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“You’re one of those,” Sean said.
Lexie looked up into Sean’s green eyes. “Of those?”
“Responsible for all those horrible commercials of abused animals on television.”
“I thought you didn’t watch TV.”
“Not usually, but I swear to God, every time I turn it on there’s a commercial of a dog with its ribs sticking out and limping down the street.”
Sylvia shut off her recorder. “Most people just turn the channel.”
“There’s no way you can turn it fast enough to avoid seeing a cat with a messed-up eye.”
Lexie tried not to judge, but in his case, she didn’t try that hard. Abused animals were helpless and broke her heart. She was very disappointed that Sean changed the channel instead of reaching out to help starving dogs and sick kitties.
“I had to give them my credit card number just so I don’t feel hammered by guilt each time I change the channel.”
The Thursday after the interview, Lexie relaxed with chardonnay in her seat on the third deck at the Key. On the ice below, the Anaheim Ducks skated from end to end enduring the boos of Seattle fans.
“You probably need to say that you have complete respect for the directors and producers,” Marie said from the seat beside her.
“I agree.” Lexie scribbled on a yellow legal pad as she brainstormed scenarios and crafted a plan for the Gettin’ Hitched reunion show that was scheduled to tape next month. “And the fans.” She wasn’t looking forward to the reunion show. She’d rather face a swarm of yellow jackets than the hive of hitchin’ brides. She’d stand a better chance of dodging the sting of wasps than the barbs of twenty pissed-off contestants. She’d seen all the episodes and follow-up interviews now. She knew what they’d said about her during the show and in the days afterward.
“And you should probably think of something nice to say about the other women.”
Lexie’s pen stopped. She opened her mouth to ask if Marie had lost her mind when the arena dimmed and T.I.’s “Bring Em Out” blasted through the speakers. Blue and green lights swirled on the ice below, and the announcer said over the music, “Get ready, Seattle, for your Seattle Chinooks!!!” From the decks below, wild cheers filled the arena as the team stepped from the tunnel and onto the empty ice. They skated from end to end, tightening the circle with each pass. Lexie’s gaze landed on number 36 as he stopped at the players’ bench and stepped inside. She bit her lip to hide a smile as the lights came back up and the music died. The announcer listed the names of the referees and linesmen, then called out the Ducks starting lineup.
“Boo!” Marie yelled. Like Lexie, Marie had been raised around the Chinooks and knew all the insults. “You suck pond water.”
The roar of boos and insults turned to cheers when Seattle’s front line was announced.
“Number 36 . . . winner of the Conn Smythe and Art Ross trophies, Sean Knox!”
His team picture and stats flashed across the jumbotron as he skated to the centerline.
“Impressive.” Marie pointed her glass of wine toward the ice. “But I noticed he’s never won the Lady Byng for sportsmanship.”
A live feed replaced the photo, and he raised one hand in a single wave. His green eyes looked upward, and the usual dark scruff covered the lower half of his face. Lexie’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“Holy balls, Dale,” Marie uttered.
Sean was handsome and could take a girl’s breath with just a smile. His touch made her skin tingle and made bad thoughts bounce around her head. “Holy balls” pretty much covered it all, and there was only one thing left to be said, “You’re Dale. I’m Hank Hill.”
“Call me Rusty,” Marie laughed.
Everyone rose for the National Anthem, and Lexie put her hand over her heart as it played. She’d discovered that Sean was an ASPCA member, and he liked Yum Yum enough to let her lick his jacket. More importantly, Yum Yum liked him enough to rest her head on his shoulder and stare up into his face. People thought Lexie and Sean were in love and made a perfect couple, but it was a lie. One she needed to remember.
“Where were we?” Marie asked when they took their seats again.
“When?” If she ever forgot, she was afraid she just might end up beneath him again.
“When you were outlining your memo.”
“Oh.” Now she remembered. “You think I should say something nice about the other women.” She took a sip of her wine, then added, “I’d rather get stung by bees.”
“Yeah, but you gotta do it or you’ll seem like a bitch.” Marie took a drink of merlot as she watched the puck drop. “I mean, look at it from their point of view. You didn’t have sex with him, yet you still won anyway. You got the ring and the big puffy dress that they all wanted. Then you ditched the groom at the altar and ran away with a superhot hockey player. For all they know, he swooped you up and flew you off to get reacquainted on the night you were supposed to start your honeymoon with Pete.”
The idea of starting up anything with Pete made Lexie’s nose wrinkle, and she highly doubted she would have consummated the marriage. As for what went on when they were taping the show—her lawyer had gone over every bit of the contract she signed before she appeared, and there hadn’t been anything in it saying she had to ever have sex with Pete.
