60. The Play

60

THE PLAY

Maeve

I leave Ruby Rooster at home. It feels too presumptuous to bring her to this…possible execution.

I lift my hand to knock on the office door. I’ve already made it past Eleanor’s assistant, Rodney, who told me she was expecting me. Before I knock, I pause, taking a moment to calm my nerves.

I can do this. If I bid one hundred thousand dollars to save Asher from that influencer’s lies, I can use my voice to save myself.

I knock. “It’s Maeve Hartley.”

There’s silence for a long beat. Finally, Eleanor calls out, “Come in.”

I push open the door. She’s sitting at her desk, Holmes on the floor beside her, and neither dog nor woman look happy. Eleanor’s lips are pressed into a tight line, her blue eyes cold. Normally, she’s the upbeat, go-go-go team owner who slays the business world with a smile. But right now, she’s ice. I deserve that.

“Not Maeve Callahan, I see,” she says, arching a brow.

“I’m both,” I say. “Can I come in?”

“I already said you could.”

Holmes barks at me. I take a seat and cut to the chase. “I got the job under false pretenses. That’s true.”

“So, Miranda was right?”

“Partially,” I say. “She was right about some things, but wrong about a lot. Because nobody outside a relationship truly knows what’s going on inside it. No one knows the challenges people in a couple face unless they’re living it.”

Eleanor narrows her eyes. “That sounds philosophical, but it’s not easing any of my concerns. I put my trust in you—not just as an artist, but as a person. Frankly, I’m disappointed.”

That stings, but I brought it on myself.

I take a deep breath to make sure this comes from the heart. “Asher is my best friend. He has been for a long time. That’s true. We got married in Vegas as part of a pact. It was for fun. When the photo went viral, it seemed easier to stay married for a little while. We were pretending at brunch.” Though in retrospect, it hardly felt that way.

She shakes her head, her jaw ticking like she’s hurt. “I knew something was off, but I wanted to believe in it anyway. I guess that makes me a fool.”

“I’m sorry. But the truth is—somewhere along the way, that lie became the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She sits up straighter, perhaps intrigued but still not fully trusting me. “Explain.”

“It was a marriage of convenience—partly for his charity, partly for this job. But while I was married to him, I fell in love with my husband. And I’m staying with him because I want to.”

Saying that out loud feels good—like, really good. And it hits me that Asher and I haven’t talked about what will happen next. Yes, we’re dating, yes, we’re living together, but we haven’t really addressed what that means for our marriage. Now I know what I want though.

Still, I focus on Eleanor and the matter at hand. “But it was a ruse to keep this job, so I understand you might not want to keep working with me. If you don’t want to pay me for the mural, I’d understand that too.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the business of not paying contractors, but I don’t relish being lied to. I’m also not the kind of woman who hires someone for their partner’s last name. I hired you for your talent. I believed in your love story. That’s why it hurt.” She sighs, sad and resigned. “I was going to tell my friends about you.”

I take that blow on the chin. The loss of referrals stings, but I expected it, so I nod and accept it.

“And honestly, why would I believe you now?”

I suppose I can’t truly prove it to her. But I know our love is real, and so I try to convey that as best I can. “I want to show you something,” I say, pulling out a photo of the famous DickNose board on my phone. “This might not prove everything to you, but this is how Asher felt about me before we were even married. It was all real.”

My heart squeezes as I read the things his teammates had written. The top five cute things he said about me, like how much I love night markets, how everyone should buy my artwork, how cute it was that I watched videos of people painting .

“This is real too,” I say, showing her more photos I took this morning at our home. The lavender farm. The ice hotel. The double-loop roller coaster. The shot of us at the concert before we said, “I do.”

“You believed in our love story because it’s been happening for a decade. Well before I bid on him at the auction, before we went to Vegas. Our love story started as a friendship ten years ago, and if you believed in it, like his teammates did before we got married, it’s because all of that is true. This is us. This is who we are. We go on big adventures together, and we’re going to keep going on them.”

Eleanor sighs, but I sense her relenting. “I appreciate you showing me this. And thank you for explaining things. But I don’t like being lied to, even if it turned out to be true. You should finish the mural.”

I hear the unsaid part of her message—this job won’t lead to anything more. She probably won’t recommend me to others, and I’m going to have to be okay with that.

You don’t get everything in life. But the things I do have? A friend, a lover, a dog, my girlfriends, my brother, and a career that’s starting to take off? Those are mine, and no one can take them away from me.

I leave, knowing I can move forward as I finish the job.

A week later, I’m making the final adjustments to the mural, brightening up the suspension lines on the Golden Gate Bridge when my favorite voice calls out to me.

“Hey, Mrs. Callahan.”

I climb down from the ladder, beaming at my husband, who’s growing a trim beard that makes him even hotter. “Hey, Number Twenty-Nine.”

“You’re wearing my jersey tonight.” It’s a statement, not a question. He knows I’ll be wearing my Mrs. Callahan jersey for his game. Puck drop is in a couple hours.

“Always,” I say, and I hope he knows I mean it— always. But we haven’t talked about that yet. Sure, we’re living together, yes, we’re staying together, but we haven’t really dealt with the marriage part of our relationship. There’s been no need to.

For the last week, though, I’ve enjoyed dating my husband—we went to his dads’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party, stopped by a plant shop to pick up more plants for our house, and broke in a tube of pink paint in the studio. My husband is quite the finger painter, though he only has one trick up his sleeve—painting my tits.

Works for me.

We’ve also posted some pics of us doing life on social. Not his new painting hobby—that’s just for us—but pics of us walking the dog, buying plants, and toasting to his family are absolutely online, and they’re not a publicity stunt. They’re not to impress donors. And they’re not to win a job. They’re simply us, having little adventures in this big adventure of love.

What we haven’t done? Explained ourselves to the world. We decided to ignore Miranda. There’s no need to say anything. Haters are gonna hate, liars are gonna lie. And we know this love is real. Asher talked to the board members and the donors—he lost a few smaller ones but they’ve gained more support since then in new ones. And many of the existing ones liked that he reached out one-on-one .

The one who really likes my husband? CheekyBeast. They re-upped him, and I kind of can’t believe this, but it fits with their brand—they want him and Ruby Rooster in a campaign for boxer briefs with cheeky dogs on them. You bet your ass I’ll be buying a lot of those. Well, my husband does have the best ass in the NHL.

I haven’t heard from Eleanor though. She went out of town right after our meeting to a yoga retreat with some of the other team owners, like Jessie Rose from the Golden State Foxes, and Geeta Diwali, who owns the Las Vegas Sabers.

I don’t know if she’s forgiven me, but right now, I’m focused on the man striding over to me, already dressed in a sharp dark brown suit since it’s game night.

“Did you nap?” I ask, dusting off my hands before I touch his tie, tap dancing my fingers down it.

“I did. With Ruby Roo,” he says.

“Aren’t you just the cutest dog dad,” I tease.

He loops an arm around my waist. “You doing okay?”

I look around at the long and, honestly, impressive mural. I told him I was sad this morning about not hearing from Eleanor, but that I’d deal. “I’m okay. I’ll be thrilled to be done, but I’ll miss this too,” I say. But Angelina has new work for me.

And so does Everly. She hired me to paint a mural of hot-pink silhouettes of women of all shapes and sizes dancing on poles at her studio. I can’t wait.

“How about you? How was Marcus?” I ask. He had another session today, before his game-day nap.

“It’s good. We’ve been working on cognitive behavioral therapy techniques. I’m cured,” he adds dryly.

“Yay, therapy! Also, I have no idea what that is, but it sounds good. ”

“It is. It helps you recognize patterns in your thinking,” he explains.

“Sounds hot,” I say, tugging on his tie and running a hand along his stubble. “I love a man in therapy. Who also happens to be growing a beard.”

“Because you like the beard for when you sit on my face.”

“You got me there. And I will tonight after you win.”

“Talk about an incentive,” he says, then nods in the direction of the locker room. “I should go.” He pauses, his lips quirking up in a hint of a grin. “Also, it’s going to be a good game.”

“Of course it is.”

“Hell yeah,” he says with even more than his usual hockey confidence.

I give him a kiss and watch him leave.

Then I finish the mural for good.

Later, when I’m putting everything away so I can head down to the ice, I spot Eleanor at the far end of the corridor with her husband, laughing at something he’s said. Then she must catch sight of me because she lifts a hand and waves.

It’s friendly, warm, forgiving.

At least, I hope so.

I wave back, then put my things in Asher’s car before returning to the arena to change my clothes. I pull on my Mrs. Callahan jersey, a short skirt and high boots then make my way to join Josie for the game. But as I’m walking down the hall, I hear footsteps behind me, quickening. It’s Eleanor, and she catches up fast .

“The mural is amazing,” she says, her eyes warm, her expression maternal again. “It’s everything I wanted and more.”

“I’m so glad.”

“And I passed on your name to lots of friends. You’ll be hearing from them soon.”

A weight lifts. “Thank you, Eleanor.”

“I believed in your love story,” she says. “And I still do.”

“So do I.”

With that belief, I head into the rink toward my seats at center ice, joining Josie, who’s here to cheer on her guy too.

“All right, Mrs. Callahan. Let’s be the loudest,” Josie says, and as the lights dim and the guys take to the ice, we are.

It’s a tight, tense, scoreless game that’s killing me. Josie and I are on the edge of our seats, ready to cheer any time the guys get closer, but mostly sitting with our butts down, holding our breath.

No one gets the puck past any net, but the Sea Dogs are relentless, and they keep trying, with Asher creating more scoring opportunities than I’ve ever seen him do.

To no avail.

With the game still tied as the third period begins, he battles for the puck, then snags it, charging down the ice. Defenders swarm him, but he passes it to Wesley, who flies around them, then slips it back to Asher. I swear I’ve never seen Asher more focused—he’s a man on a mission. He lifts his stick and sends the puck flying into the net. His arms shoot up in victory .

He turns to his teammates, triumphant, then points to me.

I’m giddy, cheering the loudest I ever have, and the funny thing is—it feels like everyone around me is cheering just as wildly. The crowd is noisier than ever. I let their cheers carry me as I shriek and shout and holler.

When the game ends a little later with “Tick Tick Boom ” playing, the crowd is elated. I jump up, ready to make my way to the locker room to wait for Asher outside it, but Josie sets a hand on my arm.

“Hold on a second,” she says, rifling through her bag.

I pause, waiting, looking around, but the team isn’t leaving the rink. Most of the players are hanging out at the bench, including Asher, who’s casually grabbing his water bottle.

That’s odd. They usually take off through the tunnel immediately.

The emcee steps onto the ice as well, microphone in hand. That’s unusual too. She’s usually gone by now.

Then the music shifts from “Tick Tick Boom” to…I gasp.

Asher hops over the boards as “The Way You Look Tonight” plays loudly through the entire arena.

Our wedding song. My heart climbs up my throat.

And then, across the rink, fans lift up signs that spell out Marry Him Again.

The emcee hands Asher the mic and then leaves him alone on the ice.

I’m giddy as my husband, the man I’m already married to, my best friend, my big love, gets down on one knee, looks up at me, a few rows above him, and says into the mic, his voice filling the arena, “Maeve Hartley, you’re the love of my life and my best friend. Will you marry me again and continue being Maeve Callahan as well?”

“Yes,” I shout. Then I shout it again as I race down to the players’ bench, and the guys help me so I can join them. I rush to where my husband stands on the other side of the boards, and he kisses me over them as I say yes to his second proposal play.