Page 43 of Body Check

“And you think you’ll win against the Blackhawks?” Fillmore asks, his voice curious.

I ignore the persistent ringing in my ears and vow, “We’ll decimate them.”

15

Holly

“One weird thing that Marshall does at home that no one knows about . . .” Gwen, Marshall Hunt’s wife, stares back at me from the laptop screen where we’ve set up a video chat for the sake of a family-esque interview. My tripod and camera are angled to catch both Hunt and the laptop in the frame. “That’s a tough one,” Gwen muses.

Despite the fact that she’s hundreds of miles away, Marshall shoots his wife a flirty look. “Is it really that tough? You know me better than anyone else.”

“I’m trying not to embarrass you on national television. Trust me, you give me enough ammunition that I could answer this question for the next seven days.” She tucks her red hair behind her ears, then combs her fingers through their fur baby’s black fur, where the pup is all curled up on her lap.

“I don’t embarrass easily,” Hunt says with a casual shrug. “Do your worst, honey.”

“You asked for it.” She winks, and I’m sure it was aimed at me and not her husband, before continuing, “He talks in his sleep. Alot.”

I can’t help but grin. Marshall Hunt is a pretty boy through and through—the one magazines want for his face and his abs, before finishing the article with a quick reference of his stellar stats on the ice. “What’s he talking about?” I ask. “Hockey? Game play?”

“Oh, no.” Gwen’s grin widens. “In his sleep, Marshall isallabout the scandal. Except that he’s always an observer looking in. It’s the strangest thing, honestly. The first time I heard him sleep-talking, he sounded horrified by what had to be some Jerry-Springer-level stuff in his dreams. He was all, ‘ohno, she didn’t!’” She presses a hand to her chest, all offended-like. “And some very concerned, ‘That issonot okay. Dump his ass.’”

I look to Marshall with a raised brow, but he only grins. “I think it’s all the Bravo TV I watch when I’m at home.Vanderpump Rulesis my jam. I’ve even got some of the guys hooked on it—we watch it while we work out in the mornings.”

“You landed a weird one,” I tell Gwen, “you know that, right?”

Her entire expression softens. “I’m just as weird, trust me. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.”

Considering that I knew both Gwen and Hunt when they were on the outs and finding their way back together again, I’m so happy to seethemhappy. This interview will be the perfect clip to round out next week’s episode, especially as the Blades got their asses handed to them by the Flyers last night. When I spoke with Mark Fillmore about what we needed for this episode, we unanimously agreed that showing the players with their families during an away game stretch would go miles toward demonstrating to the world that while the Blades may have a single-track mindset on the ice, off it, they’re family men—husbands, brothers, fathers, sons.

Carmen, Adam, and I split up today, each of us tackling as many interviews with the players and their families as we could since the game with the Blackhawks isn’t for another day.

After seven interviews on my own, and hours’ worth of time lugging around equipment from hotel room to hotel room, I’m beat and ready for bed.

Glancing down at my wristwatch, I push to my feet and say my good-nights. Gwen and I agree to get together for lunch when I’m back in town. We’re overdue for a catch-up anyway—she’s our publicist and is crazy good at what she does.

With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I step into the hotel’s hallway and try to get my bearings straight. Second floor. Fifth floor. Third floor. I’ve beeneverywhere, and if I were the sort of person to chart my number of steps for the day, I have no doubt it’d be in the thousands.

The Chicago airport hotel is beyond massive.

“Fourth floor,” I mutter to myself, “that’s yours.”

I hike my backpack up some, readjusting the weight, and turn for the elevator that’s down the hall and somewhere off to the right. I think. Or maybe it’s the other way? Screw it. I’ll find it when I find it.

Nothing like a little hotel adventure when all you want to do is get frisky with your sheets and block out the outside world for five hours of uninterrupted—

“Jackson?”

My ex-husband snaps up straight from where he’s feeding change into a vending machine. His dark hair is a mess like he’s combed his fingers through the strands countless times today, and . . . well, he’s barefoot.

Not that I’m a foot-lover or anything like that, but Jackson’s feet have always stunned me. Mainly because they’re huge, and you know what they say about the size of a guy’s . . .

My stomach nose-dives as the rest of Jackson comes into focus.

Oh.

Oh.

I jerk my gaze from the drawstring pants slung low around his waist to his shirtless torso. His tanned skin gleams under the florescent lighting, all bulging muscles and surly confidence.

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