3. Emma

Idid.

Yes, I fucking did decide I was going.

I forget about the logistics of this endeavour and about my actual job, which I love but will have to leave behind. But the wine is in charge now, and it's ploughing forward with this insanity. I finish off my second glass of wine and grab my laptop, firing it up. If I'm really going to run this hockey team, I need to get serious.

Run.

Own.

There is a marked difference, and while Dad was hands-on, maybe I don't have to be that handsy. I can sit in the big office and preside over them like some chubby red-haired Overlord. Right? I can do that with my pizza and wine and Google at my fingertips when I don't know what the fuck they're on about.

I sigh.

Something tells me that is a pipe dream. If it was that easy, Dad wouldn't be stepping down due to stress now, would he?

So. Right. Okay. I need a basic understanding of things beyond skates, sticks, pucks, and nets.

Googling the team themselves, I giggle, a little drunkenly, I'll admit, at the name. Nessie Warriors.

My screen fills with a list of names and stats that might as well be written in Klingon. "Great," I sigh. "This'll be fun."

But then I notice something that does make it a bit more fun: the players' photos. It turns out hockey players aren't just about teeth-bashing and fights on ice; some of them are actually quite fit—especially one guy in particular.

"Lachlan MacLeod," I read aloud. "Captain of the team." Rugged jawline, a mop of dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Broad shoulders that suggest he could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat.

Well, maybe not me. I'd crush him. Perhaps the Anti-Emma. She appears to be of benchpressable size and weight.

Still, a nearly thirty-year-old, extremely newly single woman can look. Squint. Whatever.

"Well, hello there, Captain," I mumble, reaching for a slice of pizza and biting into it.

I read his bio. He's twenty-six, has been with the team since his school days, and played in the junior league before moving up to the pros. He is apparently some sort of hometown hero. He is clearly dedicated and well-respected by his teammates.

But he has that smug confidence in his expression that screams arrogant jock. Am I being harsh? Maybe? But probably not. One way to find out though.

I jot down a few notes before switching tabs to what I do best. Social freakin' Media, because who doesn't do their best stalking here? Lachlan's profile is surprisingly open; lots of posts about training, motivational quotes and, yep, loads of girls hanging off his arm and giving him doe eyes, shoving their perky tits in his face with their nipples that could put an eye out.

And he appears to be enjoying every second of it. There are no sly shots of him with a sad look on his face or of him being papped looking at engagement rings because he is ready to settle down.

Summer in Ibiza with the lads with groupies hanging all over him is the way he wants to play it and is more his style, according to his Insta account. I follow him, just to keep apprised of his antics and for ammo to use if the need arises. To my surprise, he follows me right back.

Narrowing my eyes, I purse my lips. It's my surname. Has to be. Nodding to myself, I go back to the stats on my laptop and continue reading. I'm not going to let a pretty face and a thousand-watt smile distract me from my mission. Lachlan MacLeod will just have to be another problem to tackle when the time comes.

Jumping when my phone buzzes, I pick it up and glare at it when I see the name on the screen.

A message from Casanova himself. Carrick fucking Glenn. "What do you want?" I mutter and debate opening the message or just deleting it. But my curiosity wins out, and I slide my thumb over the screen to open it.

Want to grab a drink?

Ugh. Is he for real? "Huge pass, douche canoe," I mumble and ignore him. It will drive him crazy when I don't respond. Before this evening, I would jump on his texts like a woman possessed. Now, I don't give a crap. Even if this is some massive misunderstanding and the Anti-Emma is his sister or something, and the photo is wildly out of context, like he was saving her from tripping over the notoriously dodgy pavements, it doesn't change how I feel right now thinking he cheated on me.

I don't care.

And that says quite a lot.

Sure, it hurts, and it's embarrassing as fuck, but I don't feel sad. Maybe I just liked the idea of us and that he was so good looking and he wanted me, rather than focusing on the actual relationship. Which, now I think about it, was pretty one-sided from my end. He had his moments, but it was mostly me.

I slam my laptop shut and lean back on the sofa, rubbing at my temples. The wine buzz is wearing off, leaving me with a dull headache and a nagging sense of panic about this whole hockey team thing. I shake my head. No time for a pity party. I need to actually do something productive.

Sighing, I know I need to confront Carrick, but suddenly, I'm a bit nervous. I tidy up first, delaying the inevitable and then head to my room, phone clutched in my paw. Stalling again, I get in my PJs and crawl into bed, snuggling into the gorgeous white cotton, and then I have to do this. There are no more things to do to procrastinate with.

Except sleeping.

No. Behave. Text him.

I open up his second text and roll my eyes.

You okay?

"Yeah, fucking peachy."

Fine. You?

Good.

What did you get up to today?

There. Ball. Court. Him.

Not much. You?

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Sighing, I take the bull by the horns, buoyed up by the vino and pizza coma that is brewing on the not-so-distant horizon.

Really? You didn't have a date with a cute brunette who could hide behind a lamppost?

Yeah, I feel bad. It's not her fault she's skinny.

Nothing.

Not even three dots while he panic texts me an excuse.

Then…

Who told you?

Sitting upright, I gawp at the phone. "Who told me? Who the fuck told me? What the fuck difference does that make, you cocking dickface!"

I hear the whoosh sound and freeze, panic filling my veins as I stare at the screen. "Fuck!" Fucking Siri. Somehow, not only did I activate the voice message function in my haste to sit up to be incredulous, but I also managed to send the fucking thing.

"Noooooooo," I groan as I flop back to the pillows and close my eyes.

Bzzz.My phone vibrates again. I should ignore it, but of course, curiosity wins out. I should've been a cat. Maybe in my next life. I peek at the screen through one squinted eye.

I swear it's not what it looks like.

I laugh. A harsh, bitter laugh that sounds nothing like me. "Sure, mate," I mutter to myself. "Because it's always not what it looks like."

It is followed by that familiar three-dot typing bubble.

Can we talk about this in person? Please?

Instead of replying with words, I forward him the photo Anna sent me.

Silence.

Not what it looks like? Looks pretty cosy to me. We agreed we weren't dating other people, so no talking. I'm done.

I wait.

Fair enough.

"Fair enough? Fair fucking enough? Why did I waste my time on you? Why did I consider you when my dad told me about retiring today? Why? Why?" Tears prick my eyes, and I hate myself for it.

Switching my phone off, I curl up in a ball and brush the tears aside. I close my eyes and debate getting another glass of wine, which will undoubtedly give me a hangover tomorrow, when Lachlan MacLeod's smug face pops into my mind again.

"Oh great," I mutter. "That's all I need—Captain Fantastic judging me from the get-go."

Pulling the duvet over my head, I zone out, needing to not think for a while and just sleep.