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A bottle of water entered my path, held by a hand I knew too well. My fingers grazed Langley’s, sending a shock of electricity through my nerve endings. Guess my body hadn’t figured out that wasn’t happening ever again. I’d seen her at every game for the last two weeks, but that was all. It felt like a knife in my chest every time we ran into each other at the rink, but I’d successfully avoided her for the most part, even sleeping next door in Lukas’ guest room. The pain would eventually fade. At least that was the lie I told myself over and over.
“Thank you,” I told her, meeting her eyes because I wasn’t an asshole.
“Can we talk after?” she asked quietly, her eyes full of an emotion I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.
Talk to her? Could I talk to her? About what? About the fact that I was madly, foolishly, pathetically in love with a woman who didn’t feel the same? About the papers waiting to be filed? About the press fallout once we both took off our wedding rings?
One conversation and I’d break my resolve to free her and fall at her feet. I’d crawl across the fucking floor and beg her to stay, plea with her to love me.
I shook my head slightly, and she released the bottle with a slight flinch, but her features were quickly schooled. Langley would never let her emotions be seen by the press, but rather seeing her as cold, I admired the shit out of her for it at this moment.
She had the strength and honor to keep our private shit private.
I climbed up the three stairs to the dais and sat in front of the Reaper banner as Gage took the seat beside me. After the Cannon scandal, he sat beside every player who was called for the post-game interviews, making sure he took the heavy questions we didn’t have answers for.
He took the first one, which had been about line changes during the first period.
Truth was, Thurston was experiencing pain in his shoulder that wouldn’t quit, which meant our defenders had to cover him glove-side. The Reaper statement? We were changing up our defensive lines in advance of the upcoming playoff season which was due to start in less than six weeks.
Something about seeing Langley didn’t just have me on edge but struck me as odd, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. I glanced her way more than once, but she was never looking toward me. Her head was usually bowed with Faith, or she was looking over the press corp.
“Axel, how is your brother?” a young, blonde reporter asked from the second row.
I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the table. “He’s doing well, thank you. Took his first unaided steps yesterday as a matter of fact.” I only had to half-force a smile, since I was genuinely happy he was up and almost walking, but still numbed out from my relationship.
Her eyes darted to Langley and back to me, taking on a predatory sheen that made me want to stand in front of my wife. She might only be my wife for the next twenty-four hours, but she was still mine now.
Wait. What was she wearing? I glanced back to Langley to see that she’d ditched her usual suit coat and was wearing tailored pants, her black fuck-me heels that I wouldn’t be fucking her in, and a snug fit, black Reaper jacket with our logo embroidered just above her heart.
“Is it true that while you raced to your brother’s side, your wife stayed behind?” The reporter’s eyes narrowed.
If my wife could murder people with an eyebrow raise, that chick would be dead. She stepped away from the wall to fully face the press, and as her back turned, my eyes flared. She had Nyström across the back of her shoulders and my jersey number on her back.
Okay, that twisted up my insides into fucking knots. Guess she was going all out for our last hurrah, but she’d never been big on claiming our marriage publically. On paper, sure. PDA? Okay. But that was about as close as I was going to ever get to having my name tattooed across her gorgeous ass and it sent a primal feeling of mine straight to my dick.
She didn’t look over at me, just stared at the reporter.
Langley didn’t need to look over to see if I’d protect her. She knew I would.
“My wife,” I said into the microphone and leaned in further so my forearms rested on their sides, right where the light hit the black diamonds in my wedding ring. This girl wouldn’t get a piece of Langley. Not now. Not ever. “Is an important member of the Reaper staff.”
“So would you say she’s more career-than-family oriented? And if so, how does that affect your on-ice performance when you lack support at home?”
