35. Real Charades

35

REAL CHARADES

Asher

So far, this interview is like a breakaway shot. A clean, open path to the net. We show Rachel Mehta, the reporter from The Good Stuff , around our home. Her camerawoman shoots video as we go and it sure as shit looks like we happily live together in this space, what with all the pictures I took over the years set out, and the wedding ones Maeve framed. My habit of taking pics of my friend came in handy. I even point out the mirror by the door, a proud husband showing off his wife’s work, like I told Maeve I’d do. Rachel smiles and says keep snacks handy are definitely words to live by.

With Maeve’s ruby ring and my silicone band, and our hands held—learned my lesson from the Greers, thank you very much—we look unequivocally married. While we wander through the living room, passing the wedding photos and plant table, Rachel shoots us a professional smile .

“So, it’s true you call your wife your good luck charm?”

“I do call her that,” I say, casually looping an arm around Maeve’s waist. I’m grateful for the easy interview and glad I took the notes to heart after our first performance when I didn’t touch her enough. That won’t be a problem today. If the world wants to see a man who can’t keep his hands off his wife, they’ll get it.

Hell, maybe last night was good for us when it comes to this facade we need to present for the world. Maybe it connected us even more. Made us look more married. Maybe if we just keep up this touching, this closeness, it’ll feel like we’ve already talked about what went down. Like last night doesn’t need explaining because it’s obvious, right? I don’t want her to say , ‘It can’t happen again,’ because maybe that would make those words real.

Best if we live in this limbo lust land for a little longer. Where nothing can go wrong.

“Any reason for that? Her being your good luck charm?” Rachel asks, a tablet tucked under her arm.

I squeeze Maeve’s waist a little tighter. “She’s been my biggest fan. She’s cheered me on from behind the boards, and at the auction every year for the last two seasons. And I haven’t missed a game since. So there you go.”

“It’s all me,” Maeve says, laughing brightly, almost too brightly as she leans into me, her shoulder bumping mine.

“Can’t mess with a streak,” I add, dropping a kiss on her nose.

Maeve giggles. Actually giggles . That’s not like her at all. She’s not a giggler. But then again, I’ve never been this touchy in public with girlfriends. She’s your wife now , I remind myself.

Be that as it may, I’m not a big PDA guy. But with Maeve, I’m being extra, because that’s what the situation calls for. But also, because I want to, even though this morning was awkward, even though we haven’t talked about last night, even though I may never want to talk about it. I just want to keep doing it. So much that I feel this uncomfortable ache in my chest, this deep and terrible longing. I don’t think it’s just a bottomless desire to touch her. It’s from the way I want to keep her close. Closer than I should.

I take a beat to center myself, then focus again on Rachel and the questions. “And I was extra thrilled when she bid on me at the auction.”

Rachel arches an eyebrow. “Did you plan to get married in Vegas? Was that part of the whole ‘good luck charm’ thing?”

Ah, I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But luck and Vegas? That makes sense. I roll the dice and say, “Yes.”

Maeve runs her hand affectionately down my arm. “Definitely. We feel very lucky.”

Rachel’s brow furrows in confusion. “I’m sorry,” she says, holding up a hand to the camerawoman. “Can we stop for a moment?” The woman cuts, and Rachel glances between us. “Could I trouble you to maybe…not touch so much?”

“Sure.” I straighten immediately, feeling Maeve tense beside me.

“Oh, okay,” Maeve says, her tone light but clearly thrown off.

Rachel gives an apologetic smile. “It just looks a bit distracting on camera. Like you’re acting.”

Maeve snorts, loudly. “How ridiculous.”

“I know, right?” I jump in. “Who would do that? ”

“Exactly,” Rachel agrees, glancing at the camerawoman as she resets.

Maeve shifts next to me, her smile stiff. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be distracting.”

“Honestly, this sounds cheesy, but just be yourselves,” Rachel offers, as if she’s trying to ease the awkwardness.

But what if being myself means I want to touch my wife a lot? Maybe I especially do since she hasn’t pulled the ‘that can’t happen again’ card. And maybe by making sure I protect her, that I look out for her, that we’re damn good at this charade, she won’t want to pull that card.

I hear Beckett’s voice echoing in my head: She’s trying to make her way in the world, dealing with an overbearing aunt, while you’re already a successful hockey player. If this goes south, you’ll be fine. But if this blows up, she might not be.

What if the idea to channel the Greers was wrong? Maybe I should just be myself.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is more than a game for the cameras. More than for charity. More than a pretend marriage sparked by a viral kindness campaign we didn’t expect. If I could just be myself, I’d let on how I felt. I’d admit that at Beckett’s wedding, that wasn’t simply a momentary lapse of reason. That it was the start of something. Something that’s been slowly, steadily, persistently building up strength inside me. Like a storm that was barely a few winds in the ocean and has now been upgraded to a category five, fueled by all these fucking feelings for my best friend.

But I can’t go there. Not now—not with Maeve’s wish to keep things simple. Then another voice asks—but aren’t they already complicated?

I try to shove that voice aside. I’m not ready for all the complications. And she sure as shit isn’t .

Rachel nods toward the couch, and we sit. “Let’s focus more on the viral kindness campaign,” she says. That’s why she’s here, after all. That’s what interested The Good Stuff .

“Sure,” I say, settling into the cushions.

“It’s so rare we see a true feel-good story like this. Something about doing good. We’re just so tickled at the way that’s taken off. Did you expect that kind of response?” Rachel asks.

I turn to Maeve, speaking from the heart about our night in Vegas. “No, not at all. I honestly just wanted to help out a couple we met and then to have a great time that night.”

“And we were just as surprised as anyone when it blew up the next day,” Maeve adds, her voice more natural now.

Rachel scrolls through her notes on her tablet, stopping at one. “Your team says the owner has raised…” She pauses, checking her tablet, and then looks up with an eyebrow raised and shares an eye-popping number. “And that’s since the post of you two kissing she shared.”

“That’s amazing,” Maeve says, seeming genuinely impressed.

“We’re touched,” I add.

Rachel’s gaze shifts to me. “Has charity always been important to you? You’re starting one, right?”

Maeve jumps in before I can respond. “He is, and I’m seriously proud of my husband. He’s always cared about more than just sports. He thinks about the whole athlete—their mental and physical health. And he wants kids to have all those tools too. Anxiety is a real thing, affecting so many people, including athletes, and it’s not often talked about. It’s important to talk about mental health. To destigmatize it for kids. Seeing him create this organization is so…incredible.” She looks at me, her expression fond, and I feel something new stir in my chest.

We’ve talked about Total Teamwork before, but hearing her say it all makes my heart soften more for her. Like that was possible. But evidently it is.

Rachel smiles, as if she’s noticing the shift. “And now you’ll be by his side as he moves into this new venture?”

Maeve leans against me, her hand resting on my arm, and this time Rachel doesn’t object, maybe because this time feels wholly real. “Absolutely. I’m really proud of him.”

My heart slams against my chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to go from being too touchy, to suddenly feeling warm and…honest.

I try to focus on the rest of the interview, but the way Maeve admires this side of me isn’t helping. It’s making me feel too much. It’s opening the valve on emotions I’ve been keeping at bay for some time now.

But her words are also like a wide-open window. The sun’s shining through it. And it’s illuminating the truth as I glance around my home.

It’s so much better with her here.

And I can’t let her leave.