Chapter 33

Thirty-Three

SCOTTIE

"Let's go get your daddy," I say to Ellie, fixing the bow in her hair. Her eyes lit up the second she saw all the wives wearing one. Nola even had one, although the bow was bigger than her face, and her ponytail had maybe three strands of hair in it.

After Ellie's nanny went to the bathroom and never came back, I sat her down in between my legs and braided her hair before clipping the bow onto the end.

I say goodbye to the wives, who are all looking at Ellie with a touch of empathy in their eyes. She's quiet while we walk to the lower level of the arena, passing all the rowdy fans who are walking in the other direction to get back to their cars. Little girls her age aren't supposed to feel the weight of abandonment like she's feeling at the moment.

I'm not sure what happened to her mother, and I know Rhodes is doing the best he can, but there's a sorrow that I recognize in Ellie. She carries it well from what I have witnessed, but it's a sadness that I know all too well.

It's one of those sorrows that are invisible to the naked eye, but if you've been through it, you can see it right away.

"Daddy has to talk to the reporters today," Ellie says quietly, dragging me toward the locker rooms. I'm thankful she knows the way, because I sure don't.

"Oh?"

She nods, pulling me to keep up with her. "I always like to watch him because he gets nervous."

I laugh under my breath. I think she's getting nervous mixed up with agitated.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket while I allow a five-year-old to lead me down a dark hallway. The security guard took one look at Ellie and let us through, which is nice to know they're not letting random women back here.

Random women? I brush off the flare of jealousy, because it's totally uncalled for.

Rhodes is worried. Ellie with you?

Yes, we're on our way to you…I think? I'm letting Ellie lead the way, and although she's a determined little thing, I have no idea where we are.

Rhodes says she knows the way.

I send him a thumbs-up emoji, and before I know it, Ellie and I are standing behind a cluster of reporters with microphones, headsets, and cameras. I pull her back a little so she isn't in the limelight, but when she spots her dad, she desperately reaches up on her tiptoes to see better.

My heart warms.

God, she's just like me.

Rhodes is her whole world, like my dad was mine.

I pray she doesn't lose him.

Losing one parent was hard enough, and even if my mother is still physically alive, she hasn't been my mom for a very long time. Losing two parents was just plain cruel.

Swinging Ellie onto my back again, her tiny hands rest on my shoulders, and we watch Rhodes answer questions about the game without an ounce of emotion on his face.

"See?" Ellie whispers her popcorn breath into my ear. "I told you he was nervous."

I roll my lips together to hide my amusement.

"Your dad doesn't get nervous," Emory adds, making me jump. Ellie's hands tighten along my shoulders as she starts to argue with Emory. She puts him in his place, and I find it hilarious.

He raises his eyebrows after she finishes her argument. When she goes back to watching her dad, Emory snags my eye. I catch sight of his grin even if he tries to hide it.

"Good game." I keep my voice smooth, sounding bored. I can't be too nice to him. He might get the wrong idea and think I'll end up in his bed with no panties on again.

My stomach flips. Every single time I've caught Emory staring at me since I ended up in his bed, heat rushes to all the quiet parts of my body, and my mind fills with the most inappropriate thoughts.

It's a sickness, and the only cure so far is avoiding him, so back to the couch I went even though he was openly displeased.

"Did you just compliment me?"

Ellie keeps her attention on her father but inserts herself. "She did, and also, most people say thank you when someone compliments them. My dad said it's rude not to say thank you."

A laugh bubbles out of my throat, and when Emory's white teeth appear behind his lips, I think everyone feels the shift in the universe, because all of a sudden, the cameras swing to him.

He quickly steps in front of me and Ellie, shielding her from the cameras.

Rhodes slips out from behind the chaos, and I do the same. I place Ellie on the ground between the two of us, and with Emory being in the spotlight, she's hidden.

"Hey, printessa," he whispers down to his daughter in Russian.

"Did you have a nervous belly, Daddy?"

He grunts. "Something like that."

He's angry, and when he looks at me, I give him a look that hopefully tells him that I understand.

"Did she give any excuse?" he asks.

He's referring to the nanny, I assume. "Bathroom."

Ellie pipes up. "I think she fell in."

I laugh out loud, while Rhodes curses under his breath before squeezing the back of his neck with his large hand. "Thank you for watching her."

I place my palm on his arm, even though I can tell he isn't the touchy type. There is just something about him and his daughter that I resonate with, and I think he knows there isn't anything underlying when I give it a squeeze. "I will watch her anytime. Just have Emory get a hold of me, okay?"

"Here's your bow." Ellie tries to pull the bow out of her braid, tugging on her hair.

I stop her. "That's yours, silly."

She smiles brightly. Her dad scoops her up and takes off down the hall, peppering her with kisses to make her giggle.

When I turn back to Emory with a soft smile on my lips, I see several cameras pointed in my direction. My smile falls immediately, and Emory's eyes are wide with an apology, like he's trying to warn me.

Oh no.

"Well, there she is…Mrs. Olson!"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I may have signed a contract to be Emory's wife, but nowhere in that contract did it say there would be cameras and sports reporters shoving a microphone in my face.

With my gaze pinned to Emory's, I bite the inside of my cheek and slowly walk to his side.

I am not wife material in real life. Photos, I can deal with. Actual footage? Kill me now.

"We can't help but notice your dedication to this team, Mrs. Olson. We've been hearing you yell louder than Coach Jacobs."

A breath of air whooshes from my lungs with a fake laugh. I shrug and peer at Emory briefly before looking back at the reporter. "I grew up watching hockey, so it's a given that I'd be such a fan."

"Such a fan of watching your husband, I assume?" The female reporter wiggles her eyebrows and laughs annoyingly.

With a closed-lipped smile, I nod. Emory inserts himself, and I'm not sure if he does it to save me or to save us, but I'm thankful either way. "She grew up watching me. I think she may be sick of me by now."

That's right. I almost forgot that Emory and I have a history that goes beyond me trapping him in a bathroom and trying to exploit him.

The reporter laughs again. "I highly doubt that. Chicago is becoming obsessed with their newest Blue Devil goalie." She turns to me again, and I want to die. I lean into Emory, and he catches me around the waist, steadying me. "I think they're becoming obsessed with the two of you, actually. Not only are they invested in the game but they're invested in your new marriage and the team's loudest cheerleader."

Thank God I gave the Blue Devils bow to Ellie. Otherwise, they might give me pom-poms and make me perform in between periods.

"Well"—Emory shifts awkwardly—"we thought it was time to stop the rumors so everyone can focus on the game instead of my personal life."

"They're definitely still invested in your personal life," the reporter argues. "Especially after seeing how adorable your wife is. Not to mention, supportive."

There's a part of me that wants to laugh because if only the press knew that I keep their star goalie up at night because he continues to check on me—something he thinks I don't know about. If I wasn't so stubborn and slept in the bed with him, he wouldn't have to do that, but I don't trust myself one bit, and I'm already embarrassed enough that he had to witness me that unstable state to begin with.

"That's her," Emory says cheerfully, which is a clear indication that he's lying through his teeth. He wraps his arm around me tighter, making a show for the camera. "My wife is supportive beyond belief. She keeps the house tidy, makes me breakfast on my off days, rubs my sore muscles after a killer practice, runs me a hot bath, irons my suits…"

The reporter's cheeks match mine.

Hoping the camera doesn't see, I take my elbow and dig it into Emory's stomach. He rumbles out a quiet chuckle without so much as a twitch of his mouth. If he thinks I'm going to do any of those things, he's out of his ever-loving mind.

"I have to ask one question before I let you two go." She gestures to the camera. "We asked the public to send in questions for their favorite players, and you won by a landslide." I want to scoff because that'll be great for his already enormous ego. "One of the most asked questions was if you have nicknames for each other."

Without giving Emory a chance to throw me to the wolves as some type of sick joke, I pipe up right away. "Oh yes, Emory has a nickname for me. Don't you?" I turn and smile at him. He calls me Rogue daily, so this will be easy-peasy.

His eye twitches, and I have the sudden urge to push back his still sweaty hair from his face to see him better.

"Uh, yeah." He leans into the microphone and says, "Biscotti."

Biscotti?!

My face blanches. I hope the camera is focused on Emory instead of me.

That's what he came up with? A cookie? What happened to Rogue?

"Biscotti?" the reporter repeats, clearly amused.

"Yep." Emory pulls me in close and reaches up to squeeze my cheeks like I'm a child. "She's my little Scottie Biscotti." At the last second, he turns to the camera. "But next time, ask me something about hockey." He winks before taking my hand to lead me away, knowing very well that I'm simmering.