29. There’s Always a Catch

29

THERE’S ALWAYS A CATCH

Asher

The third period is winding down, and New York clings to a one-goal lead. We have ten minutes to shave that. I race down the ice, passing the puck to Falcon as we hunt for an opening.

But New York’s relentless, and their defenseman Karlsson won’t lay off me. The second I spot an opening and try to sneak it past the goalie, he cuts across, swiping it from me, then flashes a dickhead smile. “You’re a little distracted, Callahan. Must be all that kissing.”

I know better than to rise to the bait. Assholes like Karlsson thrive on getting a reaction, and he’s the league’s leading asshole. If you don’t give in, they’ve got nothing. But I can’t ignore him completely—that fucker is talking about my wife. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t expect you to know what that’s like.”

“Don’t expect you to know what good hockey is like,” he says, then races ahead of me .

I dig my blades into the ice, muscles burning as I chase him down. My breath comes in sharp bursts as I fight for control of the puck along the boards with Karlsson and a couple of New York guys. I grit my teeth, jabbing my stick into the scrum and snagging the puck, but Karlsson’s still tight on me, his breath hot against my ear.

“You thinking about kissing her now, Callahan?” Karlsson’s smirk is almost audible in his voice.

The puck bounces loose, and I rush to recover it. But fuck me—I swing too high, too fast. My stick clips Karlsson across the chest.

Before I can react, he drops theatrically to the ice.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter as the whistle blows, sharp and shrill. The referee’s arm shoots up. High-sticking. It wasn’t intentional, but that doesn’t matter. The damage is done. Jaw ticking, I skate to the penalty box as New York fans chant, “Power play.”

And New York scores ten seconds later.

I slam my stick against the boards in frustration. When the clock winds down, I’m back out there, determined to make up for it. I chase down the puck, race toward the goal, and fling it at the empty spot in the net—but the New York goalie deflects it.

Karlsson skates past me. “Bet your wife can kiss you and make it better.”

She can, but that’s not for him to know. I spin around, gloves halfway off, my voice razor-sharp. “Leave my wife out of this.”

I’ve never been a fighter. I’m the one who stops fights. But right now, I’m ready to throw gloves. Before I do something I’ll regret, Falcon grabs my right arm. Bryant grabs the left, holding me back .

“He’s not worth it,” Bryant mutters. He should know—he used to play with that jerk.

I blow out a harsh breath and skate away.

Hopping over the boards for the shift change, I yank off my helmet and drop my head in frustration. Coach McBride strides by, cool and focused, like he always is. He levels me with an intense stare. “Keep your head in the game, Callahan.”

“I will, sir,” I reply with a tight nod.

Hockey is my happy place. My escape. It’s where everything makes sense. I need to get that mentality back.

Pep talk done, I shove off the frustration and jump back out there for the next line change, scrambling for the puck. But New York’s faster, and they keep it away from us till the horn blares with their win.

When the game ends, Karlsson sails past me. “Maybe next time your wife wants a quickie marriage, she’ll choose someone who plays to win.”

He’s not getting the last word in. No fucking way. The game’s over. The refs are skating off the oval. So I catch up to him before he reaches the gate, flashing a fuck-off smile. “Say one more word about my wife, and you’ll be picking up your teeth off the ice. Got it?”

His eyes widen, flickering with fear. Good. I like that. He gulps—even better. But just in case there’s any misunderstanding, I add with my best good-guy charm, “Sounds like we’re clear on that.”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

Fine by me. I skate off to our tunnel, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but from frustration. This game got messy fast, and I should have kept my cool.

I didn’t, and that’s not like me. When I hit the ice, I treat it like a game. Like it’s fun. And I have a good time. I’ll have to get back to that.

Once I’m showered and changed into my suit, I do my best to put hockey out of my mind for the night. There’s only one person I want to talk to, but I’ll have to wait till I get a minute alone.

On the short flight to Boston, where we’ll play tomorrow evening, I close my eyes, but I don’t nap. I listen to a comedian, and when I’m finally in the quiet of my hotel room that night, I pull out my phone and call Maeve. The phone rings twice before she picks up, her voice soft but teasing. “Tough game?”

She watched it, and that…well, it thrills me. She’s seen plenty of my games over the years, but Monday night was the first time she watched as my wife. What would it be like if she were in the stands regularly at home? I let my imagination run wild, seeing her in my jersey for every home game, cheering me on. That’s a real nice thought, and it definitely perks me up.

“You could say that.” I sink into the bed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Karlsson was chirping the whole game. But screw him.”

She pauses for a moment. “What was he saying?”

I hesitate. She doesn’t need to know the details. Part of protecting her—part of this fake marriage—is keeping her out of the mess that comes with my world. She’s got enough on her plate already. “Nothing worth repeating. Just hockey stuff.”

There’s a beat of silence before I steer the conversation away. “How’s the mural coming along?”

“Good but exhausting. It’s easily the biggest project I’ve ever done. Normally, we’d start with the concept, but that was done as part of the submission. So we jumped right in and finished the sketches and the color palettes. Looked at them in the space itself.”

“And was Holmes there?”

“He was. Don’t tell Eleanor, but he’s a little in love with me. Though, I think she figured it out when he tried to hump my leg.”

“That might be a dead giveaway,” I say.

“True, true. And I’ve been working through the sketches on my tablet back at my place. And my butt has never hurt more from the spring in my couch,” she says.

“So it’s a pain in the ass?”

“Bah-bump,” she says. “And I’ll probably work through the weekend. I have a lot to get done.”

“Just be sure you get enough sleep,” I tell her. I could rattle off a hundred benefits of a good night of rest. I know them all. By heart. But I stick to the big ones, so it’s not obvious that I’ve researched this topic. “It’s important for good health and brain function and creativity, which you need.”

“Yes, Doctor Google. You always know what I need. It’s like that time I thought I sprained my ankle when I was working on a mural for that new café.”

I remember that perfectly—she twisted her ankle coming down from a ladder a couple years ago. “You just needed some ice and to rest it,” I say, relieved again that she didn’t need crutches. The sprain was minor.

“And you made sure I did just that. So, don’t worry. I’ll get plenty of rest this weekend too,” she adds.

“Good.”

The tension in my chest loosens a little. She has that effect—lightening my load without even realizing it.

We talk for a few more minutes, and by the time I hang up, I feel more grounded. But the frustration from the game still lingers. I can’t let it go.

So I pull up my phone again and start searching for articles about exhaustion, specifically, how it affects creativity. I want to make sure she’ll be okay. That she’s not going to work herself too hard. I scroll through pages from the Mayo Clinic, Cleveland Clinic, and more to make sure she’s not hitting critical levels for exhaustion. Good news—she’s not, by my diagnosis, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for that as she works on this project.

Just as I’m about to put the phone down, Karlsson’s comment from the game comes back to me. Maybe Maeve should know what he’d said to upset me, after all. I don’t want to keep important things from her, and we’re in this together.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shoot her a quick text.

Asher: Karlsson made some stupid comment about our viral post, something about all the kissing.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Maeve: Fuck him. I’ll kiss you a thousand more times .

I can’t help but smile. It’s the kind of response only Maeve would give, and in that moment, Karlsson’s chirps don’t bother me anymore.

Friday night, we beat Boston in their barn, and after the game, Wesley appears at my door, riding a post-game high, insisting we go out to celebrate the victory. We don’t travel again till tomorrow, so there’s time.

“There’s this place called Gin Joint that Josie told me about. Her librarian friends go there. And librarians know how to party,” he says.

“I’m gonna trust you on that.” I grab a jacket and follow him out.

Something nags at me as the door closes—the annoying feeling that I forgot to do something important.

We gather Miles and Max, who’s joining us tonight since Everly’s out with the Boston team’s PR woman. Hugo’s turning in early. We walk to the nearby lounge, and usually, I’d be all in for the casual strategy session, trading tips, and shop talk. But the nagging feeling is like there’s a mosquito buzzing around my head that I can’t swat away.

“What do you think? Is Boston tougher this year since they acquired Jorgen?” Max asks. “You’re our stats guy.”

I blink, realizing I’ve been zoning out as we walk in the cold February air. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

Wesley laughs. “The time you stopped paying attention.”

Miles gives me a curious look. “You all right, man?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” I say, scratching my head. “But…what’s today?”

“The day after yesterday and the day before tomorrow,” Miles says, adopting a deeply philosophical tone.

“No, seriously. The date. ”

“Is your phone broken?” Miles retorts.

“I mean, is it like a holiday?”

“Yes, it’s National Calendar Celebration Day,” Max says. “Want to go calendar shopping?”

I wave them off, check my phone, and…it hits me. “I’m a dumbass.”

Miles grins and spreads his arms wide as we reach Gin Joint. “Yes, he finally gets it!”

Wesley smirks. “Honestly, we all kind of knew you were just the pretty one. But why are you just realizing it now?”

I flip him the bird, grinning. “Pretty and smart, thanks. It’s my two-week anniversary with Maeve tomorrow, and I need to get her something—something good.”

Cue the jeers. Dear god, the jeers. They’re worse than expected, and they don’t stop as we head inside and order. But I don’t care. Maeve will love a two-week gift for our fake marriage, especially after the one-week one. It’ll show her what a good temporary husband I am. Besides, she deserves gifts. But what to get her?

After the server leaves, Wesley points to me. “This is going on the DickNose board.”

“We don’t need a top-five list,” Max chimes in, stabbing the table with a finger. “This, tonight? You remembering a two-week anniversary? It’s all we need on the whiteboard of Asher’s Obsession with Maeve.”

I stare him down. “Says the guy obsessed with Everly.”

Max nods proudly. “As it should be.” Then, he levels a no-bullshit stare at me. “What’s the story, Callahan? You’ve had it bad for her for a while. You just went out and got married?”

His tone says he’s not buying the story I was selling the other week at morning skate. He’s waited almost two weeks for me to ’fess up on my own. I can’t say I didn’t see this line of questioning coming.

“The whole spur-of-the-moment thing did make me wonder if it was so spur of the moment,” Miles puts in, tone curious, maybe a little skeptical too.

I scratch my jaw. “Yeah, the thing is…” But where to start? I don’t want to get into the marriage pact. I definitely don’t want to get into how Maeve was in a funk in Vegas and I wanted to cheer her up. But saying we got drunk-married does a disservice to the situation too. I try again. “It’s complicated.”

Miles’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in the nine-month variety of complication?”

“Fuck no,” I say, faster than I can shoot on an empty net.

“So what’s up then?” Max asks again, never one to mince words.

These guys deserve the truth. “Look, the wedding just sort of happened. We were hanging out, having fun, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Wesley tilts his head, pauses, then cuts through the vagueness. “But you stayed married. And don’t give us that whole kisses-equals-kindness bit.” He rolls his eyes. “You seem way too into the two-fucking-week anniversary for this to be anything but something that maybe you want to keep happening.”

Way to see right through me. I drag a hand over the back of my neck, weighing the situation again. These three guys are my closest friends on the team, and they’ve already sniffed out enough of the truth.

“Look,” I begin, then fuck it. “She’s…great. Okay? You happy now? ”

Wesley offers his palm to Miles and Max. “Pay up, fuckers.”

My jaw comes unhinged. “You bet on this? Assholes.”

Max shakes his head, annoyed, but pulls out some bills from his wallet while Miles taps on his phone, presumably Venmoing some money to Wesley. “What the hell was the bet? You all were giving me shit about this forever.”

Miles sighs heavily. “We bet on who’d get it out of you first tonight.” He nods toward Wesley. “Bryant won.”

I spread my arms out wide. “Seriously?”

“Like this surprises you?” Max asks.

He has me there. “Honestly, no.”

“Also,” Wesley says with a shit-eating grin, “I am very happy now. And two hundred bucks richer.” Then he leans forward. “So what’s next?”

I shrug. “No idea.”

“But you’re staying married?” he asks.

“For a couple of months, give or take.” The words taste sour on my tongue.

“Good luck with your obsession, man,” Max says. There’s no sarcasm in his tone, just genuine concern.

I’m not sure how to answer him. Fact is, I am obsessed with my wife, and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe this is where I really do need some luck in my life.

When the server swings by with drinks, I’m grateful for the distraction.

Miles lifts his scotch, then says, “I guess that makes me officially the last man standing,” he says, though he furrows his brow. “Sometimes, I wish that weren’t the case.”

“Is there someone?” Max asks.

Miles shrugs. “Maybe, but it’s complicated. ”

“As in, the nine-month var?—”

“No! God no.” Miles tosses a napkin at me.

“In what way then?” Max presses.

As they talk more, I give in to the obsession, flashing back to the night Maeve and I got hitched, wondering what would make for a good present for her, then to last week, too, and the gift I got her. In no time, I have an answer. Now, if I can just find a place that works as fast as Maeve.

A few searches later, I’m placing an order for something special, asking the store to deliver it tonight. Then, I relax and knock back my beer, picturing Maeve’s reaction when she opens the present.

When I return to the hotel with Max an hour later, I run into Everly in the lobby. She’s just said goodnight to a friend, and once her friend leaves, she turns to me with a smile. “Just the man I wanted to see,” she says.

“I thought I was that man,” Max cuts in, growling.

She rolls her eyes at him. “I see plenty of you.”

“Because I’m your type,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek before walking away to give her space. He’s respectful like that when it comes to her job.

“What’s up?” I ask, curious.

Everly waggles her phone my way. “Eleanor is going to be donating a lot of money with that repost,” she says, then gives me the figure, and damn.

“That’s nice,” I say.

“Stop making my job so easy,” she teases.

“That was all Maeve,” I say, since my wife deserves the credit. Actually, she deserves so much more than credit. As I head into the elevator, a new realization hits me—Maeve isn’t a good luck charm. She’s a good luck catalyst. That wasn’t fate or fortune looking out for us. That was Maeve seeing what I wanted—for the Greers to know how I feel—and then making it happen.

My heart thumps harder at the awareness, and I grab my phone and send her a text, telling her the good news.

Asher: You did this. You. Not luck. Just you.

Maeve: I’m an instigator.

Asher: The most diabolically clever instigator I’ve ever met.

Maeve: The best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Also, here’s a gift for you.

Attached is a digital badge, something she probably made in Photoshop. It’s a blue ribbon and it says Best Two-Week Temporary Husband .

I laugh lightly, but the laughter fades when I spot the next image under it and the words for you.

A black-and-white pop-art sketch of a couple almost kissing. It’s small, but it does funny things to my chest as I sink back into bed, running my finger over the silhouettes. I can’t stop touching it. I can’t stop thinking of her. And I can’t help wishing for many more badges.

Most of all, I can’t stop loving the words for you.

In the morning, another text lands. It’s a photo of Maeve in the T-shirt I had made for her last night and rush-delivered to her place. She’s giving the camera a look like she can’t believe I did this, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips—even as she’s flipping me double birds.

But I’m grinning too. In the pic, she’s not wearing any pants, so really, I won. I’ve got a photo of my wife in her two-week anniversary shirt that says Quick-Draw Maeve.

She looks so spectacular, so…Maeve. Playful, sexy, all the things that make her, well, her, that I take matters into my own hand.

Happy anniversary to me indeed.

Later that morning, while I’m riding the exercise bike in the hotel gym before we take off for the next city,Everly marches in with a too-pleased smile on her face.

I pull out my earbuds, and she says proudly, “I’ve got some press requests about you,” she says, all business now. “And they involve Maeve.”

Didn’t have that on my bingo card today. “Everything okay?” I ask, ready to do battle for Maeve if I have to.

She holds up her hands like she’s telling me to stand down. “It’s mostly feel-good stuff. You want the details?”

“I do,” I say, still pedaling, my heart and legs pumping fast.

She rattles off a few lifestyle news sites that I’ve never heard of that want to do features. Stuff she can mostly handle on our behalf. Then, she adds, “Webflix has an entertainment news show that’s pretty popular. The Good Stuff .”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” It’s a soft show, focusing more on lifestyle than gossip.

“They love you and Maeve and the whole viral kindness thing. And they want to do a piece on the two of you.”

Well, that sounds like something the Sea Dogs would eat up, and it’d raise Maeve’s profile on her own merits, not just mine. “I’m interested. What’s the catch?”

Because there’s always a catch.

Everly glances around the workout room to check if the coast is clear. Then, lowering her voice, she says importantly, her meaning crystal clear: “They want to shoot it in your home. Where they think you and your wife live together.”

I stop pedaling, my feet freezing mid-motion. “They think—” I start, but the rest of the words stall. We live together.

Then, they speed up on a loop in my head— we live together.

My pulse kicks into overdrive. This feels like Christmas, my birthday, and our anniversary all rolled into one, wrapped in a bow of dangerous temptation.