Page 76 of Play the Game

I amnotwife material in real life. Photos, I can deal with. Actual footage? Kill me now.

“We can’t help but notice your dedication to this team, Mrs. Olson. We’ve been hearing you yell louder than Coach Jacobs.”

A breath of air whooshes from my lungs with a fake laugh. I shrug and peer at Emory briefly before looking back at the reporter. “I grew up watching hockey, so it’s a given that I’d be such a fan.”

“Such a fan of watching your husband, I assume?” The female reporter wiggles her eyebrows and laughs annoyingly.

With a closed-lipped smile, I nod. Emory inserts himself, and I’m not sure if he does it to save me or to saveus,but I’m thankful either way. “She grew up watching me. I think she may be sick of me by now.”

That’s right. I almost forgot that Emory and I have a history that goes beyond me trapping him in a bathroom and trying to exploit him.

The reporter laughs again. “I highly doubt that. Chicago is becoming obsessed with their newest Blue Devil goalie.” She turns to me again, and I want to die. I lean into Emory, and he catches me around the waist, steadying me. “I think they’re becoming obsessed with the two of you, actually. Not only are they invested in the game but they're invested in your new marriage and the team’s loudest cheerleader.”

Thank God I gave the Blue Devils bow to Ellie. Otherwise, they might give me pom-poms and make me perform in between periods.

“Well”—Emory shifts awkwardly—“we thought it was time to stop the rumors so everyone can focus on the game instead of my personal life.”

“They’re definitely still invested in your personal life,” the reporter argues. “Especially after seeing how adorable your wife is. Not to mention, supportive.”

There’s a part of me that wants to laugh because if only the press knew that I keep their star goalie up at night because he continues to check on me—something he thinks I don’t know about. If I wasn’t so stubborn and slept in the bed with him, he wouldn’t have to do that, but I don’t trust myself one bit, and I’m already embarrassed enough that he had to witness me that unstable state to begin with.

“That’s her,” Emory says cheerfully, which is a clear indication that he’s lying through his teeth. He wraps his arm around me tighter, making a show for the camera. “My wife is supportive beyond belief. She keeps the house tidy, makes me breakfast on my off days, rubs my sore muscles after a killer practice, runs me a hot bath, irons my suits…”

The reporter's cheeks match mine.

Hoping the camera doesn’t see, I take my elbow and dig it into Emory’s stomach. He rumbles out a quiet chuckle without so much as a twitch of his mouth. If he thinks I’m going to do any of those things, he’s out of his ever-loving mind.

“I have to ask one question before I let you two go.” She gestures to the camera. “We asked the public to send in questions for their favorite players, and you won by a landslide.” I want to scoff because that’ll begreatfor his already enormous ego. “One of the most asked questions was if you have nicknames for each other.”

Without giving Emory a chance to throw me to the wolves as some type of sick joke, I pipe up right away. “Oh yes, Emory hasa nickname for me. Don’t you?” I turn and smile at him. He calls me Rogue daily, so this will be easy-peasy.

His eye twitches, and I have the sudden urge to push back his still sweaty hair from his face to see him better.

“Uh, yeah.” He leans into the microphone and says, “Biscotti.”

Biscotti?!

My face blanches. I hope the camera is focused on Emory instead of me.

That’swhat he came up with? A cookie? What happened to Rogue?

“Biscotti?” the reporter repeats, clearly amused.

“Yep.” Emory pulls me in close and reaches up to squeeze my cheeks like I’m a child. “She’s my little Scottie Biscotti.” At the last second, he turns to the camera. “But next time, ask me something about hockey.” He winks before taking my hand to lead me away, knowing very well that I’m simmering.

Thirty-Four

EMORY

“ScottieBiscotti?!”

Her jaw drops, and I wish I had a biscotti so I could stuff it in her mouth. I turn my back when I have another thought of sticking something else in her mouth and busy myself with filling my bag with all my gear. The locker room has completely cleared out, which I’m thankful for, considering Scottie stomped her way through the door and followed me to my locker without giving two shits if any of my teammates were in here.

“What? I could have saidCherry.” I shrug sheepishly. “And you like biscotti, don’t you?”

Just then, my phone starts to vibrate in my locker, ricocheting off the metal. I grab it and almost hit the decline button. I’d bet my left testicle that Ford is only calling to give me shit for what I just pulled on TV, but with my sister's diabetes diagnosis, I always answer his call.

As soon as I hit the green button, all I hear is laughter.

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