Page 50 of Play the Game

“Does that bother you?” I know very well that it does.

She turns away from me. “No.”

I snort. “You suck at lying.”

Her faint growl reaches my ear, and I smile behind her back.

“Anyway…” I begin to back away, leaving her to her devices. “I’m going to hit the sack.”

Scottie’s shoulders loosen, and she begins to open her laptop again.

“Are you going to eat dinner?” I ask, backing farther away from her.

“Dinner?” she repeats, looking at the time. “Oh, uh…yeah.”

Is she lying?

“What are you going to eat?” I lean against the stairs, waiting to see what she’ll come up with.

She shrugs with her back to me. “I’ll find something.”

“Well, there isn’t much. You should probably grab some stuff you like at the store because all I have are prepped meals and protein shakes.”

She laughs lightly. “Trust me, I’m used to throwing things together to make a meal. It’s fine.”

My brows furrow with her response. I don’t like the feeling it gives me when I think about her not eating or justthrowing things togetherto make a meal.

With a heavy sigh, I turn and force myself up the stairs.

I’m halfway up them when I hear her say, “Goodnight.” I pause for a second but shake my head and go right to my room in an attempt to get her off my mind, because come tomorrow, I know our photo will be posted all over social media, and the gossip will spread like wildfire.

Ready or not, here comes Mr. and Mrs. Olson.

Twenty-Three

SCOTTIE

My new phone is nice.

Too nice.

I pretended to be asleep when Emory woke up this morning and messed around in the kitchen, likely making one of his "meals" that smelled inedible. But whatever, I'm not going to put on an apron and pretend I'm some dutiful wife and make him home-cooked meals. That isn't in the contract, and I'm not going to act like this is something it isn't.

I blow a big breath out, and my loose hair flies back. I clench my eyes when I hit "post" and inhale all the air in the living room. Emory walked into the arena for practice as the Chicago Blue Devils’ hotheaded goalie with a bad reputation and rumors surrounding him, but he's going to walk out with new rumors that just so happen to be true—like being married to little ol' me.

The photos turned out beautifully. I spent hours editing them and staring at the pure bliss of what I captured, knowing very well that photos don't always show the true picture. That's the one thing I love about photography. It can be so subjective. The photos I have of my dad are all of him smiling, but it doesn't show the pain and suffering he was enduring. I prefer to remember him as the smiling man, watching a hockey game withme perched on his shoulders, instead of the frail man he became that later led to his death.

The vibrating of my phone pulls my attention, and I’m shocked to see how many comments have accumulated on the photo of Emory and me in such a short time. One after another, they continue to pile in. Women are disappointed that Emory is married, some stating that it can’t be true. There are questions about hismystery girl,and our story, and even some congratulations thrown in there too.

I kept it nice and simple. One single photo of his hand wrapped around my cheek while he held my face steady. His wedding ring is the center of the photo, and you can see a slight angle of mine.

Dizziness sweeps through me the longer I stare at the screen. Opinions and rumors flood the comment section, and I quickly shut the screen off, standing from the couch to head into the kitchen. My stomach growls, and I know I told Emory that I'd find something to eat last night, but I was too focused on editing to scrounge around in the kitchen. My eyes fall to the black credit card on the counter with a handwritten note.

For food. Don't eat my meals.

I snort. One thing is for certain: Emory Olson is not a romantic.

Or maybe he is with a woman he's actually in love with.

---