Page 52 of Breaking the Ice

She continues. “So you two fell in love, got swept away by the romance and got married in Las Vegas. You couldn’t help yourselves. Maybe you even planned it. No mention of any alcohol involved.”

She clears her throat in a menacing fashion, and I straighten my spine. Of course not, we would never, ma’am.

“Here’s where it gets tricky.” Ms. Barnes pauses, locking on everyone in the room, and if she didn’t have our full attention before, she sure does now. “For this to work, Evan and Isabella need to stay married for the rest of the year. Live together in married housing and document it on social media. After graduation they can separate, the story will be allowed to fade away. But for now….” She shrugs. “It’s the best I can come up with.”

“Because if they get an annulment, it’s like admitting the coach was negligent and allowed wild shenanigans on this trip.” My mom glances at my dad. They have a thousand conversations in that one look, words exchanged and nuances explored, and I don’t understand one bit of it.

My dad gives a decisive jerk of his chin. “Yes. So, if this was a secret relationship that culminated in a marriage…”

“Then you get to keep your job,” I say, not meeting his eye. “And your reputation.”

“I hate it as much as you do,” my dad growls, and I don’t have the guts to tell him I don’t hate the idea of staying married to Evan. I don’t hate it at all.

But he suggested the annulment. Oh my god, I’ve trapped him.

Like he can feel my panic, he squeezes my hand. “I’m okay with it if you are.”

Stay married to him for the rest of the year? Live with him? Sleep next to him? All while knowing it’s only temporary? How will I ever survive?

Chapter

Twenty-Two

EVAN

The next twenty-four hours are a blur. Not enough of them are spent sleeping in a bed, which is a shame. Isabella and I weren’t scheduled to be on the same flight home, but Ms. Barnes pulls me off the plane with the team and makes sure I fly next to my wife, for social media purposes.

My wife. How weird is that?

I mean, she doesn’t really want to be my wife. I suggested the annulment because obviously that is the best option for her. She would have gone through with it if we didn’t need to stay together for her dad and the team’s reputation.

Knowing all that stings a little, I’ll be honest. But at the same time, maybe I can make it work for me. Because I’d had some drinks before we got to the Chapel of Love, yeah, but I wasn’t drunk. Neither was Isabella. I knew what I was doing, and I don’t regret it. It was crazy for sure. We don’t know each other well enough to have gotten married, but this could be a fun way to explore things between us. Maybe I can show her that we’d be good together.

After the plane lands, I’m up most of the night, trying to figure out where I live. I barely see either my wife or my roommates as a team of movers from the university get my stuff boxed up, hauled out of Hockey Hall, and into the married housing building. My head’s still spinning and I’m not sure what time zone I’m in, not to mention where any of my clothes, shampoo, or toothbrush ended up.

And no offense to the university, but married housing is kind of a dump. I miss Hockey Hall already. Isabella and I share one big room, about the size of the living room the guys and I had, except it was built in the seventies and hasn’t been renovated since. It came semi-furnished, with a sad, sagging couch, a vintage kitchenette lining the back wall, a miniscule bathroom, and a curtain—a curtain—around our bed in the corner that separates it from the rest of the room. For when we entertain guests, I guess? Not like we could fit a lot of other people in here. There’s a wooden desk in the opposite corner, and everything has an air of neglect.

Basically, it’s the worst studio apartment I’ve ever seen.

Isabella sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, looking as forlorn and lost as I feel. It’s a full-size bed, which is fine for one person. It’s on a platform built into the floor, and my king bed wouldn’t fit or I’d move it in. Because I can’t imagine fitting two people on this tiny postage stamp. We’ll have to sleep all tangled together, pressed up against each other⁠—

I shake my head, trying to clear out that image before things get really uncomfortable. We’re married, but we definitely haven’t talked about sex. I mean, I love the idea. But would it be an unnecessary complication?

“Hey.” I walk over to her—it only takes ten steps to cross from the doorway to the bed—and grab her hands. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Her gaze meets mine, and she takes a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s not you. Sorry. It’s just, a lot changed in a short period of time.”

I nod and sink next to her on the thin mattress, then shift as a spring jabs my butt. “Seriously. I have whiplash. I’m not sad to be here with you, but it’s hard to process.”

She smiles, and it’s like the sun peeking out from the clouds on a rainy day.

“Thanks for understanding.” She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her, inhaling her strawberry scent. The bed gives an ominous groan, and she stiffens. “What’s up with this bed, though?”

I give her a playful squeeze. “Do you mean the way it sounds like it’s dying? The fact that it only fits one and a half people? Or the way it manages to somehow have no structure and yet poke me at the same time?”

Isabella laughs, the sound muffled against my chest, filling me with warmth. “All of the above.”

“Mattress shopping time?” I ask, a hopeful note in my voice. The king won’t fit, but a more comfortable full-size one, at least. Was it just two weeks ago she helped me pick a couch?