The Husband Game: An Arranged Marriage Romance

by Penny Wylder

  “Ask you what?”

  “Anything you want. Anything you think will be good for your article.”

  I hum a little, thinking. “What’s your major?”

  He laughs. “All the questions you could come up with, and that’s the one you think will bare my soul?”

  “I don’t know!” I reach over to bat his shoulder lightly, playful. He catches my hand and turns it over, palm up, to plant a kiss in the center of my palm. It sends tingles rushing down my arm, all the way up to my shoulder. “What should I ask, then?”

  “No, no. You picked your question already.” His eyes spark with mirth, before he turns back to the road. “Electrical engineering.” My eyebrows shoot up. I must look surprised, because he side-eyes me again. “What, you think jocks can’t have tough majors?” He winks. “Look, I’m good enough at hockey to get a full ride to college. But I’ve got no disillusions. I could play minor leagues at best; I’m no budding NHL star. So, I figured might as well use that full ride to best advantage. Choose a smart career move, something that I enjoy, that’ll be steady once my hockey career winds down.”

  “That’s smart,” I say. A lot smarter than I was with my major. Who decides to choose a journalism major in today’s climate?

  “I like to think so.” Charlie grins. “My turn now.”

  “Your turn for what?” I glance back, smirking.

  “To ask a question.” He studies my face, in between making another turn, toward his apartment and not mine, I can’t help but notice.

  “Is that the game we’re playing?”

  “It is now. And you’d better stop asking things, or I’m going to start counting those as your questions.”

  I laugh, but I do stop talking. My face tingles, because I can feel him looking at me hard, studying me. Or maybe just because I’m feeling a little nervous, exposed. What’s he going to ask me?

  “Why did you stop painting?”

  “What?” Whatever question I expected, it wasn’t this one.

  “You’re good. I saw the painting you were working on outside the engineering building. Even if you claimed it was crappy, just a draft. You’ve got talent, Lila.”

  “Not real talent.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Some people would say I don’t have real hockey talent, because I wasn’t scouted for the NHL fresh out of high school. But that doesn’t mean the game doesn’t give me pleasure, add something tangible to my life. So why did you really stop painting?”

  I turn away from him to gaze out the passenger side window instead. But it doesn’t help. It’s dark outside, and I can still see his face in the reflection. Every angle, from his sharp cheekbones and jawline to the hook of his nose. It makes me want to turn around and run my fingertips over those angles. To lean in and kiss the frown line from his brow.

  But I force myself to think. Because really… I’ve never thought about why I stopped. “I guess… life got hectic. My job got more demanding. I wanted to make writing work, as my main career, so I just…” I shake myself a little bit. “I stopped creating, in that way.”

  “Do you miss it?” he asks, his voice careful and quiet in the hushed car.

  But I’m not about to fall for that. I turn back to him, clicking my tongue. “That’s a second question. It’s my turn first.”

  He laughs, but his eyes flash, white hot, fixed on mine, dancing with approval. “Now you’re getting it.”

  I need a better question this time. A real one. One that will really make him think. One whose answer I can use in my article, I try to remind myself, but that Lila is a distant voice in the back of my head now. The Lila who signed up to do this for my career, who is job-focused and job-focused only… She’s not in this car anymore. She’s not ensconced in this little bubble, sharing space with the first man in a long, long time who’s made me laugh until I’m breathless, come until I’m screaming… Or who’s been able to ask me questions I don’t see coming.

  “If you could have one do-over, for something in your past, what would it be?”

  He makes a little hmm sound, a throaty noise that nearly undoes me. But he’s smiling, still. “Good one,” he admits, daring a glance my way. Then he falls silent once more, thinking. “It’s tricky, because I really don’t believe in regret. Or, I try not to. I think it’s a pointless emotion—the only way you can move is forward, so why waste the energy looking behind? But… if I’m honest.” His hands tighten on the wheel. “I do regret not punching Tyler when I caught him harassing you.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “Really? That’s your biggest regret.”

  “It’s fast becoming it, yes.” His eyes find mine again and linger this time. “I don’t like the idea of anyone hurting you, Lila. I like even less the idea that I let him get away with it.”

  Something warm and hot unfurls inside my belly. Heart in my throat, I reach out to rest my hand over the back of Charlie’s, right on the gear shift. His skin feels warm beneath mine. When I loop one finger around his wrist, I can feel his pulse, butterfly-fast, along the underside. “He didn’t hurt me,” I murmur, because it’s true. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten all about the incident by now. Because that kind of shit happens all the time, and I’m used to brushing it off. “But thank you. It’s nice to hear you say that.”

  Because I’ve never had a guy say something like this before. Talk about protecting me, defending me. It sucks that he has to, but… it’s still nice that he wants to. I didn’t expect that.

  If I’m honest, I didn’t expect any of this. Charlie Cross hit me out of nowhere, completely blindsided me.

  And I have a feeling that, when all is said and done, and when my articles are completed… I’m going to have a lot harder time walking away from this than I once thought.

  9

  Four days in, and so far the experiment is proving to be a success, at least as far as Fiona is concerned. “Have you seen the hits that first article is getting?” she keeps declaring every time I stop by the office, making me come over to her desk and physically look at the tracking results on the screen, even though I could check from my own computer just as easily.

  But I haven’t. I don’t want to. Something about it has started to feel weird. I wrote about our first date (the PG-13 version, anyway, so heavily edited), then the way he dropped me off at my place after (omitting the fact that I did in fact spend the night at his before he dropped me off the next morning). I wrote about how we met up for breakfast another day, and traded childhood stories over coffee and croissants—well, croissants for me, and a heap of protein for Charlie, because, training regime.

  Apparently the story struck a nerve. People were all about reading the intimate details of a “traditional” relationship. So many people were leaving comments talking about how romantic it sounded, how they wished they could find a guy like this, start a love story like this.

  It makes my coffee curdle in my stomach, now, to think about it. Because I know what’s coming. I know this whole article series is just a set-up to a disastrous end that will leave people angry, heartbroken. Or maybe just impressed at my writing, I don’t know.

  Not for the first time, though, I wonder if this is really a good idea. Or if I just let Fi talk me into it because I’m scared of the alternative. Scared of not having anything catchy to write about at the moment, so my name and my work will fall into obscurity.

  But is that worth going through this? Is that worth getting so close to Charlie only to have to blow it all up soon?

  I don’t know the answer.

  I should probably figure it out, I keep telling myself. Especially tonight, our first long weekend together, as I dress to go to his big Friday night hockey game. Apparently they’re playing a big rival team, so tonight’s game should be well attended, a packed stadium full of—well, Charlie’s classmates. Other students. Other girls, girls closer to his age and sharing his classes, who I’m sure all have eyes for their team’s hot starter.

  Charlie may downplay h
ow good he is, but I’ve looked him up over the past couple of days—mostly whenever I needed to link to articles about him in the student paper from my own article, with his permission of course. He’s the co-captain of the team, and their lead center. The other captain is the goalie, and the only other player on the team with a better rating than Charlie. Granted, their team isn’t the best out of the college league they’re in, but they’ve been playing a stellar season. Some of the articles I’ve seen predict that they might pull a come-from-behind move this season and wind up as a surprise playoff contender.

  Tonight’s game will help determine that. If they win tonight, it puts them one step closer to the playoffs, to glory.

  My stomach ties itself in knots, I’m so fucking nervous. Because tonight will also be the first night we’re stepping out in public together since the articles launched. At least in a big way. We’ve gone to coffee shops, bars, little restaurants in his neighborhood or mine, where the owners already know one of us.

  But we haven’t met each other’s friends yet. We haven’t gone together to a big event. We haven’t gone somewhere like this: to a hockey game where he’ll be on the ice, the center of everyone’s attention, and I’ll be the girl right behind the team bench, cheering him on. The girl he’ll obviously be with.

  What if he changes his mind? What if he doesn’t want to be so public about our relationship?

  I have to keep reminding myself, this isn’t a real relationship. None of the feelings I’m having right now are real. It’s all a game, designed to get Fiona more clicks on her website, and me more notoriety as a down-to-earth real-world romance chronicler.

  Somehow, the reminder does nothing to help calm the churn in my gut as I tug on the sweatshirt that Charlie loaned me, a school hoodie with the logo of the hockey team sprawled across the front.

  It still smells like him. I pause for a moment in front of my mirror, lifting it to my nose to breathe him in. Only then does the churn in my stomach settle, and my body relax, ever so slightly. Because this, at least, is familiar. He has become familiar, a comforting presence in my life. Over the past few days, we’ve opened up to one another more, to the point where I feel like I can talk to him about anything: about my worries about my career, my dreams of how I’ll make it big someday, my fears about what will happen if I can’t write a break out article, something that really goes viral.

  And in turn, he shares with me. His dreams of the future, playing hockey until he can’t anymore and then starting his own company, something in tech. Maybe a sports tracking app to help people follow their favorite teams. He hasn’t decided exactly, yet, but I love that he dreams so big, and that he never seems scared to weave all his dreams together.

  He wants it all. And it inspires me. Because it makes me think that maybe, someday, I can have it all too. Or at least reach for it, because what’s the harm in trying?

  “Hair up or down?” I ask my reflection. The girl in the mirror looks like my younger self, almost college-ready, in this hoodie. With a grin, I tug my hair up into a high ponytail, fluff up the waves a bit, and add a little streak of black under one eye in solidarity for the team.

  Then I grab my purse and head out the door. I already have the route to the stadium memorized—I did go to Hartford after all, once upon a time, and the campus hasn’t changed that much in the few years since my graduation. I park in the lot, which seems way more crowded than I ever remember seeing it for hockey games. Normally we’re a big football town, but recently our football team has been performing a little bit worse, and our hockey team a lot better. Maybe the crowd is shifting too, following the success.

  Great, just what we need, I think as I park the car and wrap my college scarf even more tightly around my neck. More witnesses.

  When I pull open the doors to the stadium, a gust of cool air hits me, followed by a familiar smell. Air con and ice and sweat. Unable to help myself, my eyes fly straight to the ice, to our boys warming-up on it. I watch them run through shooting drills.

  It’s easy to pick out Charlie. He’s taller than most of the team, and as broad as some of their big defenders. Unusual for a center, he told me last night, when we were lying in bed and he was talking me through what to expect at this game. I’ve watched hockey before, of course—you don’t grow up in New England without at least seeing a few games. But until I talked to Charlie, I never really thought about how much strategy goes into the game, into the placement of the individuals on the ice, and the job each of them have to do in order to keep the team a well-oiled scoring machine.

  I can’t lie. Mixed up with all my nerves, there’s a bit of excitement too. I’m eager to see him on the ice, to watch him perform in his natural element. I want to see what he can do. I want to see if he’s as good as he claims he is—or if, like I suspect, he’s a bit better than he thinks.

  Plus, sporting events are just fun. Especially hockey, which is such a fast-paced, physical sport.

  The physicality of it grows more obvious as I descend the stands toward the ice, to the seat I can already see that Charlie has reserved for me by draping a big Hartford flag over the back of it, with my initial in the center.

  There are already a few people here, despite the fact that the game won’t officially begin for another fifteen minutes or so. More people, I can tell from the direction the faint roar of noise comes from, are outside in the hallway near the bar, pregaming.

  But I take advantage of the relatively empty stadium to slide into my seat with only a few witnesses. Still, even those people shoot me curious sideways looks—this older girl arriving alone, seating herself right behind the team bench, in a seat clearly reserved by a player. I can practically feel their questions bouncing off me. Who is that? Does anyone recognize her? Does she go here?

  I settle into the seat and adjust my scarf, trying my best to blend in.

  That’s all ruined when, about five minutes later, Charlie spots me and skates right over to the bench, waving both arms like a goof. By now, more people have filed into the arena, all chattering and talking, drinks in hand, voices echoing in the cavernous space.

  “Lila! You made it.” I see Charlie’s lips move more than hear what he’s saying—his voice is a faint sound among the din. Then he blows me a kiss.

  My cheeks flush bright red, but I mime catching it and pressing it to my heart. “Of course,” I shout back, even though I’m not sure he can hear me at all.

  I definitely catch even more people looking at me now. Girls elbowing one another and whispering, eyes fixed on me. Clusters of people all shrugging at one another as if to say, no idea who she could be.

  Nobody, I want to tell them. Nothing to see here. Everyone please just return to your regularly scheduled fan cheering.

  But unfortunately, if I do my job right, they’ll all know who I am soon. That’s the point, after all, right? To get more readers, more fans, more people following this relationship and invested in it. Before we bring it all crashing down.

  I breathe in the ice-tinted air, trying to clear my head. It’s going to be okay.

  Luckily, once the other team skates up to face off against ours, and we all rise for the national anthem, I have something to distract me.

  And when the puck drops, I forget all about my worries in the first place. Because wow.

  Charlie dominates the ice. He skates faster than anyone else on his team, whizzing from one end to the other. I can’t keep my eyes off him, and I track his path back and forth, as he moves from helping to defend his goal one moment to skating across the blue line and racing into enemy territory the next.

  The other team is talented too, I can tell. They match each of Charlie’s shots, and never leave him open for long. They have one particularly big bruiser who never even touches the puck—his only job seems to be to trail Charlie like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, never letting the puck reach Charlie’s stick if he can help it.

  But Charlie doesn’t let that stop him.

  Eventually there
are five minutes left in the first period, and one man short, thanks to a bullshit penalty call if you ask me—the ref claims one of our guys tripped the other one, but even from my seat all the way off to the side of the ice, you could totally tell their guy was faking it, falling exaggeratedly over our guy’s stick when our guy didn’t even move an inch toward him.

  That’s when Charlie gets hold of the puck at center ice. He takes off, instead of playing defensive and just dumping it into the enemy zone. He speeds straight toward the net, toward their defenders. He fakes right, and one defender peels off, trying to deflect a shot that never comes, because Charlie still has the puck. He whirls around the second defender, fires off a backhanded shot, and…

  “GOAL!” the announcer shrieks, and then everyone is on their feet, jumping, shouting, screaming.

  I leap up right along with them, shouting Charlie’s name. Some guy I don’t know high-fives me, and a girl in the stands behind me gives me a hug from behind. I’m laughing, cheering.

  The attitude in the arena changes after that.

  So does our team’s skating. Unless I’m much mistaken, they seem to move faster, complete more passes, dodge more attacks. By the end of the first period, we haven’t let a single goal in, and my adrenaline is pumping hard as we roll into a period break. Charlie waves at me from the ice, gesturing. I don’t quite understand, until the girl who hugged me in the stands earlier taps me on the shoulder.

  “He wants you to meet him at the locker room,” she explains. Then she offers a hand. “Anna, by the way. If you want to walk over together, I’m headed that way. Pat’s my boyfriend.” She points at one of the defensemen, who’s waving in her direction and beaming. “A bunch of the guys meet their dates between periods. Supposed to be good luck if we give them a kiss.” She grins at me.

  “Oh. Sure,” I tell her, my face flushing. Because for a second, I forgot what I was doing here. I forgot that Charlie wasn’t really my… well, anything.

  Before I know it, I’m following Anna out of the stands, weaving through the press of the crowd and up the stadium seats, down a long hallway, past a security guard who looks like he’d rather keep playing Angry Birds on his phone than give any kind of a damn who comes back here anyway, and the next thing I know we’re standing outside a closed door that positively reeks of men. Body odor, sweat, adrenaline. And a whole lot of Axe Body Spray.