AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Okay, so no one is saying the last part, just my fogged hint of memory. I can’t tell what was real and what was a fantasy No one is saying anything about the wedding beyond the bands either, something I don’t need explained since I can always look down at my fingers and see mine for myself. No one watched us say our “I do’s.” Small miracle. Or maybe Vic barred the door. That last thought shouldn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy, but it does. I have to remind myself that I’m mad at him.
We’ve touched down in Quarry Creek and I’m collecting my suitcase when Victor Varg corners me. That sounds more ominous than it is. I wish I had an actual reason to be mad at him beyond our circumstances, but I am still trying to hold on to my fury with shaking fists.
Waking up plastered across the body of an attractive man, willing his hands to sink a little lower, press a little harder. That’s not a reason to hate someone. Matching gold bands isn’t a reason either. It takes two to tango and all that jazz. In fact, the only real reason I have to be angry seems less and less legitimate the more time we spend together, but I’m damn good at holding grudges. The idea of letting go of this one feels strange. Alien.
It’s part of who we are. Vic and Tristan. Opponents. Enemies. Two people in permanent stasis. Terminally frustrated by one another.
And okay, maybe that’s been fading, perhaps since that first day of filming in the locker room. Not just because of the man’s ab muscles, or the V that disappears under his hockey pants. And maybe, just maybe, I like the way he grins at me when I’m trying to be tough. The way he leans in when he calls me kitty cat. Maybe I could admit to myself that the reason I’m determined not to give in to Victor Varg’s charm is because it feels like letting him win this tug-of-war between us. Maybe I like the effort he puts in, and maybe giving in is the thing that would leave me vulnerable.
I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t handle vulnerability well.
It’s easier to pretend that Vic has me cornered, even if I know it’s not true. He approaches quietly, hands empty and loose in front of him. Soft smile. The real one, with the single dimple, tipping the corners of his pink mouth. Not that I’m noticing.
“Hey Tris,” he says, his voice gritty as if he just woke up. Daytime flight or not, most of the guys slept the entire trip. I wish I could say my eyes don’t drop to the naked skin of his left ring finger. I wish I could say that something doesn’t twist inside me at the knowledge that he isn’t wearing his ring. I wish I wasn’t self-conscious about still wearing mine. “Would now be a good time to have that talk?”
It’s self-preservation that has me shaking my head like I’m a novelty bobble head. We gave one away for Vic just last month. Right after he broke the arena record for the fastest goal scored during a game. I brought one home for Madison since she says he’s such a dreamboat. I’ll give it to her, eventually.
“No, thank you.”
If his voice is deeper, mine is at a decibel level only dogs can hear. I did not sleep on the flight. Instead, I turned over scenario after scenario, trying to find a way to keep my employment despite the warning I’d received not even a few weeks ago. One upside about chartering a plane is the faster security process. The downside is less time to find a solution to my—our—minor problem. I’d be grateful for a plan that would afford me even a thirty percent chance of success, but I’m not sure it’s possible.
Vegas should have a grace period after you get married. Three days until the license is filed. Three days to call the chapel and beg Elvis to drive over that document with his baby pink Cadillac convertible. Tear it to shreds. Fertilize the rose bushes with it. Burn it into ash. Like a game of dress-up. No harm, no foul, no legal ties binding two people together.
Would you even call them? A tiny voice says from the back of my brain. A tiny voice that is clearly still stewing in THC and alcohol.
“I understand you’re upset.” Vic says, and those claws he says I have? I want to sharpen them on his face. I want to drag raised welts down the strong line of his back. I want him to feel as off-kilter, as at-risk, as I do. But he won’t. “I think you’ll feel a lot better if we talked about this.”
Why?
Why can’t men figure out that telling women how they’ll feel or what they’ll feel isn’t just counterintuitive, it’s a kamikaze mission? Tell me to calm down? I’m guaranteed a ten-level increase in rage. Tell me to do something? Even if I was about to do it, I’d pack up and move to Siberia to get the point across that it’s now off the table. Vic’s a smart guy. He has a wife, a sister-in-law, an almost-sister-in-law, and a mother he’s close to. How has he still not figured this out?
“The team cannot afford to lose Victor Varg for the foreseeable future.” That’s what Bob said in his office. I’d be out and Vic would be in. The man standing in front of me can’t possibly understand that I’m a dead woman walking. I’m staring down the plank at the churning water below. I’ve turned over every possibility and not a single thing seems guaranteed to keep me employed.
Except…
Except there’s something else Bob said. Something about true love. Something about scandal. Something about choosing Vic over me.
I look down at the ring on my hand. It glows in the fluorescent lights of the airport and my chest feels tight. I pull in a shaky breath and flip my palm over, feeling the weight of the gold. When I was twelve, right after dad moved out to be with his other family, I found his wedding ring in the back of a kitchen drawer. I wore it for a whole day, as if pushing it past my knuckle and curling my fingers to keep the too-big band in place, as if wearing that piece of him, would bring him back.
Spoiler alert. It didn’t work, but I also remember how heavy that ring was. I couldn’t forget it was there, changing my balance as I did homework and tried to put together dinner for Hayley, Palmer, Madison, Max, and Joey. I’d assumed the next time I wore a ring it would be the same. Something I had to get used to. But I keep forgetting that it’s there. Not forgetting that I’m married to the team captain, but forgetting that I haven’t yet taken the damn thing off. And maybe I don’t mind the idea of a physical tie to a guy like Victor Varg, so much as I mind feeling like I didn’t get a choice.
Sorry, a coherent choice.
“Tristan. Please.” He steps closer. I can smell the cedar and ice scent of him and the bands in my chest pull even tighter. “You should know we—”
No.
No!
I hold up a hand, still trying to chase the tendril of thought that hinted at an actual solution. Tied together. Bound in marriage. And I got it. The only thing that might work. The major problem… I’ll need this man to play along. This man who is probably going to tell me he has a lawyer on standby and we can file for a quickie divorce.
“It’s too late to undo this,” I tell him. “The entire team knows, which means it’s only a matter of time before someone else does, too.” The next video we upload will probably lead to the story tumbling out. Someone knows someone who saw us walking into the chapel. Someone snagged a picture and uploaded it to Reddit or TMZ or BuzzFeed. Whoever was willing to buy the photos. My one chance here is to get ahead of the story. To twist the narrative the way I need it to turn.
Honestly, it feels a little skeevy even considering this plan. The kind of thing that happens in romance novels and not in real life, but here we are. All I can do is ask. Lay my cards out on the table and he can say no if he wants to. As much as I want to lay all the blame right at the toes of Vic Varg’s Bauer skates, I can’t. I’m the one who went out with them. I’m the one who got high first. I’m the one who added alcohol to the mix, and I’m the one who would have had to say “I do.” I’m pretty sure fall-down-drunks aren’t allowed to get married. I had to have been at least semi-coherent.
“Listen,” I say to him and he snaps his mouth closed. Nice, Tristan. Don’t be a bitch. You need his help. “I’m likely going to lose my job over this.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
