Page 1 of Body Check

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Holly

Boston, Massachusetts

The groom is sporting hard wood.

And I’m not referring to the hockey stick he wields around TD Garden for the Boston Blades. No, I’m talking about the metaphorical type of wood—the one that sprang to life in his black tuxedo pants the minute his bride, Zoe, began the walk of all walks down the center aisle of Boston’s historical Trinity Church.

My knees burn against the scratchy red rug as I angle my camera to snap a photo of the groom’s awestruck expression. While Andre Beaumont—King Sin Bin to hockey fans across the country—may have hired me as his wedding photographer, I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in having his erection memorialized in between pictures of Zoe’s gorgeous, ivory lace gown and the flower girl prancing down the aisle like a cotton ball made of tulle.

Then again, it’s the ball-busting kind of photo that his teammates and brothers-in-hockey-gear would kill to get their hands on, and Andre should have known better than to rope me into this gig.

Swallowing an ill-timed laugh, my fingers slide over the camera’s familiar black, plastic frame.

Click.

One inappropriate photo down. Only one hundred-plus elegant ones to go.

Wedding photography isn’t my thing. And, sure, maybe it’s because I lived the Happily Ever After fairytale and came out on the other side with my gold band tucked away in my dresser and my newly signed divorce papers doused in wine, sweet-and-sour sauce, and dried tears.

It was a rough night.

Scratch that—it’s been a rough three years.

Like a moth to a flame, I lower the camera and slide my gaze to the second groomsman standing to the right of Andre. My grandmother once called him “strapping.” Accurate, I’ll admit, albeit begrudgingly. He’s built like a linebacker: tall and broad with muscular thighs that strain the fabric of his tuxedo pants. Dark brown hair that’s casually tousled in the same style he’s worn for years now. Even when he graced the glossy front page ofSports Illustratedlast February, he looked exactly the same.

Some things change . . . he hasn’t.

Hard, square jaw. Formidable body. Shrewd brown eyes that I imagine terrify his opponents on the ice when he comes barreling toward them.

Jackson Carter.

Captain of the Boston Blades.

Otherwise known as my ex-husband.

Those astute dark eyes meet mine now, and I wait for the rush of familiar emotions to hit me like a freight train. Only, before I have the chance to do my usual shushing of my heart, Jackson’s full lips part and he mouths something that lookssuspiciouslylike, “Did you just take a picture of his dick?”

And that right there,that’sthe reason why I’ve felt so lost for the last three years.

Our marriage didn’t crumble because one of us cheated. Jackson isn’t that sort of guy, and I’ve always been a one-man kind of woman.

It didn’t combust in a ball of fiery flames because we fought like we were prepping our audition tapes for that trashy reality TV showMarriage Boot Camp.

No, we simply . . . grew apart.

He passed out on the couch.

I slept in the bed.

He ate meals with his teammates.

I chowed down on mine alone at my desk, late into the evening hours after my employees had already gone home to their families.

He reached out to Andre or the Blades goalie, Duke Harrison, when he needed to talk.

I acted like smothering my emotions was as easy as breathing.

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