AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Why had I kept it from Tristan? Mom had wanted to know. Why hadn’t I just pinned her down and come clean?
Maybe because the last thing I thought about doing when I had my wife—fake wife—pinned down involved talking. My mouth had other ideas. Maybe because, contrary to current popular belief, I wasn’t actually dumb. I knew the conversation would end here. With Tristan and Hela in our sun-soaked home, and me puttering about my mausoleum of a house alone. No, in this instance, my mother didn’t really count. I had tried to tell Tristan at first. It was my mission to hunt the woman down and make her hear the news that the rings were just decorative, but she didn’t let me near her. I admit I didn’t try too hard because my mother was right. I enjoyed being married to Tristan. I wanted to make it real.
Even she’d warned me that Tristan might skip this one. Given the length of time between our fight and the game.
“You are in the wrong here. You do not rush her willingness to hear you out,” Mom said. But I still looked for her as we marched through the tunnel and took the ice.
My twin and his fiancée are sitting in their seats. I can see Quinn’s shock of red curls from almost anywhere, and I know there’s still time before the puck drops, I know I have to focus on the game and my teammates, but I can’t stop looking at that empty aisle seat wishing I’d see the bright blonde of Tristan’s hair or even the ice blue of her eyes. I see neither.
“I do,” I say again to Robbie as the buzzer goes off and we file back into the locker room. “I fucked everything up and I’m going to keep fucking up if I can’t get my head in the game.”
“Do I want to know?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Probably not.”
“I don’t know, man,” Robbie grins at me. “If you fucked things up with your social media manager, maybe you want to play like shit on a stick. Maybe she’ll feel sorry for you and come running back.”
And maybe pink elephants will fly out of my ears and dance the cha-cha at center ice.
“Robbie.” I close my eyes against his knowing look. “How do you put Vera out of your mind before a game?”
“Fuck,” he says, and yes, it was a low blow, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
The seat is still empty as we take the ice for the anthem. I try to focus only on the flag, but my eyes keep darting back to the spot behind our bench. Maybe it’s a good thing she isn’t here. Maybe Max hasn’t shown her the email yet. Maybe she already had plans. I saw new content on the team socials. Not that I went looking, I just—okay, I went looking.
She’d shared a video about superstition and good luck charms in the hockey world. There was Spags talking about his lucky socks. Gagey saying he calls his dad on the way to the rink, even on the team bus for away games. Ahlstrom saying he and his three kids eat chocolate chip pancakes as their pregame ritual. Pelé does yoga and takes a bubble bath. Robbie glowered and told the camera that pregame rituals could be deeply personal and he didn’t feel like sharing, but anyone who’s watched a game has seen Robbie’s in action.
She’d put this video together right after Vegas, inspired by her new nickname. When it had been my turn, I’d smiled directly into her camera lens and told the truth.
“I give the puck to my good luck charm.”
She’d lowered the camera. “A ritual, Varg. You’ve done that once.”
“And I played the best game of my career,” I countered. “A new ritual is still a ritual.”
She’d left me in the video, the last one up, smoldering at the camera. The comments had gone wild. Everyone knew I’d meant her and apparently the public approved. I want to take it as a sign, but I know she lines up a lot of posts ahead of time. It could mean everything or nothing to see myself still on my phone screen. It didn’t mean she’d forgiven me, or that everything could go back to the way it was, but I couldn’t resist letting that twenty-second clip give me a sliver of hope.
Maybe there’d been time to change the video after our fight, but she’d chosen not to.
My eyes go to the empty seat again and my twin nods as Quinn waves. I drop my chin in acknowledgement, kicking my skates back and forth over the smooth ice while the Canadian anthem begins.
Maybe it’s a good thing she’s not here. If Tristan had made it to the game, I’d spend all my time looking at her, lookingforher. I’d let my teammates down for sure.
I see the line breaking apart, a sure sign that the singing is over and it’s time for the puck drop. I missed the entire anthem. Tristan’s seat is still empty, and that’s okay. There’s always the next game. I knew this was a long shot. I’m not giving up. Not this easily.
I’ll just have to win tonight and then send her the game puck. Maybe some flowers. I can leave stuff at her door every single day until she’s ready to hear me out. I’ll ask Erik to sit down and do an interview with me—he’s less opposed now than he used to be. I can do this. The Arctic is the odds-on favorite tonight. Our offense is better than their defense, our goalie more confident and consistent.
Robbie takes his spot at center ice opposite the Toronto player. I take my spot behind the hash marks, getting ready for the drop. My mind is still on my—not-wife, but the beauty of my position means the bench is at my back and I can’t stare at her empty seat. Not this period. It’ll be harder in the second, when the spot is still empty and directly across from me. Hopefully by then I’m in a groove. Robbie waits for the other player’s blade to touch the ice before dropping his own stick. Usually, he likes to lift his opponent’s stick and swipe the puck back to one of our defenders, but if there’s a scrum, or a fight for possession, he’ll drop it to me.
The puck hits the ice and gets lost under the sticks and skates of Robbie and Toronto’s center. I’m moving in close, angling my stick to give Robbie an open target. The ice is a little softer than I like and I’d bet my contract that’s why my teammate hasn’t taken possession yet. If it’s too soft for me, it’s too soft for him. I cut to the left, losing the man guarding me like his life—or job—depends on it, and there, out of the corner of my eye, I see something.
For a moment I think I imagine it, the flash of blonde hair and baby blue. I don’t have time to take a real look. I don’t know if I want to. The puck hits the blade of my stick and muscle memory takes over. I pull it in towards the bulk of my body, and then slip around the Toronto player trying to steal possession back. Ahlstrom is racing across the ice, giving me a wide-open target for a pass right there in front of me.
I should take it. We’re moving faster than Toronto and we could probably make a break for the goal and put one on the scoreboard right off the draw. It would be good for morale, good for momentum, jazz up the crowd, but as I angle my hips to box out the opposition, I see it again. The bright shine of light blonde hair.
She’s here.
I blink, shake my head, and when I open my eyes, she’s still there.
