Page 8 of The Rebound Plan

SHANNON

“Shan!” My husband’s voice rings through the lovely house we bought a year ago when he was named the captain of the NHL’s latest franchise team. A house I made a home, because that’s my job, and I’m very good at it. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the kitchen,” I sing out, proud of how my voice doesn’t tremble.

I don’t mention the fact that while I waited for Russ to get back to me, I spent twenty minutes deleting tags and mentions of both of us on Instagram. Max doesn’t check his own account very often because fan comments get in his head, so I have his account on my phone, too. And this afternoon, we were both tagged in another picture of me from a lifetime ago.

A photo where I’m only wearing other people’s hands.

At least it wasn’t one where I’m on the arm of a billionaire. Max hates those the most.

There are a couple of troll hockey gossip accounts that are fixated on my modelling career and who I was photographed with in New York before I met Max. It’s petty and uninteresting to the vast majority of hockey fans, right up there with the rumoured penis piercings of certain players and the weirder stories from around the league like the cute but dumb himbo centre who married his own stalker. Off-season interest only.

During the hockey season, there’s enough current gossip that old news sinks. But every summer, little whispers circulate, and Max hates them, so I do my best to stay on top of both of us being untagged, and blocking any new accounts that pop up so he never sees it.

When I do it well, it’s something he’s completely unaware of—and so it’s hard to expect him to appreciate me for that work.

The smoothie makings being set out on the counter when he gets back from a workout, however, he can see—and is appreciative about. He steps into the kitchen and grins. He’s a creature of habit, and I like making him happy.

“How was your workout?” It’s a safe question to ask because he’s in a good mood. If he was cranky when he came home, I’d ask him about something that might mollify him, like what he wants for dinner, or remind him of a movie he wanted to watch.

“Good.” He pops a frozen raspberry into his mouth, then carefully measures out everything he wants in his smoothie. As he finishes with each ingredient, I put it away.

At this point in the off-season, he’s starting to shift from bulking up to cutting fat. We’re just a few weeks away from him reporting to training camp, although enough of his teammates live here in Hamilton year-round that it still feels like he’s pretty dialled in to the team training over the summer.

When he’s got his smoothie in hand and the kitchen is pristine again, I remind him that I’m heading out. “I’m going to a Paint and Sip night with Ani.”

Unexpectedly, he catches my wrist as I turn to leave.

I glance back, and he has a funny look on his face. There’s a shard of uncertainty that I recognize—deep down, Max needs a lot of petting—but there’s something else less familiar.

“You know I appreciate you, right?”

“Of course.” I let him pull me in close.

We’re not the most affectionate of couples, especially when alone, unless Max wants sex, and he never wants sex after a workout.

So for him to just hug me is…unusual. And he’s holding a smoothie, so most of my attention is on the cool condensation being pressed against my back.

I wind my arms around his neck, giving him whatever he needs, even if I don’t understand it. That’s my job because I’m his wife, and I’m so good at this.

Everyone says so, and Max so rarely seems to share that sentiment.

“Everything okay?” I whisper into his hair.

It’s a tricky question. If the answer is no, then he’ll find a way to take it out on me.

“Everything’s great.” He swallows hard, his throat working against my upper arm. “Contract talks are heating up. I think they want to announce something before the start of training camp, which puts us in a great position.”

“Oh!” I exhale in relief. “That is great news.”

Max is going into the final season of an eight-year deal he signed in New York, a contract that Hamilton picked up last year when they named him the first captain of the new team. He’s the marquee player, so of course they’ll want to renew his contract, but the way it works in hockey is that players in their thirties take less money on subsequent contracts—eating a bit of a discount to stay in a place where they are beloved—to allow salary cap space for the next generation to get their once-in-a-lifetime big deal contracts.

Max has had his. We are set for life with the money he has already made, and anything else will be gravy. It grates on him that he’ll be expected to take a pay cut, and he doesn’t like it pointed out that at thirty-four, his best playing years are behind him now.

It’s not like he’s alone on the team in this position, but he hates that being pointed out, too.

And he’s weird about me and his money. Maybe because of the company I used to keep, and the wild life I once had—he’s convinced I was more into drugs than I ever was—but our marriage contract and prenup are bothtight.

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