A team rep meets me outside the suite and leads me through a series of polished, echoey corridors—they’re perfect and pristine, like they know exactly how to behave to impress. It’s all been modernized—glass walls, exposed beams, sleek lighting, and subtle branding built for Instagram.
I hate how much I like it.
They don’t take me to the field or a press room, though.
They take me to a VIP Suite—glass-walled, climate-controlled, and staged like a sports shoot for Tatler: leather club chairs, a cocktail bar, panoramic field views behind us. Aldridge is already there, wearing a jersey that was probably designedby Oscar de la Renta—matte black with crisp white piping, cuffed sleeves, a sharp, minimalist logo that’s probably already trending in the sports design world. He’s leaning casually against the bar, holding a martini in his hand with three olives. He grins at me, giving me an up-and-down glance that should require a permission slip.
“That jersey is even more of a statement in person, isn’t it, Mrs. Carville?” He sets down his drink and strides toward me, and that’s when I see the way the logo catches the light, too shimmery.
All gloss and no grit.
Aldridge drops his voice. “It isMrs. Carville, isn’t it? Did I really hear that right?”
I smile coolly. “You did. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
He’s standing close enough that I catch the soft, patronizing chuckle issuing from his throat. But there’s pain in his expression, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “It’s certainly … convenient. I’d heard you ran into a snag with your residency. But my, you’ve cleaned that up nicely.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“It’s interesting. Almost suspicious that you and I were engaged for years, yet you marry this bartender out of nowhere.”
I pat his shoulder, wishing I could punch it. “See? That’s how you know it’s a good thing. When you want to rush to the altar instead of away from it.”
Aldridge tuts. “Now, kitten, let’s play nice.”
It’s appropriate that he calls me kitten, because I want to scratch his eyes out.
Just then, the league PR rep, a woman around my age, gets our attention and points us to our places. She introduces herself as Ronnie, and then says, “All right, lovebirds! Or should I saygrudgebirds?” She laughs. “Let’s move you here, Mr. Sinclair, and Ms. Carville?—”
“It’s Mrs.,” I correct her.
She stops with a head shake. “You’re married? Doesn’t matter. The entire angle we’re taking is lovers to rivals. Social media eats this kind of thing up.”
“I understand,” I say, “but for the sake of accuracy, I expect this not to be glossed over or removed in any way.” I hold up my hand. “I’m married.”
“Cute ring,” Aldridge says. “He must have saved his lunch money for weeks to afford it.”
Ooh. Ugly Aldridge is coming out, and he can sense his misstep immediately. It’s a two-carat ring. In no universe is it embarrassing. If anything, I’m embarrassed Sean spent so much.
Yet, I’m flattered, too. Honored, even, especially when it’s so timeless and bold and … and it feels like me.
Ronnie and Scottie both look at Aldridge like he’s had a head trauma.
Then Ronnie looks at me with a tight smile. “It’s beautiful. Congratulations.”
“Where is he, Kay?” Aldridge asks. “It’s your honeymoon, right? I’d love to meet him.”
“He’s meeting with an NHL coach.” To the PR rep, I say, “He’s a goalie—he played for the Arsenal last season.”
“Oh, that’s good.” The woman taps her hand against her folded arm. “We’ll use that later this season. I keep waiting for the hockey trend to die, but I think it’s less a moment than a movement at this point.” She snaps and directs Aldridge and me to our places, only a few inches away from each other. But when she speaks to me, she sounds more like a human than a cog in a machine now. “I won’t scrub your marriage, but we’re still goingto go with the lovers to rivals angle. We were planning to have him put his arm around you …”
I hold back a groan. And a curse or two.
If I protest, Aldridge will think it’s because I still care. Yet if I let him touch me, well, he’ll touch me.
“No problem. We’re both adults and we’ve both moved on, haven’t we?” I ask Aldridge.
“Of course.” He puts his arm around my waist too tightly, yet the photographer gestures for us to move closer. I fake a smile, and it’s as easy as breathing. Aldridge leans in and murmurs, “Beautiful, as always.”
