Page 72 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

“Fine,” he spits, now coming to stand as close to me as he possibly can. “Tell me.”

I look up at him. I’m the farthest thing from an easily prickled guy, but lately, there’s been a fury brimming in me that I can’t control. It’s threatening to break free of my feeble hold.

“Tell you what?”

“What the hell is going on,” he spits. “Why you’re playing so bad.”

I raise a brow. This has got to be a record. Tanner has never asked anyone on the team about their personal lives, even in earlier years when he was more even-tempered.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” he growls. “The faster you tell me, the faster I can get you back on the ice. I want you in by the second period. We can fix whatever mental block you’ve got going before then.”

For the first time in weeks, an actual smile forms on my face, breaking through what feels like a sheet of ice. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Tell me what’s up. We’ll have a good talk. And then you’ll be back infit fighting form.”

Now I’m half-grinning. It’s amazing that Coach Tanner actually believes that he can fix me in less than five minutes—a fucking problem that has been recurring all my life. Automatically, I glance across the ice, trying to catch Alex’s gaze.

There’s no need because he’s already watching Tanner and me talk. In fact, he looks like he’s been trying to catch my gaze. I raise my brows, signaling at Tanner’s insanity. But Alex doesn’t seem to care. Instead, with an almost apprehensive look in his eyes, he nods toward the seat beside his wife.

Which is not empty anymore.

Because Charlie Chapman is now in it.

My blood turns to ice, and then stone. As much as I want to deny it, I can’t. She’s locking her eyes with mine. Her face is bloodless, almost terrified. Still, it couldn’t be clearer that this isn’t a chance meeting. For one, she’s wearing her clingy green dress, the one she wore when she first told me about our marriage. Her hair is done in the same messy knot.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The memories come back instantly, fondling her through that slippery piece of material, rubbing my dick up against her, wanting her and wanting to unlock her hatred for me all at once…

A ball forms in my throat. It’s one thing to trample over my heart again and again. It’s another thing to hold a fucking party over its remains. What is she trying to do, make me lose my mind until I get cut from the team for good?

It takes a while to realize that Tanner is still talking. “…lost his focus for one of those games, but he’s back in form now, isn’t he?”

I tear my gaze from her. “What?”

“White!” Tanner spits, glancing over at Blake. “Your teammate. Lost his focus for a while over his woman, but he’s fine now, isn’t he? Is that what this is, a girl screwing with your head?”

“That’s one way to put it.” I want to look anywhere else, but I can’t fucking help myself. Like a magnet, my gaze seeks her out. She’s staring at me, open and unabashed. Reminds me of the day before we split for Christmas, how honest she was about wanting me, even admitting that she was jealous of another woman talking to me.

The night before everything turned into dogshit.

Tanner follows my gaze. I feel a sense of foreboding as he notices Charlie across the ice. “Who’s that girl?”

“No one.” Complete lie. Charlie Chapman has never been no one to me.

The buzzer goes off for the first period, and my team members start to skate back toward our side of the arena. Tanner still keeps his eyes locked on me.

“Is she the one messing with your head, Edwards?”

Alex and Britney are standing up. Charlie is too. I’ve got the nasty feeling that they are heading over. Blake is inches from us, obviously curious about our conversation, but he needs to focus on the game.

“She’s no one,” I growl.

I feel my blood boil beneath all this gear. I glance over at Coach—he’s turned his focus on the ice. Good. I shift forward, planting my skates on the rubber mat in front of the bench. I push myself up, my legs heavy with pads and frustration. The guys don’t even glance my way as I step past them. I hop over the boards, the plexiglass rattling slightly as I lean into it.

The sound of the crowd fades as I move toward the tunnel. I can feel the cold air on my face, but it’s not enough. I need more. I clomp down the concrete hallway, the noise of my skates echoing off the walls. I reach the door to the outside, push it open with my glove, and step out into the night. The frigid air hits me hard, but I welcome it, sucking in a deep breath.

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