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“Let me do the talking?” She whispers back and I don’t know if she’s seen the pictures yet, seen the news, but I owe her this. She was right about what would happen. Even when I had doubts, she knew. It’s time to let her take control and do what she does best. I nod.
Bob sits behind his enormous desk, downtown Quarry Creek framed in the full-length windows behind him. He doesn’t make a move to stand when we approach, simply gestures to the two chairs facing him. He also doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look frothing mad yet either.
“Victor, Tristan. I hear congratulations are in order.”
It shouldn’t surprise me he’s heard the news. He probably has a google alert for the team. I know my agent does. Or someone in the organization is tasked with keeping tabs on our media coverage and would have called him first. Either way, I catch myself frowning at the way he addresses me first.
“Thank you, Mr. Seever.” Tristan sits down in her leather chair and crosses her legs at the ankles. I plop down like it’s the bench and I’m coming off a too-long shift in all my gear. Her voice gives nothing away, but the chance that she hasn’t seen all the gossip is slim to nonexistent. I reach over and she slides her hand into mine, squeezing my fingers between hers.
“I’ll admit,” our boss says as he opens the top drawer of his desk, fiddling with something inside. “I was shocked to see the photos after our last chat, Ms. Grant. Or should I say Mrs. Varg? Will you need a name change form for HR?”
“A name change form?”She leaves a hanging pause between each word, like maybe she hasn’t parsed his meaning yet. I suck on my lips, biting down with my teeth to stop the smile threatening to break across my face.
“I assumed this meeting was to inform the organization of your change in marital status and name.”
“Yes,” Tristan says, her fingers squeeze tighter, strangling mine. “So you’re saying…”
“You’re still employed,” I finish for her, adding, “darling,” on to the end to really sell this.
“But I thought…”
Watching my kitty cat be left speechless is more entertaining than a barn burner game seven of the Stanley Cup finals. Her eyes blink once, twice, and her perfect blonde brows dip together. White teeth worry her bottom lip and I’m torn between running my hand down her back and snapping a picture so I can see her adorable confusion whenever I need a pick-me-up.
“Ms. Grant, surely you can understand my position here,” Bob’s saying the right things, but even I can hear the condescension. I unwind my fingers from Tristan’s so that I can cup her knee in my palm. Her arm winds through mine and I wonder if it was a conscious choice to sell our couplehood, or if she’s seeking me out for some form of support and comfort that evensheisn’t aware of. “It’s one thing to condone a torrid affair between you and one of our players. It’s another thing to condone a marriage. I assume this is more than just poor decision-making while under the influence?”
Don’t look at her, I tell myself.It’ll look like you’re comparing stories which would be highly suspicious.
“Mr. Seever.” Tristan shifts in her chair and I let my thumb rub circles against the soft skin of her inner thigh. “Vic and I did not make this decision lightly. It may appear that way, especially after our last meeting, but…”
She’s floundering. I can see it in the tense cords of her neck and the lines at the corner of her mouth.
“We knew about the policy.” I break the silence. “So we were trying to keep our feelings under wraps. But I hit a wall, sir. I couldn’t imagine another minute of my life when I couldn’t call this woman mine. It’s cliché, yes, but when Tristan told me she’d always imagined running off to Vegas and getting married by the Hillbilly Cat, well… I’d have done just about anything to give her what she wanted.”
I don’t even look at Bob. I’m too busy watching the rosy pink blush climb up the sides of Tristan’s neck. I want to drag my tongue along the same path. I wonder if she remembers how much of what I said is completely true.
“Anyone with eyes can see what the two of you have, son.” Bob smiles. “It would be very shortsighted of me to penalize you two for falling in love. Besides, it’s nice for the team to have some positive press.”
“Positive press?” Tristan shakes her head. “We hit the tabloids, sir. I… lied to you. You warned me. The last thing the team needs is a scandal.”
“I see you haven’t been reading the comments.” Bob’s chuckle morphs into a cough and he lays a checkbook on the top of the gleaming desk. “Normally I’d agree with that idea, but in this case, you might want to take a look. I think you two might be just what my team needs right now.”
I don’t mean to stare down our owner as he pulls out a checkbook, filling in each line with a fountain pen that easily cost more than all my equipment combined. Well, the retail value of my gear. I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for pads or skates or sticks. There’s a lot more wrist flourishing than I expected, but I’m doing my best not to let my gaze drop to Tristan. He just said she was still employed, so I don’t think he’s writing a severance check.
“I’m guessing you scheduled this meeting so you could ask to keep your job. Is that correct?”
A tight nod from the woman next to me, and I slide my hand more firmly around her knee, feeling the heat of her skin crawl up my wrist and sink into my bones.
“I can tell you aren’t often trusting of gifts, Ms. Grant, so I’ll make you a deal.” He recaps the pen and steeples his fingers. “You let the fans into your lives. Show them, firsthand, the story of your love and relationship, and I’ll pretend we didn’t have a chat or a clause about inter-organization fraternizing. Deal?”
He slides the check across the table to us and I see Tristan’s eyes flare with surprise. It’s a respectable number of zeros, even considering what my contract is worth.
“This is just a little wedding present. Contracts, and the team aside, I’m happy for you both.”
Tristan is frozen, and for a moment I wonder where my take-no-prisoners girl went. The one who told me to follow her lead and let her do the talking. I fold and pocket the check for her with a “thank you, sir” thrown at Bob. He waves us off with instructions to enjoy our new marriage, and an apology that we won’t get a honeymoon “until after playoffs, right, Varg?”
And then we’re in the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us, and Tristan turns to me with a look of horror on her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers the words, her face stricken. “I thought it would be a lot more begging, but I didn’t think we’d have to actually pretend…” She shakes her head, hair sliding free of the twist. “I’m sorry Vic.”
