Page 27 of Play the Game

“To stop all the bullshit rumors,” I answer, staring directly at the doorknob, praying her boss will walk in here so I’m forced to stop this little cat-and-mouse game we’re playing. “I need someone to help fix my reputation. If I have a wife, and some elaborate backstory of our life and relationship, then it’ll stop all the gossip and the never-fucking-ending women making rumors up to get money out of me.”

Scottie pulls back immediately because I've obviously struck a chord. I meant to, hoping it’ll remind her of the entire reason we’re in this situation to begin with.

“You think a stripper from the Cat House marrying you is the end-all, be-all?” Her confusion is valid.

I shake my head. “I think a woman who gives out coats to the homeless late at night who fell in love with a hotheaded guy like me and waited until I finished college and reached my dreams is.”

Of course I’ve already worked out half of our backstory.

If I want this to work, I have to be prepared to see it through.

Surprise flickers across her features. “How do you know?—”

I cut her off. “It’s not important. Yes or no, Scottie?”

I’ve gotta admit, this is probably the most romantic way anyone has ever asked a woman to marry them. A forced lap dance in a strip club, with a prenup, NDA, and a contract waiting to be signed in my car.

What can I say?

I’m a romantic at heart.

Thirteen

SCOTTIE

My stomach falls.

Marry me.

I’ve dreamt of those two words for as long as I can remember. When I used to play make-believe as a child, I’d almost always end up acting out my favorite scene. The one where my Barbie—with the half-chewed hand from its previous owner's pet—would marry Ken, and they’d live happily ever after. But that was all make-believe, and whatever this plan is that Emory has conjured up in his head is just that: make-believe.

I climb off Emory’s lap quickly, almost falling over in my stupid heels. I’m full of unease, and my cheeks are hot with humiliation.

“Get out,” I demand, wishing my tone was full of fury instead of embarrassment. My arms cross as soon as Emory’s nostrils flare. “I get it,” I say. “You’re still angry about what I did. But my life isnota joke, so stop fucking with me and get out.”

Here comes the fury.

My voice rises, and my heart thumps with frustration. It’s not even directed toward him. I’m angry that I had to put money on William’s books that I was putting away for lawyer fees. I’m angry that I’m still feeling sick over seeing my mother the othernight. I’m angry that I was pelted in the face this morning with water from the leak in my ceiling. And to make things worse…I’m fucking hungry.

Emory’s eyes dip down my body lazily before he comes back up and reaches my fiery gaze. Something unreadable flashes across his face, and the only thing it does is make my stomach flop. “This isn’t a joke, and I’m not fucking with you.”

I huff. “You want me to be yourwife?” The word falls from my mouth like it’s poison. I can hardly say it. “Are you crazy?”

He smirks. “All goalies are crazy.”

It’s true. They get a bad rep, and Emory’s just keeps getting worse. Butstill.

“You obviously have no problem making things up…” He shrugs. “And it’s clearlynot difficult to photoshop pictures.”

It isn’t easy for most, but for someone who has taught herself photography and read every book the library offered, it is.

Emory slowly stands up, and my arms fall to my sides.

“What’s in it for me?” I ask, hating that I’m actually considering it.Am I the crazy one?I can’t randomly marry a pro hockey player and go along with this entire made-up story about us.

Can I?

Emory’s wearing a cheeky grin, but the only thing I can focus on is the blue color of his eyes. Either he’s a very good liar or he’s actually as crazy as I am.

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