Page 33 of My Pucking Enemy
“The whole point of this is for you to focus on theotherteams, Beaumont. Not me.”
“No. The point is for me to make sure youwingames. And right now, I can tell you with a certainty that you’re going to get pulled from the ice again, and the team is going to lose again, just like you did against the Bruins.”
Luca’s face is a storm cloud. “That’s not—”
“You want to talk strategy?” I come around the table, face him. “Then we need to talk about how you can getoverthis. If your head isn’t on right, then the team is out of alignment.”
“Well, what would you suggest?” he asks, turning to me with something mirroring actual exasperation. “I can’t get Mandy back. I can’t ask them not to date publicly. And anything I say to the press is just going to get twisted around.”
“Easy.” The idea comes to me just as quickly as it comes out of my mouth—the obvious answer to this question. The next move on the chess table. It’s so clear I’m shocked I didn’t suggest it earlier this week after the loss. “You date someone else.”
Luca
I don’tmeanto laugh at her, but Mom always used to say “When you can’t cry, laugh.”
“What?” I’m incredulous, shaking my head, looking down at the shit in my binder because that suggestion doesn’t make any sense.
“Date someone else,” Wren says again, nodding and starting to pace like she does any time an idea takes hold in her head.
This might be the first time one of her ideas is actually terrible.
“Let me get this straight.” I push my chair out from the table and follow her with my eyes, like I always do when she starts to pace. “You think, right in the middle of the season, right in the middle of mydivorce, right in the middle of this media frenzy—I shoulddate someone else?”
“Yes.” Wren grabs a whiteboard marker, turns to the board, starts to mark it up as she talks. First, she writes Mandy’s name then Christie Elle’s. “Here’s my theory—it’s kind of like a—like avacuum.”
“Like a vacuum,” I echo, watching as she draws lines and connects things on the board that don’t make any sense.
“Avacuum,” she repeats, a little frantic now, “because the mediaknowsMandy’s side of the story. They’ve seen her with Christie Elle and either drawn the conclusion that she’s cheating or that the two of you are separated—has she commented on that?”
“She can’t,” I say, crossing my arms. “Not according to our pre-nup, the NDA.”
“Okay.” Wren’s eyes dart to me for a second. I know the idea of having an NDA with your wife is a little weird, but it’s actually turning out to be useful right now. “So, anyway, there’s a lack of information here, and they’re all waiting for you to provide it. And you’re right—go to the press with a statement and it might be twisted or interpreted as more of a draw. But simply make a public appearance dating someone else, and you’re providing your own information. You’re moving your chess piece, bringing balance to the situation and filling the vacuum.”
I blink at her.
“Trust me.” She takes a step closer to me, triumphantly popping the cap back on her marker. My eyes are drawn to her hands, to the way she holds it, how she uses it to gesture at me. “Think about all the other times you doubted me. I’mrightabout this, Luca.”
“Okay,” I relent, exasperated. “So, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say what I need is to show up in public dating someone to make this thing die down.”
“To make this thing die down, and regain your mental balance so you don’t throw the rest of the season.”
“I’m not going to—” I stop, take a breath, continue with my original point. “Even if all that is true, where the hell am I supposed to findanothergirl who’s going to want to date me, but not really date me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone to put up the appearances of dating.”
“Luca—really?” Wren laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t you want your next relationship to be arealone?”
“I don’t havetimefor dating. Not unless that woman is interested in flying off places every other night, or hanging out around here in the arena. Any time I’m in public is either beforeor after a game, and we’ve got more away games coming up than home.”
Now, apparently, it’s Wren’s turn to laugh. “Are you serious? You’re seriously trying to sit there and tell me that you’re going to struggleto find a woman who wants to even just pretend to date a famous hockey player.”
“I’m not famous—”
“Luca,” she interjects, pointing in the general direction of the entrance where the paparazzi are no doubt still lined up outside. Unless security has finally managed to get them off the property. How those people manage to trespass so often is beyond me.
“Fine,” I relent. “But the other problem is that we wouldn’treallybe dating. I’d be using her. She would have to know that it was goingnowhere.”
