Page 55 of Easton

I knew I saw a flash.

And that damn kid with his phone out constantly.

No wonder—the jerk was secretly taking pictures of all of us.

Of course he’d get that last one in; it was too juicy not to.

That’s why it went public. Though luckily for me, it was posted on a lesser-known hockey blog.

Once we found out about it this morning—and let me tell you, word travels fast among teammates—Lennox got right on it. He did so even though we had a game to prepare for against the Golden Knights, one that we, not surprisingly, lost.

There was just too much distraction.

After Lennox contacted his agent, he put the word out that the girl kissing me was all part of a friendly bet between me and him.

Oh, and that my wife knew all about it.

His agent even somehow got the blog content creator to takethe shot down. I don’t know how he did that, but I owe him, and I owe Lennox.

Now I just need to make sure Claire goes along with the story, and that she knows that the kiss meant nothing.

Itwasnothing, damn it.

I wasn’t even kissing the girl back.

But in the picture, it’s hard to tell.

I wish I could talk to Claire tonight. She didn’t text or call all day, so I have a feeling she knows.

Not that I attempted to make contact either. I think this is something we need to discuss in person. I feel like I owe her an explanation face-to-face.

But unfortunately, it’s now after two in the morning. I just pulled into the garage and checked the time before I shut down the engine.

The team flew back directly after the game, which is why I’m getting in so late.

Man, I’m glad there’s no practice in the morning. We have the whole day off, thank fuck.

Sighing, I hop out of my Rover and head into the house.

I’ll get my bags later.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the only sound my key fob dropping onto the counter. But as I walk down the hall toward the living room, I can hear that the TV is on.

Good, that means Claire is downstairs.

If she’s awake, we can talk.

I venture into the living room, where I find her curled up and asleep on the sofa. She has on black yoga pants and a navy-blue tee. It looks like something she’d sleep in, so I guess she meant to go upstairs but drifted off while watching TV down here.

Speaking of which, I grab the remote from the coffee table and turn it off.

And that’s when Claire stirs.

Stretching and yawning, she sits up. “Hey,” she says groggily.

Thankfully, she doesn’t sound mad.

“Hey,” I reply. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I just got in and heard the TV.”

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