I slide one hand from her shoulder, up her neck, and curl it around to the back of her head. I see a flash of anger—maybe warning in her eyes—but I ignore it as I bring my mouth to hers.
Regan goes stiff as I press my lips against hers. I don’t graze. Instead, I take. I use the pressure of my hand to hold her in place, and with a tilt of my head, I kiss my wife.
My mouth locks onto hers and opens, forcing hers to do the same. I can feel her hand on my forearm, fingernails digging in, and I think I might get a knee to my nuts… but then she’s kissing me. Her arm winds up and around my neck, her mouth opens and her tongue slides against mine.
And, oh holy fuck is that good. A wave of euphoria washes over me. I lean my entire body into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Regan’s lower back. Her other arm locks around my neck as she holds on tight, and the kiss goes so deep I’m not sure I’ll be able to surface.
Another wave of warmth and satisfaction overtakes me. Everything just melts away. There’s nothing but Regan, her mouth, and her tongue, and just shoot me now… I’d die a happy man.
“Oh my,” I hear from what seems like far away. “That might be the best kiss I’ve ever seen in the thirty-two years I’ve been in this job.”
Regan jerks in my embrace, starting to pull away. My body doesn’t like that. I try to lean farther into her, willing that stupid voice I’d just heard to go away.
But then Regan’s hands are at my chest, and I open my eyes to find her staring at me with utter surprise. She gives a nervous laugh and pats at me. “Wow, honey… let’s save it for the honeymoon, okay?”
Honeymoon? Yes. Consummate the marriage. Sex with Regan. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Regan starts to push at me, just a little more insistently, and I blink several times as I return to awareness.
Shabby office with plastic chairs and a complete stranger watching me kiss Regan for no good reason. The first kiss I’d given her should have been sufficient.
Then why the hell do I want to kiss her again to try to outdo the last?
I release Regan so suddenly she almost falls. With a quick grab onto my arms, she manages to right herself. We both laugh over the awkwardness of it, and Anita joins us.
There’s no denying I’m out of sorts as Anita takes us through the last few moments of our time with her by packaging up our license before giving us congratulatory handshakes. I take Regan’s hand in mine, leading her out of the office door. There’s another young couple grinning at us as we exit. I’m guessing they witnessed that hot-as-fuck kiss through the paned window. Giving them a curt nod, I lead Regan out.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter as we start down the hallway to the elevator.
“Not a problem,” she replies, understanding I’m talking about that kiss.
I hold her hand all the way until I release it to stab the “down” button.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I could eat.”
“I know a great place not too far from here,” I advise as the elevator door opens. Smiling, Regan precedes me in.
And thus starts our life together as husband and wife.
CHAPTER 5
Dax
I’m a block from the arena. Normally, my head would be in game mode but it’s not.
It’s on Regan.
My new wife.
Christ, the last few days have been confusing. Yesterday, I got married. While I am convinced it was the right thing to help Regan out, I had not considered what it would mean in real life.
For example, I’d gotten an invitation from a few of the players to go out with them for some beers. I shouldn’t have thought twice about it, especially since my closest friends on the team were one by one falling into serious, monogamous relationships.
But it was complicated, and after I’d done some major back and forth in my brain, I declined. It just didn’t feel right to leave Regan all alone.
Not when she’d just moved here and was a guest in my home.
Not when she’d just married me.
Which brought up another complication I’d not considered. I’d recited vows to Regan—promised myself to her and her alone. Does that mean other women are off limits? Not that I’m big into dating, but I do like to fuck and will do so when the opportunity presents itself to my liking. Can I even ethically do that now?
Regardless, beers were out.
For now.
Today was spent in awkward avoidance of each other. Regan spent a lot of time in her room, but the few times I saw her come out, the conversation was stilted. I didn’t push anything, because I didn’t know what to say. I also figured things would smooth out eventually.
I did invite her to the game, though, as I thought it would be good for her to get out. She loves the sport. To my pleasant surprise, she said she’d love to go. I arranged a ticket for her to pick up at Will Call after suggesting she Uber to the arena since I had to leave so much earlier than she did. I even told her we’d go out with the team afterward to The Sneaky Saguaro to have a few beers so she could meet some of the others.
And Regan seemed happy and excited for our plans. Maybe that’s all we need—to get into a regular routine, cement our bonds of friendship while she’s staying in my home, and try to forget about this weird mess of a marriage we’d committed ourselves to. That wasn’t what was important.
The entrance to the player’s parking lot comes into view. I force my thoughts away from Regan. It’s time to start focusing on defeating our opponents tonight. I put my blinker on, but just as I’m starting to turn, I see a crowd of people standing around a truck that’s crashed into some concrete barriers outside the loading dock.
“What the fuck?” I mutter.
As I pull into the closest spot, I notice a few of the players and dock workers standing around. I exit my car, grab my game duffel, and hitch it over my shoulder.
As I approach, I see Baden Oullet, our backup goalie, examining the damage to the front of the truck. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“It’s Tacker’s truck,” he responds, and a chill races down my spine.
“What happened? Where is he?”
Baden nods toward the player’s entrance door. “We were told to enter through the dock area, but he’s right inside there. An ambulance has been called.”
I don’t respond, nor head toward the dock area, turning instead toward the player’s entrance and marching with resolve.
Throwing the door open, I immediately see Tacker sitting on the floor, propped against the cinderblock wall. Legend and Erik are standing off to the side with their heads angled in toward one another, talking in hushed voices. Bishop is squatted next to Tacker, who is staring ahead with a blank expression on his face. There’s a rivulet of blood running down his face, his wrist cradled against his chest.
“What the hell happened?” I demand.
Tacker doesn’t even acknowledge me, but Bishop rises from the floor with a grave expression. He starts walking down the hall, away from Tacker, and I follow.
When we reach the end, Bishop stops at the locker room door, turning to me. He’s my closest friend on the team. We were roommates and played together with the Vipers prior to coming here. Of course, that all changed since he got engaged to Brooke, but I couldn’t be happier for the guy.
Bishop leans in toward me, keeping his voice low so it doesn’t carry to Tacker. “Legend, Erik, and I were in the parking lot when it happened. Tacker pulled in, driving crazy. He fucking gunned his engine, didn’t slow down, and headed straight for that barrier.”
“Was it deliberate?” I ask, hoping Bishop isn’t implying what I think he is.
“I think so,” he murmurs. “And he’s fucking drunk off his ass.”
“Shit,” I mutter, casting a quick glance down the hall. Tacker hasn’t moved. Erik is now sitting on the floor next to him. “How bad is he hurt?”
“I don’t know. He was able to walk. Something’s wrong with his wrist, but no clue about internal injuries. We had no choice
but to call an ambulance.”
“Agreed,” I say with a clap to his shoulder. “Does Coach know yet?”
“I sent Demere to go find him right before you walked in.”
I grimace at Tacker. “He’s in so much fucking trouble.”
“He’s going to be arrested.”
Dropping my duffel to the ground, I ask the question that needs to be asked. No one is all that close to Tacker, but Bishop probably spends the most time with him. “Is he too far gone, dude?”
Scrubbing his hand over his face, Bishop lets out a sigh. “Fuck if I know. He asked me a few minutes ago how people could live with themselves knowing they killed someone. Apparently, it was MJ’s birthday today.”
MJ would be Tacker’s fiancée who was killed in a plane crash last year. There had been something wrong with the plane. Tacker was the pilot. It wasn’t his fault, but no one can tell him that. He’s been one quiet, moody, and disturbed son of a bitch since he started with this team. No one can seem to reach him or get him to open up. While he’s probably the best player in the league out on the ice, he has no camaraderie with anybody on the team. He’ll talk the mechanics of hockey with us all day long while on the ice, and he’ll be a supportive captain to his team. But outside of this arena, he’s pretty much closed off.
I had actually thought there might be hope as just last month, Tacker and I spent Christmas Eve with Legend, who had just had the surprise of his life by finding out he was a father. It’d been a low-key evening. Both Legend and I were surprised by how taken Tacker was with Charlie, the newborn baby girl who had just come into Legend’s life. I thought Tacker had finally been starting to settle in and become part of our family.
I thought he was starting to leave his pain and guilt behind.
I’m not thinking that now.
The door we’re standing beside opens, and Bishop and I both step back. Coach Perron walks out followed by one of the team trainers, Ronnie Nuss. He has an emergency first aid kit in his hand.
He brushes by Coach, then jogs down the hall to assist Tacker.
“What happened?” Coach asks Bishop.
In any other situation, Bishop might think to stretch the truth a little to make things seem a little more positive if it were possible, but there’s no sugarcoating this. Besides, Bishop’s fiancée, Brooke, just happens to be Coach Perron’s daughter, so there’s no way he’s going to lie to his future father-in-law.
“He’s drunk,” Bishop says.
Coach flinches while muttering a curse word.
Bishop finishes with, “He drove the truck into the barricade.”
“God Almighty,” Coach whispers with utter empathy. He’s just as aware of Tacker’s demons as we are, and while he’s a tough-as-nails son of a bitch as our coach, he cares for his players deeply.
We all focus on Tacker. With a fierceness I’ve never heard before, Coach Perron grits out, “This ends here. That man is getting professional help whether he likes it or not.”
Chills take hold of my body when he leaves Bishop and me to stride down the hall toward Tacker. We watch as he squats in front of his star player—the captain of our team. His hand goes to his shoulder and while we can’t hear what he’s saying, I imagine they’re appropriate words of comfort.
When the outer door opens, a Phoenix police officer followed by two paramedics enter.
This just fucking sucks.
“I’m going to go get my gear,” Bishop says wearily. “I’ll see you in the locker room.”
“Yeah, sure.” As I turn away from him, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Regan.
She answers just as I’m stepping into the locker room. “Hello.”
“Hey.” My voice sounds old and tired. Part of me is pissed Tacker is fucking up our team.
“What’s wrong?” she asks with clear concern in her tone. She’d apparently realized my mood from just from one word.
“Listen… it’s too much to explain right now, but our captain, Tacker Hall, he had a really bad accident just a few minutes ago. He’s being taken by ambulance to the hospital. I’m going to go straight there after the game, so we’re not going to be able to go out tonight.”
“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “And no worries. I can take care of myself, of course. I’ll just Uber back home. Do you still want me to come to the game?”
“Yes,” I blurt out. “Yes, of course. Please come and enjoy yourself. I’m just sorry I can’t do anything with you after. I expect the entire team will head to the hospital, assuming that’s where he’ll be.”
“Well, maybe you can head to his house if he’s discharged by then.”
Or the police station to bail him out, I think, but that’s not something to share with Regan right now.
“Dax?” Regan’s voice comes across softly, and still concerned. “Can I give you some advice?”
I jolt in surprise, at first not understanding why she feels the need to do so. Then I take stock of how I feel right in this moment. While I don’t pretend to understand how she knows it, I feel like shit.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Try to compartmentalize,” she tells me. “It’s futile for me to tell you not to worry, but at least try to compartmentalize it. Imagine putting that worry into a box. Lock it with a key… envision yourself doing that. Then shove it into a far corner of your mind. Nothing you can do to help Tacker right now. I’m sure he has good people taking care of him. But you have a job to do, so you need to free your mind to be the best damn hockey player you can be tonight. When the game is done, unlock the box and go see your friend.”
I suck in a breath through my nose, letting her words settle in. They’re surprisingly simple, yet impactful at the same time. They were also given without thought or effort, and I realize something.
“I’d bet a million dollars you’ve given that speech before,” I say as I walk toward my locker. Only a few other players are in here, but no one is talking and laughing, which means the news about Tacker has spread.
Regan returns a light laugh. “Same speech I gave to Lance after we got the call I had PNH. He was really upset and had a game. We had a heart-to-heart before he left the apartment. While not word for word, it was the same gist.”
“Did he follow your advice?” I ask.
“He tried. Didn’t turn out so well. One of the worst games he’d ever played.”
I laugh and Regan joins in, both a little lost in our memories about a man who’d been an amazing professional athlete, and yet had loved his sister so much it reduced him to a bumbling idiot on ice.
“I’ll try,” I promise. “It’s good advice.”
“That’s all you can do. Now… get your head in the game. I’ll be cheering you on.”
That feeling comes back. The one I experienced yesterday when we got married. Warmth and security. Regan will be cheering me on, and while she’s my wife in name only, the fact she’s doing it because it’s me means something.
I’m just not quite sure what.
CHAPTER 6
Regan
It’s almost midnight by the time I hear Dax’s car pull into the driveway. He’d insisted I park my car in the single garage when we’d arrived on Sunday. It’s stayed there minus a quick trip to the grocery store this morning. I figure I’ve got plenty of time to find my way around the Scottsdale/Phoenix area since I’m not going anywhere soon.
Dax had texted me after the game to tell me that he was headed to see Tacker with the rest of the team, since he’d been admitted. I’d informed him I was waiting on an Uber to take me home, so I’d see him later.
I was tired and should have gone to bed when I got here, but I was too worried about Dax. He’d played horribly tonight. But then again, so had the entire team. There’d been a buzz all around me where I’d sat in the arena, many people wondering why Tacker was on the “injured” list. I’d known—minor details, of course—but I never said a word. I just watched and yelled and screamed at the game, but in the end, I walked out
of the arena with all the other disappointed fans. We’d lost.
Dax’s key is in the lock. I stand from the couch where I’d been sitting, placing my half-empty cup of tea on the coffee table. He steps in looking exhausted. Despite that, he’s still amazingly gorgeous in the dark blue suit he’d left in today.
He blinks in surprise when he notices me. “What are you doing up?”
“I waited up for you. Wanted to see how Tacker was doing.”
Dax tosses his game duffel on a chair with a shake of his head. After he shuts the door, he turns the lock. “No clue. He refused to see anyone at the hospital.”
My brow furrows in confusion as I know a little about team camaraderie. “But why?”
Dax pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh. When he looks back at me, he says, “Tacker was drunk. He deliberately drove his truck into a concrete barricade.”
“What?” I gasp, dismayed at the way Dax’s shoulders droop with fatigue. “Wait a minute… sit on the couch and let me get you some tea. It will relax you.”
I get a naughty grin in return. He shakes his head as he moves over to the butler’s pantry that sits in a cubby between the living room and kitchen. “This is going to take liquor, not tea. Want a drink?”
“Sure,” I reply as I sit on the couch, nestling into the corner with my legs crossed Indian-style. Dax grabs a clear decanter of a dark liquid—presumably a bourbon—and grabs two glasses. He sits them on the table and while he shrugs out of his suit jacket and removes his tie, I take the liberty of pouring us each two fingers.
After he plops down on the other end of the couch and loosens the top two buttons of his dress shirt, I pass the glass to him. Giving me a wan smile, he clinks it against the edge of my glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I say, taking a tiny sip that immediately warms me. I’m not a big drinker, but I actually like a slow-sipping drink like straight bourbon or scotch.
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