Page 41 of Put a Rink on It

“Her brother got married in Paris. She’ll be back later this week. I’ll set up a call for the three of us once she’s back.” Marina’s jaw drops. “What’s the shocked look for?”

“Because you’re suddenly this guy who knows all this stuff and remembers random shit when it doesn’t relate to you.”

I both love and hate how she pegs me so well. This living together is going to be so interesting.

“I texted her earlier and she reminded me,” I divulge, not able to lie to Marina. We might be deceiving everyone else in our world, but I won’t lie to her.

She exhales. “Oh, that makes me feel better.”

“I’m glad I didn’t disappoint you,” I scoff. “Back to the matter at hand. How are you getting home?”

Not that I want to get rid of her, but the more time I spend in proximity to her—in a bed, no less—the harder it’s going to be to say goodbye.

Marina insists on cooking us breakfast but has her coffee delivered because I have nothing in my kitchen “appropriate for doctoring it up.”

Before she leaves, she makes a list of ingredients I should keep on hand.

She doesn’t know how she riles me up, not on purpose.

Which is a problem of my doing and will only compound once she’s living here. I better get myself in check before that time arrives.

After our win on Saturday, the morale for practice is upbeat, and the DJ’s song mix for warm-ups is spot on. Once the coaching staff arrives, we get down to work, starting with an overview of the game, what we did well, what we can work on, which will be the focus of today’s practice.

“Passing. No puck hogs allowed anymore.” Coach Barron glares at Gavrielidis, who doesn’t even have the decency to look offended.

He played for Vancouver for the past few years and was claimed by Hartford in the expansion draft. He’s a superb right wing, though as Coach points out, his passing game needs work.

So, of course we spend a solid half-hour on passing drills, trading lines, and playing with players we don’t normally take the ice with. We concentrate on making two passes before being allowed to shoot, and then every pass must be a touch-pass. Since I’m still getting used to the new team—and vice versa—it’s good to have the opportunity to learn who they are as players in a less high-stakes setting than a game.

After a less-than-usual grueling session, there’s chatter in the locker room about our likelihood of winning our next few games. We leave soon for a five-day road trip, yet another thing I gave little consideration to the timing of in relation to the engagement or moving ahead with our plans. I should text Marina, letting her know I dropped the ball, proving her point from this morning.

Being in her bed with her earlier brings a smile to my face, one I can’t wipe off. I shouldn’t be so obsessed with her. Not this soon. Not when things are fake between us. But I also can’t help it. I’ve kept my attraction to her hidden, and now that the door’s open even slightly, I’m not sure I’ll be able to rein myself in.

“How long have you been married?” The question comes from Markou. At first, I think he’s talking to another teammate until a dirty towel hits my thigh. “Tempest, I’m talking to you. Must be new, otherwise you’d look more like Mignone.”

“Hey,” Mignone protests. “I love my wife.”

“How did you know I was thinking about her?” I ask.

“Because you’ve got the look.”

“The look?”

“Oh, yeah,” Kaplan chimes in. “Only guys who are serious about a woman have ‘the look.’”

I glance around at the faces left in the locker room, all nodding at me. Grown males talking about a certain look men have if they’re thinking about someone they’re serious about. I call to mind the guys who were married on my old team, trying to remember if I can make heads or tails of what they’re saying.

“Meanwhile, back on the farm,” Markou presses with a huff, “how long?”

How long have I been married? Why didn’t Marina and I discuss this more? Why didn’t we take the time to come up with a better story of how and when we got together?

“We’re not technically married. Yet,” I hedge, a wave of heat creeping up the back of my neck. Why is this so infuriating and more nerve-racking than being on the ice facing down growly opponents on skates?

“You called her your wife. Multiple times,” Milo Underwood points out.

“On multiple occasions,” Mignone adds.

Why do I feel like they’re interrogating me? Like I’m on the witness stand for a crime I didn’t commit?