

After pulling some sweatpants on and forgoing a shirt, I open the bathroom door and immediately land on her unmoving frame.

I stand over her for a second and reach out to shake her awake, but instead of actually doing so, I grab the remote instead and turn the TV off. Next goes the light, and I decide that if she doesn't wake up when I get into bed, then that's her problem.

Though, the longer I lie beside her, listening to her soft breathing surrounded by her feminine scent, the more I'm realizing that it's my problem.