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I try to ignore the flutter in my stomach at his suggestive tone. “Fine, but only if you promise to leave the hockey stick behind.”
“No promises,” he chuckles. “See you soon…wife.”
I hang up, my cheeks burning. Damn him and his stupid charm.
After the game ends, I make my way downstairs as instructed. I’m leaning against the wall, scrolling through my phone, when I hear a commotion. I look up to see Sawyer emerge from the locker room, still damp from his shower, his hair adorably tousled.
But before I can even take a step toward him, a swarm of women descends. Puck bunnies. They’re everywhere, pressing against him, giggling and putting their hands all over him.
“Oh Sawyer, you were amazing out there!” one coos, practically climbing him.
“Can I get a picture?” another simpers, batting her false eyelashes.
One particularly bold chick, with frizzy blonde hair, drapes herself over his arm like she owns him and purrs, “How about we celebrate your win back at my place?”
I feel my blood start to boil. I can’t see straight. Rationally, I know Sawyer’s got a lot of female fans. But this strange animal instinct kicks in, and I just want to go over there and mark my territory.
Then, as Sawyer is trying to fight off one of the other girls, the frizzy blonde sinks her claws into Sawyer’s hair and pulls him down for a fat kiss, leaving her lipstick smudged on his face.
Something snaps inside me. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m storming through the throng, fists clenched at my sides. “Hey,” I snarl, tapping the blonde on the shoulder. “Hands off, sister.”
The blonde looks me up and down, her lip curling. “Oh honey, run along. The big girls are talking now.”
That does it.
My fist connects with her face before I can even think. She stumbles back, shock written all over her features.
“Holy sh—” Sawyer starts, but I cut him off.
“You,” I point at him, my voice dangerously low. “We’re leaving. Now.”
As I drag him away, he mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”
“There are only three things women need in life: food, water, and compliments.”
— CHRIS ROCK
21
SAWYER
The video of Maggie’s punch went viral faster than a breakaway goal. But here’s the kicker—the internet loves her for it. My phone’s been blowing up with notifications. Hashtags like#HockeyWifeGoalsand#DontMessWithMaggietrending everywhere.
I should probably be more concerned about the PR nightmare, but I can’t help grinning every time I replay the clip. That’s my wife, the queen of badassery.
Robert Thornton called earlier, and seemed to think my wife punching someone is a good thing for publicity. Something about building strong muscles by eating his breakfast cereal. He’s running with it. The irony is not lost on me.
“Sawyer, my boy! That wife of yours is pure gold,” he boomed through the phone. “Patricia’s practically bouncing off the walls, wanting to have Maggie over again. Something about joining her ladies’ club? I think your little spitfire’s made quite the impression.”
I laugh, picturing Maggie at some stuffy country club tea party. “I’ll be sure to pass along the invitation, sir. Though I can’t promise she won’t start a brawl over the last cucumber sandwich.”
Needless to say, it’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
Siobhan headed back to Boston a few days after that game, but not before giving me an earful about how I’d better treat Maggie right. As if I needed the reminder.
While Siobhan works out the cyphers in Boston, I will continue to make phone calls from here, trying to get in touch with anyone I remember from Dad’s circle of friends to convince him to keep his mouth shut.
Things are starting to heat up this season for the Titans. We have a home game with Quebec coming up, and the coaches are working us hard.
