22. Second Wife

22

SECOND WIFE

Asher

I hop in my electric car, turn it on with the app, and drive myself to the rink for morning skate, skipping the usual ride with Max. I need some time alone to shake off the madness of the past day and the tough conversations this morning. Time to get my head back in the game.

On the drive, I flip on the satellite radio, tuning in to a comedy station. A few minutes of Tiffany Haddish does the trick, loosening me up as the city blurs by through the windows. By the time I pull into the Sea Dogs arena, I’m relaxed and ready to block out everything except practice this morning and the game tonight.

I park, grab my phone, and head inside, passing framed photos of past Sea Dogs stars in the familiar hall leading to the locker room. Inside, music is blasting, courtesy of Wesley and one of his pump-us-up playlists.

“What’s up, boys?” I walk in like everything is good in the world. “You ready to make Chicago cry tonight? ”

“Fuck yeah.” Hugo grins, pulling on his pads at his stall. But then the bearded brute of a defender gives me a funny look, head tilted, eyes narrowing like he’s about to drop some wisdom. “But…did you cry?”

That’s…odd. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs amiably. “At your wedding. It’s okay if you did, man. I was pretty emotional at mine. No shame in some waterworks. Fuck toxic masculinity.”

Christian Winters, our captain, nods solemnly, sitting in front of his stall, taping his stick. “Same here. I teared up at mine. Weddings will do that to you.”

I stop, raising a brow. I smell a prank. “Okay, but I didn’t,” I say slowly, wondering how we ended up talking about my marital status instead of, you know, the game tonight against Chicago right here in our barn.

Max shoots me a skeptical look as he adjusts his leg pads. “You didn’t cry? Well, shit. I figured that’s why you didn’t invite us—because you didn’t want us seeing you bawl your eyes out.”

Ah, hell. “It was kind of last-minute,” I say, keeping it casual as I explain my wedding.

My wedding.

It’s still such a strange thought. I’m married. Just for a few more weeks, but still, I’m married to my best friend. Naturally, my teammates want to know what’s up.

“Last-minute?” Miles echoes, pulling on his jersey and giving me a serious glare with those dark eyes. Our center’s like the laidback professor who’s scary smart—he can see right through you. “You sure about that? Because I’d be willing to bet my fine scotch collection you’ve been obsessed with her for the last couple of years.” He clears his throat. “Do we need to remind you of the DickNose board observations of the top-five times you said something cute about Maeve?”

“Right, Professor Falcon,” I say, hoping I sound as confident about my wedding as I do about hockey. Did we even talk about what to tell our friends? We were busy taking hits from surprise after surprise.

I head to my stall, shedding my hoodie. “It was...spur of the moment.” I feel bad lying, but I don’t know how Maeve wants to play this. I do know that letting the whole team in on the secret is a surefire way for it to leak, and neither of us needs to be branded a liar right now.

Plus, it was an impromptu wedding.

Miles scoffs. “The DickNose board disagrees.”

“And the DickNose board doesn’t lie,” Wesley puts in.

But whether the board is an oracle of romance or not isn’t the issue. I’m not about to spill my guts to my teammates about my feelings for Maeve when I’ve barely begun to figure them out. I grab my jersey, ignoring them. It’s not like they need me this second since they’re too busy talking about me.

“But don’t worry,” Max says dryly. “We’re here for you. Even if you weren’t here for us.”

“First off, did you ever consider maybe there’s a reason I got hitched in Vegas instead of, ahem, near all of you assholes?” I ask as I tug off my shirt. “Second, have you ever heard the phrase when in Vegas ? So, there you go.”

Here’s hoping that throws them off the scent.

“Sure, Callahan,” Max says, like he believes me, then tosses me a private look that says something’s up . But he won’t press now, and I appreciate the tact—if that’s what it is.

Wesley pipes up from his stall, “And just to show there are no hard feelings about us all being snubbed from your special day, we made you a ‘Top Five Things To Do Now That You’re Married’ list.” Sheepishly, he adds, “Josie loves lists. She got me addicted.”

I groan and drag a hand down my face. These fuckers. Why did I not see the DickNose board coming?

The team captain strides to the corner of the locker room and taps the whiteboard with his stick. I stand at my stall, arms crossed like I can brace myself for the hell of all hell they’re about to give me. He clears his throat and brandishes his left hand, speaking in a voice full of authority. “Number one: Get a silicone ring for when you’re on the ice because gold isn’t going to cut it in the rink.”

Oh.

I glance down at the simple gold band on my finger, then at his silicone one. That’s actually a good point. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Fair enough,” I mutter.

Max joins Christian and points to the next item. “Number two: Get her a diamond. Pretty sure she didn’t have one in the photos. And you can thank Everly for noticing that.”

My pulse spikes. Why didn’t I think of that either? But if I play this wedding off as an elopement, we’re good. When you elope, engagement rings probably aren’t top of mind, but…yeah. I’ll still have to fix that. Fast.

“We eloped, but you’re right. Good thinking,” I add, grateful for these guys.

Wesley grins as he taps the board now. “Number three: Start doing cute couple shit. Farmers markets, carving her name into a tree, swinging at the park. You’re in your domestic phase now, Callahan.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. I might be known as the resident good guy , but no way am I going to embark on a saccharin tour of couple Pinterest. “I’ll save that for you and Josie. Next.”

“Watch your mouth. Josie and I are aces at cute couple shit,” he says.

“They are,” Christian grumbles.

Miles takes his turn, lifting a finger, dark eyes serious. “But don’t wait too long for number four: Make it official on social media. You can’t go under the radar too long.” There’s a heaviness to his voice, maybe even regret. He’s definitely speaking from experience. Then he adds, like a warning, “Nothing counts until it’s on social, right?”

Pretty sure they’ve guessed this whole thing is fake, but I keep my game face tight. Because their advice is solid, and I appreciate how, in their messed-up way, they’re looking out for me. “Got it.”

Hugo rises from his stall, heads over to the board, then nods to the final item, his tone dripping with innuendo. “Take it from me because my life’s goal is keeping my wife happy—give her a hat trick before you score even one goal for yourself.”

Christian, Max, and Wesley raise their sticks in agreement. So does Rowan Bishop, one of of our defenders. He’s here too, watching with amusement on his usually grumpy face.

“Well, thank you. You’re all the best marriage counselors a guy could ask for,” I say.

The room erupts in laughter, and I flip them off as I grab my gear. I’ll talk to Maeve about all this stuff tonight when she’s done with her catering gig. It’ll be fine. We’ve been in sync on everything. We’ll be in sync on these housekeeping details too.

I sit on the bench and lace up, then Rowan smacks his forehead. “Wait. How the fuck did we miss this? ”

I turn to him and arch a brow. “Miss what?”

He’s shaking his head like he’s disappointed in himself. “Let us know when you move in together. A friend of mine owns a moving company. Happy to hook you up.”

My brain short circuits. “Move in together?”

“It’s that thing people do when they get married,” Wesley deadpans.

“Or when the captain asks you to do him a solid,” Christian chimes in with a smirk and a shake of his head.

“And thank you for that,” Wesley says to Christian. That’s how he wound up with Josie, the love of his life. He volunteered a spare room when the captain asked if any of us had a place for his sister to stay at the start of last season.

Hugo turns to me with some concern on his face. “You are moving in together?”

I hadn’t given it any thought, but since my teammates quite possibly think I’m really married, I play it off, rolling my eyes. “Obviously.”

Before I head to the tunnel, I glance at the board one last time. It’s like the to-do list I didn’t know I needed.

But I put moving in together out of my mind. It’s too tempting a thought being that close to her, and I don’t need more temptation than I already have in my wife.

The first two periods against Chicago are fast, brutal, and exactly what I need right now. With ten minutes to go in the third, I sprint across the ice, chasing down the puck as a Chicago forward winds up and fires a slapshot toward our goalie. Lambert’s a beast in the net, though, and he easily swats it away. Bergstrand is there to grab the rebound and flicks it to me. I’m off again, skating hard toward Chicago’s net, dodging a couple of defensemen. For a moment, I think I’ve got a clear shot—until, out of nowhere, I’m slammed into the boards. The hit jolts me, pain slicing through my abs, my jaw rattling.

They want to play rough? Fine. I’ll play rough.

I shove the guy off with a sharp elbow, flashing him a grin that, in hockey lingo, translates to a clear fuck you . I skate after the puck again, avoiding a penalty. Maybe it’s the smile, maybe it’s the good guy rep. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

The game barrels on like that. Elbows, hits, bruises, crashes. This is the best kind of hockey—rough and physical, demanding everything I’ve got. This is where I thrive. Forgetting the world and just…playing.

Life will be there for you later.

It’s what my dad, Carlos, used to say when I was younger, whenever I was too worried about John, even after he went on meds for his condition. I took Carlos’s words to heart, and I still do. I can hear the roar of the crowd, but I keep it in the background, not letting it distract me. Until?—

I make a pass to Falcon after the next line change, and my attention is momentarily yanked toward the stands at center ice.

What the…

Did that just happen?

I snap my gaze back to the ice, but I’m a fraction too late and almost trip over my own skates. A woman in the second row just flashed her bra at me, and I’m pretty sure the sign she’s lifting over her head says, Call Me If It Doesn’t Work Out .

I blink, forcing the bizarre moment out of my mind. We’re down by one with seven minutes left. I jump over the boards for the line change, grabbing my water bottle and taking a swig. I park myself next to Bryant on the bench. “We’ll get it in the next one,” I say.

“We fucking will,” he replies, giving me a fist-bump.

As Winters flies down the ice, I focus on the game, but something about the crowd noise tickles the back of my brain. It’s growing louder.

And it sounds like… second wife ?

I glance at the Jumbotron. I’m not surprised often, but this? This throws me. I’ve seen my share of signs like Meet Me at the Players’ Entrance, or I’ll Make Your Night Worthwhile . Even the occasional phone number.

But this is a first— Can I Be Your Second Wife?

Bryant elbows me and shoots me a disbelieving look. “And ten thousand hockey fans are devastated you’re taken,” he says with a chuckle.

I shake my head, still not quite processing the news. But there’s no time to dwell on it. Coach calls for a line change, and I’m back on the ice. The moment my skates hit the surface, everything else fades away.

This time, I’m nothing but focused. Determination powers me as I fly down the rink. Falcon races ahead, and he’s open. I flick the puck to him, the pass perfect, and he lunges for it, sending it screaming past a Chicago defender and right into the net.

The horn blares—we’re tied up.

Two minutes later, Winters sends the black disc my way, and I send it home. The arena erupts, and when the game ends, “Tick Tick Boom” blasts through the sound system, signaling our victory.

The guys are pumping fists and slapping shoulders as we skate off the ice. But once again, something in the stands catches my eye. I can’t help but steal a curious glance. There’s a sea of signs waving my way.

You Might Be Wifed Up, But You’re Still My Fantasy Hockey MVP!

Taken, But You Can Still Score With Me!

Call Me If You Need A Backup!

Falcon catches my eye, grinning. “You’re getting hit on even more? Dude, can I have your luck, please?”

“I’m sure you do just fine,” I say.

He scoffs but adds, “Who knew all of San Francisco would be heartbroken that your ugly ass is hitched?”

Honestly, I’m still a little stunned that everyone knows. I head through the tunnel in a daze, both from the last-minute victory and the fan reaction. After I change out of my gear and tug on a workout shirt at my stall, I head to the media room with Everly for the post-game press conference.

The usual suspects are there. Gus, a weathered reporter who has covered us for years, clears his throat and asks the first question. “Asher, you made the assist to Falcon in the third that tied the game. What was going through your mind on that play? It looked like you were lining up for a shot.”

I nod, giving a measured answer. “We were down by one with five minutes left, so I knew I needed a more aggressive approach. But when I saw Falcon open, I went for it. The pass lined up just right, and he nailed it. I’m lucky it paid off, but this team never quits.”

Gus scribbles a note, seemingly satisfied with my response.

Then Claudia, a podcaster, raises her hand, wasting no time. “So you’re married now. When did things start with your wife? The night she won you at the auction? That was pretty fast.”

Everly shoots her a friendly but pointed look, her tone polite but firm. “If we could keep the questions hockey-related, that’d be great.”

It’s not surprising that a reporter has asked a skeptical question. And I appreciate Everly’s save, but if I dodge the question, that’ll only fuel the speculation.

I think about this week. The brunch with the owners on Tuesday, and the dinner with the Total Teamwork board on Friday, where Soraya will be relieved I have a date. I remember Beckett’s warning to protect Maeve as I think about all the pieces of our story that have slipped out of our control—photos of the kiss after the auction, the pic of us at the concert, shots of us around the roulette table.

Everyone else is telling our story. Random strangers are putting together the pieces of our romance like we’re a jigsaw puzzle.

But I’m not moving the pieces, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I hate it when things spin out of control. It makes me feel jittery and frustrated. Like a teenager again, helpless to do anything when my dad was sick. So, I don’t take the out that Everly is offering. Instead, I do what I promised Beckett I would—protect Maeve.

“I can only speak for myself,” I say to Claudia, with ease and confidence even, “but this has been going on for a long time.”

Everly gives a professional grin to the media scrum. “Next question.”

Another reporter asks one that’s hockey-related, and I answer it, but my mind is already racing. I don’t regret what I said, but we need to get our story straight if I’m going to keep my promise.

I’ll text her as soon as I return to the locker room. I’m not going to fuck up this chance.

For her, of course.

I don’t want to mess it up for her.

Especially since I was only speaking the truth to the press.