Chapter 43

Forty-Three

SCOTTIE

"Look at them," I chide.

Gloves are off, helmets are thrown to the side, bare fists are clenched tightly.

Emory adjusts himself on the bed, but I keep my sights locked on the TV. "Just another day in the rink. Probably a lot of chirpin' on the ice. It irks us."

I sigh, feeling myself get sleepier the longer I stare at the screen. "There haven't been many fights this season for you guys, though."

"That's because the team isn't on the same page yet."

I turn slightly to catch a quick glimpse of Emory. He's leaning with his back on the headboard, and he's shirtless. His abs ripple with each breath he takes while he watches the fight unfold on the screen.

All pro hockey players are obsessed with the game, and Emory is no exception. He's been watching the screen like he's studying for a test, and if his furrowed brow and laser focus are any indication, he'll pass with flying colors.

I look back to the TV quickly so he doesn't catch me staring at him. "What do you mean? You guys have been playing better with each game. The defensemen have gotten so much stronger too. Malaki does really well along the wall. I noticed during the last game that his passing is more accurate. Honestly, I'd say he's becoming one of the best skaters in all three zones."

I stop mid-sentence when I feel Emory staring at me. We make eye contact, and there's the smallest smile playing on his lips.

My face warms. "What?"

"It's kind of cute that you know so much about hockey."

I purse my lips and scoot farther under the covers. He thinks I'm annoyed that he called me cute, but the small compliment makes the butterflies swarm so fast that I have to put my hand over my stomach.

Emory continues to talk about the game. "When the team does something like that"—I look back to the screen and see that most of the hockey players are fighting now—"it means they have each other's backs. They're working as a team and have a bond that goes further than making good plays." Emory runs a hand down his scruffy face. "It's kind of what I'm trying to get the Blue Devils to become. When you trust each other, you play better."

I say nothing because I'm afraid of what'll come out of my mouth. It would do neither of us any good if I were to say what I'm really thinking, because truthfully, I think Emory Olson is one of the best hockey players in the league.

He's calculated when he's in between the poles of the net. On multiple occasions, I've seen him pull his teammates together and give them a pep talk too.

Emory doesn't only look out for himself on the ice.

He looks out for his team.

"Can I ask you something?"

His chin dips with a nod.

"What happened the night you were arrested?"

I don't know why I ask the question or why it matters. But there's something about the quiet of his room with soft sounds of the hockey game on TV that makes me comfortable.

Emory grabs the back of his neck and gives it a quick squeeze. Just when I think he isn't going to answer me, he starts to talk.

"I did get into an altercation that night," his tone lowers, like he's disappointed. "But I wasn't the one who initiated it or even really had any connection to it other than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I continue to stare at the side of his face when he takes a pause. His temple is flickering back and forth, and if I didn't ban myself from touching him, I'd probably reach out and grab onto his hand to calm the anguish.

"Nelson started to shit-talk. He's mouthy on the ice and even worse off it. One thing led to another, and he started a fight. I was trying to separate the two when it became a brawl. Next thing I knew, there was a broken beer bottle up to my throat, and I acted fast. In the midst of it, I somehow caused most of the damage, even though I was just trying to stay alive. My teammates bailed, too afraid it'd ruin their image and get them kicked off the team. Coach Berkley had zero tolerance for that shit."

Emory turns to me, and the blue of his eyes is so bright it's hard not to fall into them. He looks away after a second, and I know it's to hide what he's really feeling. "I guess they were right to stay quiet."

Anger fuels my response. "No. They were wrong to let you take the blame. Only cowards do that." He has no idea how infuriated I truly am. The same thing happened to William, except he doesn't quite get it.

Emory's lip curves upward, and he sort of smiles at me. When he turns back to the TV, he quietly mutters, "I think everything happens for a reason. If I didn't get into that fight, then I would have missed out on other things."

I want to ask him what other things he would have missed out on, but I don't because I know there is absolutely no way he's referring to marrying me, even if, deep down, there's a very quiet part of me that wishes he was.

I'm clearly going insane.

Silence passes between us while we both quietly watch the rest of the game. My eyes start to get droopy toward the end of the third period, and Emory is fully relaxed on his side of the bed. I sneak a few glances at him here and there, and each time, he watches the screen with intense concentration, nodding occasionally when Maier blocks the puck.

As soon as my eyelids drift shut, I hear the TV turn off.

I tense. Emory must feel me jerk, because he's quick to turn it back on.

"Did you need it to sleep?" he asks quietly. His sleepy face softens, and I can't help but lose my train of thought.

I shake my head and pull the covers up higher.

"You sure?"

I want to tell him to stop being so nice to me. I need him to go back to being like an annoying roommate who enjoys irritating me instead of acting so sweet—like when he grabbed my hand in the kitchen when his parents asked me about my family.

When he turns the TV off again, the room is filled with silence. It's a calm silence, though. Comforting in a way…until he climbs underneath the covers, and I can feel his warmth from across the bed. Each one of his breaths sounds louder than the one before, and I'm positively insane for thinking such a thing.

Suddenly, everything feels heightened, and I'm lying in my fake husband's bed, trying to think about all the ways he's aggravated me since starting our little marriage game so I don't think of other things.

"Hey."

Excitement erupts from my chest when his smooth voice fills the room.

"Yeah?" I sound eager. God.

"Can I ask you something now?"

I smile to myself. "Technically, you get one question a day, remember?"

He makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a sarcastic sigh. "Why'd you close off when my parents asked about your mom?"

My body breaks out in a sweat.

He noticed?

"You don't have to answer."

"Oh, so I get a choice?" I whisper-tease.

"This time? Yeah." Emory's tone is smooth and steady, which must be the reason I'm considering telling him about her. There can't be any reason other than that.

"I'll tell you." Shit, what?

"You will? I surely thought you'd put up a fight."

I'm just as surprised as he is.

I turn away from him, as if putting my back to him will lessen the dread I'll feel when speaking of her out loud.

I start with the basics. "She's alive."

Emory stays quiet, and I tell myself he isn't even in the room—not that I could ever believe that. I feel his presence like I feel my own heartbeat.

"But the woman I once knew is no longer a woman I recognize." My throat starts to feel tight and itchy. "I don't like to talk about her, and it's easier to just tell people she's dead, but it feels wrong to do that. Like it gives her an easy way out."

There were times when I wished she was dead, and I'm not proud of that, but abandonment causes you to become bitter at times.

"If she isn't dead, where is she?" Emory moves under the covers, and for a split second, I wonder if he's going to get closer to me.

But he doesn't, so I keep going.

"Right now?" I ask. "Probably on the corner of 1st and Mcallister."

He repeats what I said, dragging the words out with a familiarity that I highly doubt is true.

"How often do you go there to hand out coats and food? Do you go to check on her?"

I pause.

Ugh.

I flop onto my back and look over to his side of the bed. My eyes have adjusted to the dark room, and I stare at his strong profile.

"You never did tell me how you knew about that."

He turns, and I know he's looking at me.

"I followed you one night—before I asked you to marry me."

My face burns with mortification. Seeing her in person makes me feel so incredibly vulnerable, and I loathe that he witnessed that.

"I needed to know more about you."

"To see if you wanted to marry me?" I ask.

"No," he answers with confidence. "I just…" I hear him turn away, and suddenly I'm watching his chest rise and fall in the dark. "I just wanted to know more."

My teeth sink into my lip before I go back to staring at the ceiling. I haven't been back there since that night. It's a part of my life that I want to keep private, especially from the media. It wouldn't do anything but make people ask questions, and that would lead to more speculation, and before I'd know it, everyone would be questioning our marriage.

Emory knows now, though.

But he doesn't know about William, and that's something I'd rather keep under lock and key. Otherwise, I'm afraid he'll tell me exactly what everyone else has told me—that trying to get him out of prison on an appeal is a lost cause.

Several minutes of silence pass between us, but just when I think he's asleep, his quiet, smooth voice fills the void. "I'm sorry, Biscotti."

He sounds so genuine.

So believable.

"For what?" I ask with a blip of irritation to my tone. He's being compassionate again, and I don't know what to do with it. "You had nothing to do with her choosing the path she's on."

"And what path is that? Why is she homeless? Is that why you need money?"

"No," I rush out. "I stopped giving her money a long time ago."

Turning away, my stomach fills with dread. I hate talking about her because it brings up unwanted thoughts and feelings that I'd rather bury.

"She's sick."

"Sick?"

He doesn't get it, and I can't expect him to.

"She's a drug addict." The four words fly out of my mouth and into the open room so quickly I'm not even sure he heard me.

"Oh."

He's surprised, which is also understandable.

Not many people consider their loved ones to be sick when they're addicted to drugs. There are many things that drug addicts are referred to, and being sick isn't one of them. But it hits differently when you're the one affected by it.

"If I don't think about it as an illness, then I'll hate her, and I just don't have it in me to hate her anymore." My heart starts to beat a little faster the more I open up. "I used to," I clarify. "But I guess that's just a part of growing up. I don't agree with her decisions or behavior, but I understand that she's sick."

Emory doesn't hesitate for even a second. "I'm beginning to realize that you grew up a lot faster than you should have. It's no wonder you're infuriatingly independent."

I wonder what he'd think if I told him that I've been taking care of my mentally ill brother too.

"Infuriatingly?" I try to crack a joke, but I'm pretty sure he can hear the desolate tone in my voice. "Rude."

His deep chuckle fills the room again before he turns to his side.

Just when I think he's going to sleep, after I just spilled one of my deepest, darkest secrets, the room is illuminated in a bluish glow again. Hockey fills the screen, and when I peek at him, he's looking directly at me.

"We can watch it for a little longer, yeah?" he asks.

I turn away to hide the gloss in my eyes that's been there since the second he asked about her.

I nod and settle further into the bed, basking in the little bit of comfort he's giving me.