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I can’t poison Knox with laxatives, can I?
Would it kick in on time?
The fine print on the bottle says six to twelve hours, which would be perfect. So now I just need to figure out how to get them in Knox’s system.
Think, Aurora,think.
Coffee. I know his coffee order.
It’s probably not a good idea to combine with laxatives, but whatever. If it makes him play shittier—pun intended—then I’m all for it. And realistically, it’s a lot less harmful than, say, admitting everything to him and hoping he goes along with it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking back to the building with my coffee in one hand and Knox’s cold brew in the other. I don’t have Knox’s cell phone number, not that I would want it, but after pleading with the doorman for a minute, he tells me Knox’s unit number.
And off I go. I make a pit stop at my apartment and mix in the laxatives, then take a nervous sip of my own drink. I leave it behind and head up two floors.
When I knock on his door, I’m hit with an unexpected flurry of nerves.
He cracks it open a minute later. He’s wearing gray sweatpants—a girl’s weakness, I’ll be the first to admit—and nothing else. His chest is bare, his abs tightening and flexing under my gaze.
Six pack.
Pecs.
Damn.
I stare at him for a long moment, my mouth going dry.
Did he look like this in high school?
“Take a picture,” he says. “It’ll last longer.”
“Funny.” I make a face. “I’m not going to the game. And, um, I thought I’d just be nice for once and wish you good luck. Seeing as how I won’t be there to distract you.”
He squints at me, then the coffee. “Why?”
“Because…” I shrug. “I don’t know. We’re married. You won’t divorce me. So isn’t it better if we’re civil?”
Knox seems to consider that. And for a second, hope expands in my chest. I don’t need to be best friends with him. I just want some peace. He takes the coffee from me and sips it.
That’s all I need. Him to drink the coffee, play terribly, and lose the game. But also, if we’re offering a tendril of peace between the two of us, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at it.
It would be a step back in the right direction, wouldn’t it?
“Hmm,” he finally says, his finger tapping on the cup. “No, I don’t think so.”
He slams the door shut in my face.
I blink rapidly a few times, my nose way too close to the wood for comfort. But it does justify the laxatives a little, so… I shakemy head and frown, just in case he’s watching, and head back to my condo.
Now I just need to hope that’s enough to derail his game.
“Are you watching?”
“Yes, Aurora,” Dad answers patiently. “What’s going through your head?”
“Just that Knox is playing better than expected,” I grumble.
Dad and I haven’t talked hockey in a while. I was hesitant to even tell him about Joel, and then after he proposed, it seemed kismet to get back into the sport. Until Knox was traded to the Titans, of course. Then it felt more like the universe was giving me the middle finger than anything else.
