Page 37 of Offside Bride

True. I used to live for away games. New city, new adventures, new…companionship. But also, the roar of a hostile crowd, the post-game celebrations that often stretched into the early hours. But now? Now I just want to go home. To Maggie. My fake wife who’s slowly becoming my real obsession.

Coach Knight’s voice booms through the locker room, calling us for the pre-third period pep talk. “All right, boys! Huddle up!”

I should be there, soaking up every word of strategy. Instead, I catch Owen’s eye and jerk my head toward the door. “Bathroom,” I mutter. “I need a minute solo.”

I slip out before anyone can question me. In the quiet of the hallway, I pull out my phone. My thumbs hover over the screen for a moment before I start typing. What do I even say? ‘Hey, wifey, miss your scowling face’? I shake my head, opting for something less likely to get me castrated over text.

Me: There’s $5000 in the safe. Combination is our wedding date. The real one, not the BS we fed the media. ;) Buy yourself something pretty. Anything you want.

I hit send before I can overthink it. Maggie is gorgeous, and she knows how to rock a skirt. But when I think of how she only brought one small suitcase of clothes when she moved in, I just want to treat her. To fill that walk-in closet with beautiful clothes.

Knowing Maggie, she’ll probably blow it all on shoes. The woman’s got more footwear than Imelda Marcos. But if it makes her happy…

Part of me wants to add more. To ask about the flowers, to demand answers. But I know better. Maggie’s not the type to spill her secrets over text. Plus, I’ve got a game to finish.

“O’Malley! Get your ass back here!” Coach’s voice echoes through the locker room.

“Coming, Coach!”

But as I jog back to join the team, all I can think about is getting home to my beautiful, infuriating, absolutely perfect fake wife. The woman who has my heart in a chokehold. The woman whose defense mechanism clicked into place, like shutters on a window, the second I hurt her.

Back on the ice, my mind is laser-focused on the game now. The score’s tied, and we need this win like we need air. The crowd’s roaring, a deafening mix of cheers and jeers that I’ve learned to tune out.

Owen wins the face-off, sending the puck my way. Sticks clash against mine, but I snag it, weaving between two Cleveland players like they’re standing still. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Hendrix open on the left wing.

“Hendrix!” I shout, passing the puck his way.

He catches it smoothly, skating toward the goal. The Cleveland defense closes in, but Hendrix is too quick. He fires off a shot, but their goalie blocks it effortlessly, sending it ricocheting off to the side. I race after it, my skates carving into the ice.

I snag the puck, feeling the satisfying thud as it connects with my stick. I'm moving fast, dodging checks left and right. Cleveland’s defense is closing in, but I spot a gap.

“Sawyer!” Hendrix yells, wide open on my left.

I fake a pass to him, drawing their goalie’s attention. Then, in a split second, I shoot.

The puck whistles through the air, but their goalie manages to get a piece of it. It deflects high, arcing over the net and disappearing from view.

The crowd groans. I grit my teeth, circling back to our zone.

Cleveland gains possession, pushing hard toward our net. Griffin’s on high alert, crouched and ready.

That’s when things get weird.

Their center fires a slap shot, putting all his energy into it. The puck flies toward Griffin, fast and low. He blocks it, but it ricochets off his pads. We all hold our breath, waiting for the telltale sound of rubber hitting the crossbar.

But it never comes.

Griffin spins around, searching for the puck. “Where’d it go?”

“Behind you!” I yell, but my voice is lost in the cacophony of the arena.

Griffin backs up, still scanning the ice. He takes another step back. And then, in slow motion, I watch as he inadvertently slides backwards into the net. The ref’s whistle blows, and I feel my stomach drop.

The crowd goes wild.

What. The…

Griffin looks bewildered then horrified as he realizes what’s happened. The ref skates over, peering at Griffin’s back. And there it is—the puck, nestled in the folds of his jersey like a demented Easter egg.

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