25. Showtime

25

SHOWTIME

Asher

“You’re utterly ah-maze-zing,” Eleanor Greer says to Maeve as we sit down for brunch at their home. “The very second I saw your portfolio, I just knew—you were the one to bring my vision to life on the walls of the arena.”

I knew she had real talent. I’ve known it for years. I’m tempted to chime in and say, Yeah, she’s fucking awesome , but I also know my role here is to support her.

Maeve’s cheeks turn a little pink as she offers a grateful, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Greer. I’m excited to start on the mural.”

“And we’ll be moving fast. This week. Did your agent tell you it’s this week? I hope so. I’ve already been telling my friends about you,” Eleanor says, sounding like she’s had too many espressos from the gleaming Rocket espresso machine on her kitchen counter.

“I can start this afternoon,” Maeve replies gamely.

Eleanor’s eyebrows rise. “Let’s go to the arena after brunch. We can do the site assessment today. Initial measurements. Photos. Clementine will be there too,” she says, mentioning the team’s general manager, and yup. Eleanor’s got the energy of a Border Collie.

We’re in their grand mansion in the Presidio, where the massive dining room is adorned with portraits of their Maltipoo mix, Holmes. He wears a suit in one painting and in another, a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat. Holmes had greeted us at the door earlier, offering a paw for shaking before trotting off to his tartan dog bed with a pipe stuffy that looked custom-made for the cute little dude. “Bye, Holmes,” Maeve had called out, which must have scored her major points with Eleanor.

“I’m there,” Maeve says, matching Eleanor’s energy with equal enthusiasm.

“Wonderful. As I was saying,” Eleanor continues, her sleek blonde bob looking custom-ordered from the rich white ladies’ bougie catalog. “Even after I saw your work, I opened the search to other artists. I felt like I had to. Just to be thorough, just to make sure I wasn’t falling in love at first sight. But I kept coming back to you.” She sets down her water glass and offers a confession to all of us. “I have this dream of owning a museum. I don’t know if that will happen, but for now, I can put art on the walls at our team’s arena. It was meant to be.” She glances at her husband, Spencer, next to her on their side of the table. “Don’t you think?”

“Just like you and me,” Spencer says, adding for our benefit, “she’s got a great eye for talent.”

He seems comfortable to take the back seat, which makes sense because, well, they both own the team, but Eleanor calls the shots. Years ago, she started a venture fund with him that made billions, and they bought the team together. “Once Eleanor has her mind made up, there’s no turning back,” he says, proving my point.

He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and she flashes him a smile that’s just shy of flirtatious, paired with a knowing look. Then, returning her focus to Maeve, she enthuses, “And finding out you’re newly married to one of our star players? Well, that made it seem like kismet. And,” Eleanor adds, “we love to work with the players’ partners when feasible. Like Cookie Melissa, Hugo’s wife.”

“What does she put in them?” Maeve asks brightly. “Because I’m addicted to them.”

“Me too, and I’m dying to get her recipe.” With a tap on the table, Eleanor seamlessly shifts topics. “You must try the quinoa salad. It’s one of our favorite recipes.” She nudges the platter toward us. Her gaze brims with curiosity as she looks between us. “And tell me all about you two. I want to know everything.”

It’s showtime, and we’ve put in the practice. “Well, we’ve been friends forever,” I say, glancing toward Maeve as I serve some quinoa onto our plates.

“Friends to lovers,” Eleanor says, then looks to Spencer with a playful smile. “Like us.”

“Yes, love,” he says fondly.

Eleanor returns her attention to us. “How did you first meet?”

Ah, hell. I steal a glance at Maeve. We didn’t discuss how open we should be about the past particulars. Should I admit we met at a grief support group? She’s intensely private, never wanting people’s sympathy as the orphan.

I don’t want to add a lie when we’re already in deception territory. But, like on the ice, I’m quick to spot an alternative play when I’m blocked, and I take that opening now.

“We met at a community center,” I say. It’s true—our group met there. “And right away, I noticed how big her heart was.”

Also true.

Eleanor gasps, her eyes shining a little. Spencer smiles at his wife, clearly touched by her reaction.

Luckily, I can share the real story without giving away the private details. “She was caring and thoughtful, and she helped a lot of people with her openness,” I say, looking at her.

Maeve smiles at me, her eyes soft. “So did you.”

Eleanor reaches for her husband’s hand. “That’s lovely.” She pauses, then asks me, “Did you know then that you simply had to marry her?”

Did I? When she walked into that meeting ten years ago, I saw something special in her hazel eyes. They were sad, deeply so. But also hopeful. She knew she needed people. She knew she needed to talk and found what she needed. And I suppose I did too. We bonded over late nights snacking and watching comedies. Anything to escape the ache—me for Nora, who’d died before we could even try to be just friends, and Maeve for a life without her parents. We started visiting dive bars and diners, conducting hot sauce tests on burgers—veggie burgers for her—and we parlayed that into a decade of big adventures.

“I was impressed with her ability to handle hot sauce,” I say dryly.

Maeve gives me a look, shaking her head. “No, you were jealous that I can take it hotter than you can. ”

“You’re so mean, Mrs. Callahan,” I tease the woman next to me.

She bobs a defiant shoulder. “It’s just the truth.”

Looking at the Greers, I point my thumb to Maeve. “She never lets me live it down. Fair, I suppose, since her heat tolerance is ghost pepper-level.”

Maeve stage-whispers, “He’s still in the green pepper stage.”

Spencer tosses his head back, chuckling, then deadpans, “No shame in that, Asher. At least you’re decent on the ice.”

“I won’t quit the day job, then,” I say, laughing.

“You’d better not,” he says sternly.

Eleanor presses for more romance. “So you bonded over hot sauce, and then you knew it was meant to be?”

Spencer tuts, squeezing his wife’s hand. “Darling, I’m sure it took them time to figure it out.”

Time. So much time. Was it wasted, though? Did I squander all those years when I could have been…what? Romancing my best friend? I dismiss the thought as pointless. Something in me is broken and has been for just over a decade. I wasn’t even in love with Nora when she died, so it’s not like I’m hung up on my first love. But losing her—someone I had loved, someone I wanted to keep as a friend…It’s the kind of moment that changes a person. You realize all the ways that real love, in all its shapes and forms, can go wrong. But Maeve and I aren’t doing this romance for real. So I give Eleanor the rom-com vibe she’s after. “Well, the funny thing is,” I confess, “we made a marriage pact two years ago.” It’s another bit of edited truth, and it fits with our public story. “I suppose that’s when I knew it was meant to be.”

“Ah, I love it. A pact,” Eleanor coos .

I picture Maeve and me at Beckett’s wedding the night we made the pact. The night I first noticed Maeve’s glossy raspberry-colored lips and discovered how perfectly she fit in my arms. The moment I came face-to-face with how hungry I was to kiss her.

“Yeah, I knew it then,” I confirm, my words thick with the memory, heat rushing through me.

Maeve’s smile fades as she stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide like she’s never seen me before. Or, rather, this side of me. “You did? Back then?” she asks, like it’s just the two of us here.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I shrug, owning it. “I did.”

She’s quiet for a beat, her brow furrowing at the unexpected revelation. Well, it was certainly unexpected to me. But Maeve recovers with an easy smile, picking up the story and sending it toward the goal. “I thought he was joking about the pact,” she tells the Greers with a chuckle.

“But why?” Eleanor’s eyes sharpen, her nose twitching like a Bloodhound as she gestures to Maeve’s hand. “He gave you that ring. Clearly, he wasn’t joking.”

Oh, dammit. No wonder Eleanor’s dog is named after the famous English sleuth. Why didn’t I think about the inconsistency in the ring timeline with a marriage pact? Is Eleanor trying to deduce why, if Maeve and I were engaged before Vegas, is she wearing that big, shiny gem for the first time today? Because pics will prove this ring is new. I’m convinced the words Sham Marriage flash in ruby-red neon over our heads.

But Maeve serenely raises her hand, admiring the ruby, seeming even a little transfixed by it. “The ring is only new. But I suppose it was meant to be too. I was looking at this ring months ago in my favorite jewelry shop. It’s my color—red. And when we returned from Vegas, Asher surprised me with it. It still hardly feels real.”

My shoulders relax. What a perfect response and a brilliant save.

“Nothing says real like a big ring,” Spencer tells me in a man-to-man tone.

“Don’t I know it,” I say, leaning into his vibe for the moment.

Then Maeve locks eyes with the romantic across the table from her. “Actually, Eleanor, the whole thing kind of feels like a dream. Or like a dream becoming reality. And I suppose when we made the pact, it was sweet and playful, and I wasn’t ready to believe it could be real.”

Another perfect detail painted into the story. It prompts me to carry the tale forward.

“It was real,” I say. “It was also…” I trail off, unsure how far to go, how much truth to infuse into the tale.

“A promise?” Eleanor offers eagerly.

“I suppose it was.” I settle back into my chair, feeling pretty damn good about the play we’re presenting. “Now, I can see it was a promise I needed to keep. Once she bid on me at the players’ auction, and we went away, well, it all clicked.”

“And you went viral. I just loved all the photos—you and the couple you gave the room to, the concert, the roulette game. Even the auction kiss.”

“Ah, it’s so lovely.” She turns to her husband. “Maybe we should pay it forward too. With a kiss.”

She doesn’t need to tell him twice. Spencer leans in and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to Eleanor’s lips. Except…nope, it’s not quick. It lingers. It lasts longer than I’d expected .

When he finally pulls back, he shrugs, but his smile is cocksure. “My wife is irresistible.”

“It’s good that you feel that way.” I think back to earlier at the coffee shop when Maeve and I re-established our rules—nothing physical. Maeve seemed to need that line in the sand, so I’ll respect it. I keep my hands to myself for the rest of brunch as, at last, the conversation shifts to the mural and away from us.

“By estimates I’ve been given, it should take several weeks—anywhere from eight to ten,” Eleanor says.

Maeve’s eyes widen. “Oh. Really?”

Shit. Does that bother her? Eleanor picks up on Maeve’s surprise and asks, “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

Maeve quickly recovers. “Of course not.”

When brunch ends, we offer to clean up, but they decline. Eleanor says she needs to gather her notes for the mural and then arranges to meet Maeve at the arena later.

“I’ll bring Holmes,” she tells Maeve. “He likes to keep me company. Does that work for you?”

Maeve snorts. “I believe the question is—does that sound like the best way to work?”

Eleanor smiles. “Like I said, kismet.”

“It is,” she agrees and waves at the dog when we pass him on the way to the door. In the foyer, Eleanor tilts her head, assessing us like puzzle pieces, roaming her eyes over Maeve and me.

“I remember the honeymoon phase,” she muses. “We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. But maybe young people today are different.”

Wait. What the hell?

I feel like I’ve just been checked into the boards. My head is rattling. She thinks I’m not into my wife because I didn’t touch her ten million times like they did?

“That’s not the case,” I say quickly, defensively. I reach for Maeve’s hand, but she’s holding her bag, and I miss it.

Great. Just great. Now I look like an awkward teen flailing around on his first date.

Spencer offers me a sympathetic smile and a clap on the shoulder. “There, there. You’ll figure it out.”

I stare at them, dumbfounded. A perfect routine, which I fucked up by not touching her like the Greers touch each other. We didn’t stick the landing, and that’s what the judges will remember.

We leave, and once inside my car, I grip the wheel hard, dropping my head on it. “So much for that show.”

When I look up a few seconds later, Maeve gives an apologetic wince. “I guess we need to be as handsy as they are next time. Who knew? I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I murmur, frustrated I missed that detail. I don’t like to fuck up. I don’t like to make mistakes. I don’t like asking my next question, but I have to know.

“When she said the mural could take eight to ten weeks—did that bother you? I know it’s longer than we’d planned to stay married.”

“No,” she says quickly, cutting off that notion. “It’s fine. I’m good. I was just worried about you. Are you okay staying married that long?”

So good with it. “Definitely. With the charity launch and everything, it makes sense.” I try to keep my response casual, though I’m pumping a fist virtually.

“I promise I’ll get better at acting.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “I’m just not that good at faking it, I guess.”

And I could take that a million ways, but I take it the right one. I know she liked holding my hand earlier outside the shop. I know she loved it in Vegas when I kissed her like I couldn’t get enough of her. And I would bet my entire hockey career on how very much she’d like to ride my cock again.

That’s not what she has a hard time faking.

What’s tough for Maeve is not being her true, authentic self. She means she wanted to touch me. So she wasn’t that good at not touching me.

I fight off the biggest, cockiest grin ever. My wife wants me. The Greers want authentic? I’ll give it to them.

“I have an idea,” I say.

“Count me in,” she replies without asking what it is.

We drive to the Marina, and along the way, she turns to me, her expression shifting. “Do you think it’s true? That I was her first choice all along?”

“Of course,” I say as we cruise toward the bay, glittering in the afternoon sun. “Why wouldn’t that be true?”

“She said they like to work with players’ partners. What if they waited until we were married to hire me?”

She sounds so vulnerable, and it tugs hard on my heart. “Maeve, they hired you, not me. It’s your name going on the mural, not mine.”

“Right, but what if they did it to make you happy?”

Oh hell. How can I ever reassure her? “Look, I’m not even in a contract year. They’re not sucking up to me. You got this job on your merits,” I say, trying, desperately trying.

She flashes a smile that quickly turns to a frown. “I don’t want to be handed things because I’m…Mrs. Callahan.”

“You’re not,” I say emphatically, wishing she could see what I see in her talent. “You got this on your own terms. She said you were her top choice. Hell, she opened up the field just because she was blown away by you and wanted to make sure she was being fair. And she came back to you.”

She shudders out a sigh, then nods like she’s trying to absorb that truth. “Thanks, Asher. I seriously appreciate that.”

“Get used to it, wife. There’s more where that came from,” I say. I’ll do whatever it takes for her to know I believe in her.

“And I think you deserve a badge for being a great temporary husband,” she says.

But to earn it, I need to do everything I can to make everyone believe in this marriage.

I park near the water and take her hand as we walk across Crissy Field. When we stop, I hold out my phone, the Golden Gate Bridge rising high behind us.

“Smile for social,” I say.

She does, bright and beautiful—a clear smile that burrows deep into my heart. But it’s not enough.

I don’t want a smile for the camera. I want to show the whole damn world that I can’t keep my hands off my wife. But I don’t want to presume she wants a kiss too, so I start to ask. “What about?—?”

“A kiss for social?”

It’s the best finished thought ever.

“Yes.” I tug her against me, her back to my chest. I wrap an arm around her waist, and then, with my free hand, I cup her jaw and turn her toward me. I kiss her, long, slow, deep—the kind of kiss that’s a prelude to how I want to fuck her.

I mentally record her reaction—her sighs, her hungry murmurs, and most of all, the way she surrenders to the kiss. She tilts her chin, she parts her lips, and she invites me to kiss her thoroughly with everything I’ve got.

That’s who she is. Someone who gives fully, who loves deeply, who wants with her whole soul. I kiss her by the bridge and in front of the ocean so we can tell our story.

When we break the kiss, she sighs—a deep, satisfied sound. “You kiss me a lot.”

She’s not wrong. “Want me to stop?” I ask like it’d be no big deal. Only, it’d be a terrible deal.

“No,” she says, then smiles up at me. “Who knew my best friend was such a good kisser?”

I drop a kiss onto her nose. “I guess you know now.”

“I do know,” she says in a feathery whisper.

I drive Maeve to the arena so she doesn’t miss her appointment with Eleanor, telling her goodbye as she goes inside.

But I don’t take off yet. I do what the guys said I should do—make this official on social.

I post the bridge photo with a caption, keeping it cheeky.

Can’t spell kindness without kiss. And I can’t kiss without my brilliant wife, Maeve Hartley. What have you done to be kind today ?

I tag the Sea Dogs and Maeve, hoping the Greers see it.

If anyone doubted I want my wife, they’d better not doubt it now. But for all Eleanor talked about loving our photos, she doesn’t even like this one.

Well, you can’t get lucky every time.