Page 29 of Slapshot Bride

Sports Illustrated. A man on the ice in a black and silver jersey, mid-stride. The headline reads:

Easton Blake. The Quietest Star in the League.

I stare at it.

For a second, my brain refuses to process what I'm looking at.

Maybe this is someone he shares a first name with? A favorite player of his?

Yeah. Highly unlikely.

I take out my phone from the pocket of my shorts. I type the name Easton Blake into the search bar with shaking thumbs.

Three days I’ve been in this house. Three days I’ve been calling him Easton Mysterious like it’s some kind of game. I’ve eaten his food, worn his shirts, slept under his roof, and the only thing I’ve actually asked him about himself is whether he plays hockey.

Which, I realize now, he never answered.

Wikipedia. Team page. Three years of feature stories. A photo of him at a charity gala. A scroll of the last season’s game, his position, his entire career, and finally, his family background.

I stand there, hands trembling, eyes glued to the screen of the device.

He's a professional hockey player.

Not just a professional hockey player.

A famous one.

The kind of famous that gets magazine covers. The kind of famous that gets feature stories. The kind of famous people recognize in airports. The kind of famous that apparently everyone knows except me.

I bury my face in one hand. “Oh my God.”

“Riley?”

I turn around.

He's at the end of the hallway in a fresh shirt with a towel around his neck, his hair damp from the world’s fastest post-workout rinse.

His expression goes through a fast sequence I'm sure he did not mean to telegraph.

Concern. Recognition. Resignation.

“Oh… you found it.”

“Easton Blake.” That’s all I can say. The only confirmation that it’s all real.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” He smirks and stretches his arm for a handshake, but a second later, he drops it. His eyes narrow and he steps closer.

“You are a famous hockey player.”

“Yes.”

“I…” My throat feels tight. “I have… I’ve been calling you Easton Mysterious.”

“And I like it.”

“I've been wearing your clothes, eating your food, leaving the house with you, and unknowingly setting myself up with the media. The photographers. The men…”

It suddenly hits me. The boutique. The men with cameras. “Oh God…” I slap a palm over my mouth, now suddenly feeling embarrassed it took me so long to figure this out.