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And I’m about to get⁠—

“If it isn’t the married minion himself,” Hughes says. He’s eighteen, one of our rookie defensemen. Kid makes me feel mature.

“Dude, we spent the whole of last week training with you and you didn’t tell us you got married?” Mathews, our third line Center.

“When’s the baby minion due, Harris?” I don’t even know who says that, as I turn my back on the guys and start taking off my clothes to gear up in my stall.

“Why do people keep asking that?” I say, pulling my shirt over my head and casting it aside.

“Maybe because your little black book has at least ten girls’ numbers in every state we play and you don’t date let alone get married.”

I’m pretty sure that’s Gronkowski but I don’t bother locating the source.

“Yeah, well, the book is up for grabs if anyone wants it. As for not telling you idiots, it’s none of your business. If you didn’t show up in Vegas for Tray and Amelie, you don’t deserve to know what went down there.”

I pull on my pads, then my training sweater – black with a jade-green dragon emblazoned across the chest. Our kit is wicked.

“Jax, your minion wedding is everyone’s business, since TJ let that video loose.”

My brother sits in the stall next to mine and I side-eye him now, shaking my head. The video has been contained, so far as Sienna could work her magic, but the news is still out there on all the Dragons hockey networks and fan sites, doing the rounds on social media.

What can I say? The hockey romance girlies have taken me being off the market hard.

TJ winces but sits uncommonly quiet. He’s apologized. There’s not much else he can do. We’ve all been burned by the wrong girl trying to get some followers on socials or make a quick buck. This was my brother’s first experience of it and look⁠—

“When you’ve met Mrs Harris, you’ll get it, boys,” I tell the room, taking a seat to pull on my shin guards and skates. She might be a dictator but she’s a sexy as sin one.

“Mrs Harris? Jesus, what happened to you, man?” Gronkowski chirps, again.

“I want to hear about the proposal. You looked so trashed in that video, do you even remember? Was it a real wedding?” Mathews asks.

“Did you get down on one knee?” Hughes laughs – kid hasn’t even played one game in the NHL yet and he’s giving me shit?

“Jax Harris on his knees for a woman. Never,” Gronkowski chimes.

“He did,” TJ says, finishing taping his shin guards. “It was a real wedding.”

I got down on one knee? I want to ask. Brother’s intuition means I don’t have to. He nods, giving me confirmation. Huh, what do you know? Turns out I can be a gentleman. I’d love to know how my brother remembers that detail but wasn’t compos mentis enough to stop me dressing in a fucking costume and getting married with a Haribo ring.

“When do we get to meet her?” Gronkowski asks.

I make a show of checking my watch. “In about two and a half hours. She’ll be lunching with us, then giving us a briefing on preseason marketing and comms.”

“She’s the temporary VP of Comms, until Mitch is back on his feet,” Tray says, standing now that he’s kitted up. “Come on, boys,” our captain says. “Let’s hit the ice.”

* * *

I’m shooting the puck around – TJ setting me up as I nail a wrist shot into the top shelf. I’m dialed in, the way I get the moment my skates hit the ice. The smooth glide of steel right after the Zamboni has glazed the ice, the man-made breeze in my hair as I skate without a helmet in training. I love the thrill of competition. The hit of adrenaline I get from an assist, a goal, or even dropping my gloves. When the puck drops, when my second line subs in, or when I drop onto the ice on the fly.

But this time… morning skates with my boys and my brother, it’s the freest I ever feel. Zero pressure. No game hanging in the balance, no urgency of coaches, or my dad breathing down my neck. I’m just shooting the puck with the guys.

In the off-season, I work with a figure skater to improve my power skating and I jump two-footed now, twisting my body, a move I’ve been working on to drive home a slap shot.

The motion propels me forward and I go with it, curving behind the net. As I pick up my head, I sense before I see Sienna coming into the arena, laptop held across her chest. Her hair is scraped back into a tie and even from a distance, her cheekbones shimmer. The way she holds herself is professional, composed, immaculate.

One of the boys whistles, not knowing that he’s remarking on my wife. He’s right, she’s a ten, for sure.

But I’m about to tell him to hold his filthy thoughts when Zach whacks him with a stick on my behalf. “You want to meet Mrs Harris? Congratulations, you’re meeting her,” he says.