Page 69 of Play the Game

Mike makes a joke that my new wife must be my good luck charm because of how well I performed during the game, despite the failed efforts of my teammates. They mention the upcoming Hockey Fights Cancer charity event, and a zip of excitement flows throughout me because she’ll have to go with me.

My excitement has nothing to do with wanting her to be my real wife or anything. It’s just that she’s entertaining to be around. She doesn’t put up with my shit, and her clever comebacks keep me on my toes.

If anything, I’m less bored with her around.

After giving her one more quick look, I decide that after I get ready for bed, I’ll wake her up.

I eye the shower, silently thanking myself for rinsing off in the locker room, because I might accidentally spend too much time washing my dick with the thought of my fake wife in the next room showing off her soft skin without having any idea what it does to me.

After pulling some sweatpants on and forgoing a shirt, I open the bathroom door and immediately land on her unmoving frame.

I stand over her for a second and reach out to shake her awake, but instead of actually doing so, I grab the remote instead and turn the TV off. Next goes the light, and I decide that if she doesn’t wake up when I get into bed, then that’s her problem.

Though, the longer I lie beside her, listening to her soft breathing surrounded by her feminine scent, the more I’m realizing that it’s my problem.

Thirty-One

SCOTTIE

Why can’tI wake up?

I try to pull myself away from what’s unfolding in front of me, but no matter how hard I try to move, I don’t.

Wake up, Scottie.

“Mom, please don’t do it.” I don’t recognize my own voice. My stomach hurts, and when I cradle it, it looks like a child’s arm. It’s a memory, and I know how this will end, but I’m afraid to see it.

Wake up, Scottie.

A tremble moves through my body, and I gasp.

I shove the covers from my legs and flip off the bed, landing with a thud on the carpeted floor.

“What the fuck?”

I run.

I have no idea where I’m running to, or what I’m running from, but I’m gone.

Turning to the right, I bolt to the closest door. I fling it open, and it’s pitch black, which only heightens my fear.

Wrong fucking door!

I turn and run again but bounce off something hard.

Hands grip me, and I scream.

“Scottie, calm the fuck down!”

I shake, and my skin is sticky. When the lights flick on, I squint to avoid the harsh glow. My eyes flutter as quickly as I tremble, and the hands on my biceps squeeze, pulling my attention to the gruff voice telling me to calm down.

Two eyes, the color of an ocean storm, lock with mine, and I find myself trying to pull away because I’m suddenly realizing how insane I must seem.

God, how embarrassing.

“Let go of me,” I plead.

Emory, in his sleepy state, which is annoyingly more attractive than one would think, shakes his head. “No. You’re shaking, for fuck’s sake.” His voice lowers at the end, and a thick swallow is my only response.

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