Page 17 of The Rebound Plan

She laughs and tops it up to the emergency level that we break out as needed. “Long drive?”

“We left too late and hit traffic.” I close my eyes and exhale. “But now I’m here, and I’m so ready for some pool time.”

Outside I find the rest of our squad. At the start of last season, which was the debut for the Hamilton Highlanders as the NHL’s newest expansion team, we were a trio: Ani, a local girl who married her high school sweetheart and then he got picked to play for the hometown team; me, the experienced American hockey wife transplanted north with a slick elite player to Canada for the new team; and Becca Kincaid, the youngest of us all, but the only one of us who is a mother.

Her now-fiancé, Hayden Calhoun, skipped the hockey draft after Becca found out she was pregnant in high school, and then he was scouted by a minor league team and worked his way up to having his first full rookie year last season.

Ani and I took Becca under our wings, although she’s got such a bright light personality that it’s not like we need to give her much guidance. She’s a natural at being a hockey better half. Effortlessly pretty, sparkling energy, and a clever wit, too.

Then the season got started, and something unexpected happened—Kieran Marsh, a confirmed hockey bachelor, fell head over heels in love with a woman he saw in the stands. A nurse, who was sitting next to one of our team doctors.

What followed was a bit of a mystery, because Harper Roberts is a private person, but everyone found out Kieran was in a pretty serious relationship when he got a concussion and refused to go home, wanting to go to Harper’s apartment instead.

Which led Kieran to asking me to take Harper under my wing, too.

I pride myself on being the go-to person for smoothing everything over for the team, but something funny has happened in the last year—all of these women, including the most recent addition, Kiley Forge—have bloomed in their relationships in ways that makes me feel…

Well…

Notjealous.

That wouldn’t be fair, or right.

By most measures, I have so much to be grateful for. I need to remember what my life could have turned into if I hadn’t met Max when I did.

I’ve been Mrs. Max Tilman for almost eight years, and most days I never think about who I was before—a model, principally. And like a lot of pretty girls who want to be actresses and models, I found out the hard way that being a dazzling star in one’s hometown is not a guarantee of even being noticed in New York City.

So I quickly learned how to make ends meet. I was sometimes a girlfriend for a night. A weekend. A full week on a yacht in the Mediterranean could pay my rent for a year.

And I was suited to it. I liked the intense sex that was part of the lifestyle. I liked being wild. It felt like I was giving the middle finger to everyone back home who told me I wouldn’t amount to anything because I was too slutty—a horrible thing for a fourteen-year-old to have thrown at them. Especially because it turned out later on, I learned whatactuallybeing slutty was, and my teen self had no clue.

It was never anything as formal as actually being an escort. At the level I socialized at, the men don’t need to hire sex workers. There are always young women like me willing to do it “for free”, knowing that we’ll get a new wardrobe out of an adventurous romp in a private dressing room, that our rent will be covered discreetly if we’re good enough.

I was very good.

Still made me disposable, of course. Every pretty girl has an expiration date.

One night, a billionaire took me to a gala for the New York Rangers, and a handsome young hockey player wanted what that billionaire had: me.

Max paying my bills felt different. It wasn’t as temporary or disposable, especially when he got me added to the WAG group text chat and I started going to games.

Then he proposed, and I felt such a rush of relief that I thought I could never be happier than in that moment.

Our life together in New York was insanely busy. We lived in the city, and most of his married teammates didn’t, so while I liked the other wives and girlfriends, I mostly socialized with them in formal settings, for charity events and game nights.

Ironically, after marrying Max, my modelling career took off a little, and I even did some guest hosting on morning TV in the summer months, mostly to give some visibility to the charity foundations the team spouses supported.

So it wasn’t until we moved to Hamilton last year, and Max was named the captain of the NHL’s latest franchise team, that I noticed the foundation of our marriage might not be as solid as I thought it was.

We bought our dream house in the suburbs, on the most exclusive street in the same neighbourhood that his teammates were settling in. But a big, empty house has a lot of room for loneliness to echo through. Bedrooms I thought we might decorate for children stand empty, and Max is rarely home. I never minded his travel schedule when we lived in New York, but it’s been harder since we moved.

“Shannon!” Harper calls out my name with such delight—and then it’s echoed by the others like a chorus of angels—that I feel like an absolute bitch for the pang of misplaced longing I just felt.

Because it’s not their fault that their lovely, open friendship has sent me spiralling on the inside.

That’s all on me, and the choices I made once upon a time.

“I see this is where the real party is,” I say, toasting them all with my glass of wine. It’s crisp on the tongue and sharp sliding down, which is exactly what I need right now as my husband couldn’t wait to get away from me and get a workout in. “Welcome back from your honeymoon, Harper.”

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