Page 24 of Lucky Puck

Stubby has a few insipid words with him and Sabien, thanking them and promising to see them at The Venetian’s expo center later.

Lou takes the opportunity to grab my arm before we head out the door. He whispers, “Don’t let him drink. Doc gave him some meds for the headache that don’t mix with alcohol.” He hands me a bottle of pills. “For later as needed.” He adds in a whisper, “Sorry about your honeymoon.”

Ignoring the prickle of guilt at not clearing up the lie, I nod. “Of course.” Then I make myself ask, “What would happen? If he had a drink?”

Lou shrugs. “Nothing too terrible. He’d probably pass out.”

He’d hate that. I absolutely can’t let him be anything but one hundred percent lucid. That’s the only way we’ll be able to avoid anyone else noticing his wedding band.

“Remember, the marriage is a secret,” I say, wondering at the same time how and when I can undo that ridiculous lie. Maybe the truth wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

I’m contemplating telling Lou the truth right now when there’s another knock at the door, and Lou hurries to open it, letting in the mob-like noise and two arena representatives to guide us into the fray.

I hastily grab Brody’s hand—the one with the wedding band—and try to stuff it in his pocket. His grin goes wide into full dimple form as he glances down at me, giving my hand a squeeze before he slips it inside the pocket of his tight-fitting pants.

Unfortunately, no one told the mob of media that he needs to keep the lights and craziness to a minimum and that we need to get to the event to get it over with.

Shit. Before that, we need to go back to the hotel for a date with Bigelow and Tammi at the jewelers.

The path from the back door to the waiting SUV is littered with media reps wielding mics, cameras, and phones all over the place, shouting questions about his injury.

He waves, and I try to rush him past the crowd as he tries to keep them happy without saying much.

Stubby handles the media’s hunger for an interview by putting Sabien front and center to carry the bulk of the load. Sabe is used to the spotlight with a devoted following back in Portsmouth and all over New England.

When Stubby calls for the last question, he points to a young woman who I’m sure he figures is harmless.

“According to medical experts who observed Brody’s injury, they say it’s one hundred percent certain that he’s suffered a moderate level concussion. Is it advisable for him to be going to the fan event? Shouldn’t he be resting?”

Brody stops in his tracks, and there’s no prodding him forward.

He turns to Stubby, and they exchange a look that speaks of some kind of understanding between them, the kind that gives me a chill.

I whisper, “Maybe we should go straight back to the hotel⁠—”

The young woman reporter shouts, “Brody, you look like you have a concussion too serious for⁠—”

“I’m fine. Not as bad as I look, apparently.” He grins and gets a smattering of chuckles.

Stubby says, “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen.” Then he nods grimly at the arena security guards who surround me, Brody, and Sabien and escort us past the media and fans to the waiting SUV.

“Can’t miss a fan event.” He grins and gives a last wave to the crowd. I hope I’m the only one who notices him stumble as he gets into the back of the car.

Stubby leans into the car before the door is closed. “The car will take you straight to the All-Star fan event at The Venetian’s expo center.”

“Thank you,” I manage to speak politely to the high-handed man, “but I’d rather go back to the hotel so that⁠—”

“Not an option,” the man says, and with a chill, I realize he’s right as he steps back and one of the security men closes the door with a decisive thunk.

The silence is complete. This isn’t just any car. It’s a fully tricked-out limo-style SUV like I’ve never seen before.

I’m almost over the heavy-handedness of the NHL official—until said man gets in the front seat with the chauffeur.

He turns and says, “Change of plans. I’m coming with you.” Then he slides the partition closed. No smile. Guess he doesn’t trust us—or more likely he doesn’t trust me.

The car starts moving, and I whisper, “Why do I feel like a high-value kidnap victim right now?”

“Because you’re a paranoid super-agent,” Brody says. Then he lowers his voice and leans in and whispers, “Did I mention I find your protective streak sexy as hell?”