Chapter 32

Polly

T wo days was all it took for me to confirm two things.

One. A life spent sitting around waiting for my man or woman to come home was not for me.

Two. Nevada sucked big hairy, sweaty balls…. unless you gambled or drank like a fish, had limitless cash, or pole danced for a living, something I was asked to do by several random drunks on the street. Walking the strip and working out twice a day in the hotel gym was hardly thrilling, and pretending to be fine, when really really, really not being fine, was exhausting.

Conversely one amazingly brilliant thing, actually two, balanced those negative out. First and most significantly, in the past, without the constant distractions of three jobs, clubbing, and caring for my niece, the anxiety that fueled me would turn inward, consuming me. Every mistake ever made analyzed, each wrong path re-examined, every fear obsessed over. Nails were destroyed. Skin picked at. My body starved.

Now, even while bored shitless, I was coping. There had been self-reflection but no inner monologues demanding my demise. No self-harm till I bled. No brutal mirror assessments till I cried.

Something was different, and one of those things walked through the suite door at the end of the day, sweaty yet somehow deliciously stinky, his hair a mess, his dimple smile firmly fixed, and literally sweep me off my feet. Without fail, he would kiss me till I couldn’t breathe, ask me how my day was, actually listen, then carry me over his shoulder to our room and make me come at least three times.

Luca hadn’t fixed me. The concept of someone fixing anyone was as ludicrous to me as Evie and I becoming besties again. No one, no matter how golden their dick is, can solve your problems for you. But as I was quickly discovering, someone, maybe the one , can hold your hand if you decide it’s time to do it for yourself.

As life changing as my sexy beast of a husband was, he wasn’t my only source of light. I made a friend … and I liked her. A lot.

“Did you talk to your Mum yesterday?” asked Tilly, the wife of Rory Kattchikov, Luca’s teammate and captain. As an English woman and the only non-American spouse, she’d recognized the glazed-over look of a confused new-to-hockey woman during our first hotel corridor conversation and kindly taken me under her wing. We’d had brunch at a snooty cafe the past two days, and it was weird. I kinda liked her and felt she could become a real … gag … friend.

“Nope. I did talk to Piper, though. She’s so cute. She asked me if I was staying close to Sesame Street. When I said no, she whined, Damn it! Then came back with, ”Oh, well, what about Disneyland? ”

“That sounds like a fair representation of this country’s best attractions. That and the hockey guys, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, and with a clink of her mimosa and my straight juice, we fell into easy conversation about the driving force behind the boys in our lives.

“I’d never seen a game in my life before I met Rory.” She said, “but I love it now. The strength and speed of the guys, the dedication and hours they put in, the thrill of seeing all that hard work pay off. It’s …” Her voice trailed off as she stared into the distance.

“You really do love it, don’t you?”

Her lips quivered into a smile. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Sorry. Can’t do that because I am. You do not fit the stereotype I had in my mind about sportsmen’s wives. I mean, look at you. Your hair is natural, and your nails too. And from what I can see, there is not one drop of filler in those pretty lips of yours.” Tilly puckered up and blew me a kiss.

“Not a drop,” she confirmed.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I stated, “I have no judgments about what other women do to their bodies, it’s just … natural is not what I expected from a famous hockey wife.”

“Rory says that my natural look was what caught his attention. I wasn’t like other girls he’s been around. He liked the fact that I knew nothing about hockey or him. All I knew was he was massive, was sweet and accepting to the people I worked with and had the best arse this side of the Atlantic.”

Laughing, I took the final sip and accepted an immediate top up by the hovering waiter. “Speaking of hot ass’s,” she nodded as he walked away, “Have you watched a training session yet? Seeing your man on the ice, in the pads and helmet is quite something, and oh my lord,” she clutched at her chest and leaned into my shoulder, “I know we just met, and this is way too much info at this stage of our friendship, but the first time I saw Rory in a fight I swear to god, I was so wet I almost slipped from my seat.”

“Tilly!” I snorted, “I am shocked and impressed. And just so you know, too much information is my favourite kind.”

“Excellent. I knew we’d be friends the minute I saw you sneaking out of Luca’s room.”

“Hey, I wasn’t sneaking.” One hundred percent was. “I was just … trying not to be seen.” A warranted eyebrow was raised in my direction. “I know, I know it’s the same bloody thing, but apart from Luca’s manager, I don’t think anyone on the team knows I’m here … and that … we …” My voice trailed off.

“That you’re what? Both super-hot but play D&D in your basement? Are fucking like rabbits? Are you CIA? Are you secretly—”

“That we got married.”

The glass slipped from Tilly’s hand, shattering, spraying us both in sticky orange champagne and drawing every set of eyes in the room.

“HOLY BULLOCKS YOU MARRIED LUCA D’CRUZ?” The index finger on every hand in the room was suddenly pointed at me, and once the collective gasp subsided, phones were whipped out and aimed my way, too. “Shit, sorry,” she winced as the waiter with the ass, who was most definitely a hockey fan, appeared and began cleaning the mess my bombshell made. He had a cute blush on his cheeks.

“Mrs. Kattchikov and Mrs. D’Cruz,” Mrs. D’Cruz … A tiny squeak escaped me. It was the first time I’d heard someone refer to me as such, and the magic that hit my veins was a better high than any drug could produce. Pity it didn’t last. “Sorry to intrude, but that man sitting directly behind us. He runs one of the biggest hockey blogs in Nevada, which means your location and your face is already all over his Instagram feed. You might want to–”

“Get the hell out of here?”

“Yeah.” His blush intensified as I stood, revealing the tiny denim shorts I really wished I hadn’t chosen.

“Polly,” Tilly whispered, linking her arm into mine and dragging me towards the exit, “I think it’s time for your first training session.”

Before taking me to the stadium, Tilly drove me back to the hotel so I could change. If I was going to tell Luca our secret was out, I was going to soften the blow by feeding his ego. Tilly agreed. Confirming that when it came to hockey players, their woman in their jersey made everything okay.

Still, I was worried. Our marriage was designed to take the heat off Luca’s return to hockey, but the little time we’d had together since saying our vows had been consumed by fucking, talking, and laughing. The rest of the world had seemed … insignificant.

My stomach twisted with the fear of rejection the entire drive to Kings arena. Stepping into Luca’s real world for the first time did little to quell my unease. The frigid air struck first, brushing against my cheeks and intensifying my trembling before a skate was insight. I’d skated once or twice as a kid, I sucked but could still remember the sound of metal cutting though the ice, the cheers and jeers, the laughter of the kids. Those sounds were replicated, only deeper and gruntier as the players came into view. “You can do this, Polly!” Tilly cheered, hanging a VIP lanyard around my neck. Her enthusiasm was contagious right up to the point when she paused and shoved me in the back. “I just can’t watch”

As Tilly promised, padded up hockey players made a tasty snack, but mine alone caught and held my attention. Cheeks flushed, hair flowing from beneath his helmet in a self-made breeze, his smile wider than I’d ever seen, Luca was stunning. Breathtaking. Mine.

Lingering in the shadows, in silence, in awe, I watched a swarming sea of floating giants move like one. With seamless precision they passed the puck backwards and forwards between legs, over sticks, offboards. Their bodies slamming into each other with a reckless abandon that was both terrifying and hot as fuck. A few steps away from me stood a handsome, backwards cap wearing man, gripping and punching a clipboard and tooting a whistle so intensely I feared he may swallow it. “Coach Martin,” I said to myself, recognizing him from my many and shameless Google searches. He seemed as engrossed in whatever was taking place as me, though less inclined to flinch when one of his players tried to beat the shit out of another.

As if he could feel my eyes on him, he turned. His furrowed brown deepening, before smoothing out with an easy smile. “Nice of you to join us, Mrs. D’Cruz. I was beginning to wonder if you were just a figment of your husband’s imagination.”

A welcomed burst of heat colored my cheeks. “Luca told you about me?”

“He hasn’t shut up about you,” he scoffed. “To me, coach Brown and his Captain Rory, at least. He hasn’t told the whole team yet. He was waiting to introduce you at the family dinner. Said he wanted to make it a special night for his princess. It was so sweet I nearly gagged.”

I gripped the boards, my legs turning to jelly. Who the fuck was I to deserve this guy? Coach Martin caught sight of my feminine hysterics and began to move towards me but a scream of, “Holy shit, D’Cruz.” Stopped him in his tracks. The deafening whistle brought with it a halt to play and the heated, curious gaze of thirty-odd giants on ice to me. And I thought being studied by every set of eyes in the restaurant was daunting .