Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

7. Maggie

7

MAGGIE

H ere I am in my cute-but-impractical outfit, wondering why on earth I agreed to this. I feel like a dork among the sea of hockey fans surrounding us. Emily stands beside me, scrolling her phone, as we wait in the hot sun outside the Blizzard Dome for the players to arrive.

“Remind me again why we’re standing here like groupies?” I grumble. “I could be home, elbow-deep in plaster.”

Emily chuckles. “It’s tradition. All the wives and girlfriends wait outside to show support. But, between you and me,” Emily leans in conspiratorially, “I think it’s really to show the fans which players are taken.”

I roll my eyes. “Great. We’re human ‘Do Not Touch’ signs.”

Emily pats my arm sympathetically. “Don’t worry, it’s just for this first game.”

I spot a couple of familiar faces across the line— bridesmaids from Emily’s wedding. We exchange waves, and I silently thank the hockey angels I’m not stuck next to them. I can only handle so much wife talk.

Although I’m less than thrilled to be here, I understand it’s all part of the role I signed up to play. Yesterday some jealous ex-fling took to social media and tried to convince her twenty followers that my marriage to Sawyer is fake. It didn’t get much traction, but it was enough to freak Sawyer’s agent the heck out, which in turn freaked Sawyer the heck out. So, here I am. At least I get to spend time with Emily for a while.

“So,” Emily says as she nudges me, “how’s life with Sawyer? All moved in?”

I shrug. “If by ‘moved in’ you mean I dumped my sad collection of possessions into his big house, then sure. I’m practically domesticated.”

I was pleasantly surprised to find that Sawyer’s house is, well, just a house. Not a mansion like Owen and Emily’s, and not a bachelor penthouse, like I’d imagined. It’s a nice, two-story, brick house in Rosedale, with white trim and a clean, manicured lawn. There are neatly trimmed topiaries lining the walkway, and a sturdy Canadian Maple tree stands majestically by the sidewalk, providing shade in the afternoon.

It’s not the typical home of a notorious playboy. Rosedale is the kind of neighborhood I’d always wished I could grow up in.

What I don’t mention to Emily, is how my art supplies have taken over half the house, and Sawyer’s housekeeper probably thinks a glitter bomb exploded in there. But hey, if Sawyer wanted a neat freak, he shouldn’t have asked me to move in. The housekeeper gives me the stink-eye every time she comes over. I’m pretty sure she’s plotting to murder me with the vacuum. Sorry for living, Linda.

“And?” Emily prompts, clearly fishing for more.

“And what? I have my own bedroom, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s not like we’re playing house.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Separate bedrooms? How very…1950s of you.”

Suddenly, a commotion erupts around us. The team’s arriving in their game day suits.

Emily grins. “Hockey players in suits and toques. Tell me you’re Canadian without telling me you’re Canadian.”

I snort. The weather isn’t even cold enough for toques.

“Here comes your man,” Emily whispers, nudging me before scurrying off to greet Owen.

Hot damn. I’ve seen Sawyer in a suit before, but this is next level. One hand in his pocket, he’s strutting like a casual billionaire walking to his private jet instead of into a hockey arena.

My brain short-circuits. He’s irritatingly handsome in his tailored suit and that ridiculous hat. He’s not even Canadian, yet he pulls it off.

Most of the players parade in, only pausing their stride to wave at fans, but Sawyer scans the crowd, landing his gaze on me. A slow, cocky grin spreads across his face as he saunters over.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his eyes traveling up and down my form-fitting dress. “Looks like someone didn’t get the jersey I left on her bed.”

I cross my arms. “Sorry, I must have missed that chapter in ‘Hockey Groupies for Dummies.’”

Sawyer leans in, his breath tickling my ear. “You look stunning, Magpie. But next time, wear the jersey.”

“I don’t do frumpy,” I hiss, but my traitorous heart does a little flip from the sensation of his hot breath on my skin. Damn you, Sawyer. Damn you and your stupidly handsome face. “And who says there’d be a next time?”

“There will be a next time.” He winks, then turns away laughing, leaving me flustered and annoyed.

I sigh, resigning myself to an evening of hockey-induced boredom. I should have brought a trashy romance novel. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed at halftime or whatever.

“Are you ready to go inside?” Emily chirps as she comes back from greeting Owen. “You can join me in the Zamboni office until it’s time to take our seats.”

“I still don’t understand why you continue to work here. Aren’t you tired after training all the time?”

Emily is a world-class figure skater and Olympian but was out of the scene for a while because her jerk of a pairs partner ruined it for her. When I met her, she didn’t think she’d ever compete again. Now she wakes up at O’dark thirty to train her buns off every day. To that I say, “Go girl.” And despite hitting the ice at an ungodly hour, she’s completely chipper the rest of the day. If I ever had to wake up that early, anyone within a three-block vicinity best hide in a bomb shelter until I’ve consumed enough coffee to launch the Space Shuttle.

“I like working here.” Emily slips her arm through mine to guide me into the employee entrance and pulls that scrunchy face she makes for no reason whatsoever. “I like being close to Owen. Besides, I cut my hours down a lot.”

We go down a long hallway that takes us deep into the bowels of the arena. I’d been here before with Emily, but never when it was this busy. I helped her pull some pranks on Owen that night by putting glittery stickers all over his locker—among other things. We didn’t like him back then.

Ah, the good ol’ days. I don’t remember there being so many corridors, and now I’m starting to rethink these shoes.

We get to the Zamboni office and Emily tucks her purse under the desk. My girl is way too trusting. She takes a moment to look at me from the toes up.

“Girl,” she says, tilting her head. “That dress is hella sexy. But…aren’t you a little cold?”

Yes, my dress is Lycra, extra clingy, and short. And maybe wearing spaghetti straps wasn’t the most practical idea. But it’s still relatively warm in Toronto this time of year, and I’m not ready to say goodbye to summer fashion. When I was getting dressed, I wasn’t thinking about how freezing it might be inside the arena. Also, I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d planned on going home after making that ridiculous appearance as a “hockey wife.”

“It’s not that cold in here,” I say. “Not any colder than a grocery store.”

“My dear, your tatas are winking at me. You can borrow my hoodie.”

Emily needs to be warm while she’s driving the Zamboni. I’m not about to take her hoodie.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m fine. I promise.”

She gives me the “I’m not convinced” side-eye then clocks in on the computer.

While we wait for game time, she takes me around and shows me what she does here. Then we go into a massive kitchen/dining area and steal some bottled smoothies. She’s quick to say that it’s not really stealing since both our husbands are players. I don’t see the logic there, but I guess it’s okay.

When the game is about to start, Emily escorts me to our seats. We’re in the front row, just behind the plexiglass. On the ice are a group of pretty girls dressed in cute red-and-black track suits and black hockey skates. They’re getting the crowd worked up, skating back and forth across the rink.

“Oh! The Spirit Squad is still on the ice,” Emily says excitedly. “I’m glad we didn’t miss it.”

“Are they like cheerleaders?”

“Um, more like a promotional team,” she explains. “They do choreographed dances to drum up excitement for the fans, shoot T-shirts out of cannons, promote the Titans at community events, that sort of stuff. And they help clean the ice surface during media time-outs which makes my job easier when I bring the big resurfacer out at intermission.”

“Well, I approve of their outfits,” I say.

“Are you sure I can’t bring you something warm to wear?” she asks, concerned. “There’s a gift shop…”

“I’m totally fine,” I say. “You better get back to work before they send your husband to come look for you.”

“The guys will be on the ice soon enough. You’ll get to see them do their stretches.” She winks.

“I dunno,” I say. “I might go stand in line for the bathroom for an hour.”

“You want to watch the stretching. Trust me. Anyway, I’m only resurfacing for the first break today,” she says. “Then I’ll come back and join you for the rest of the game. I’ll bring popcorn.”

Emily disappears, leaving me alone in the front row. I’m starting to regret my outfit choice as the chill of the arena seeps into my bones. But I’ll be damned if I admit it now. I fidget in my seat, feeling exposed without Emily as a buffer.

The Spirit Squad finishes their routine, skating off the ice to thunderous applause. I’m about to check my phone when the players emerge, pouring out like a pack of wolves.

And then there’s Sawyer. I watch him as he glides out, all grace and power.

Oh. My. Lawdy.

He starts his warm-up routine, and suddenly I’m very interested in the intricacies of on-ice stretching. The moves these guys are making. Is this even appropriate for children?

Sawyer catches my eye and winks, clearly aware of the effect he’s having. I try to look away, I really do. But it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion—if that train wreck had abs you could grate cheese on and thighs that could crush watermelons. Not that I’ve ever seen his abs—only felt them with my fingers. I flush at the thought.

Sawyer does some kind of hip flex move on all fours, staring straight at me.

Smug son of a gun.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. I narrow my eyes at him, trying to convey ‘I hate you’ through sheer force of will. He responds by stretching even more provocatively. He truly is quite flexible.

I thought the suit parade was bad, but this? This is torture. This kind of unholy groin stretching should be illegal in at least forty-nine states. And Canada. Definitely Canada.

When the game starts, I find myself leaning forward, eyes glued to number eleven. I mean, there’s not much else to do, so I might as well watch in case there’s a quiz after.

Sawyer is very confident out there. Sure, he peacocks for the fans, but when the puck drops, he’s insanely focused. He’s a battle tank in motion, wearing knife shoes, weaving between opponents like he’s dancing. He’s surprisingly agile for such a big guy and clearly an asset for the team. Owen and Hendrix are out there with him. The way they effortlessly slice around the rink in loopy formation, passing the puck between themselves, you’d think they had some kind of triplet telepathy.

During a media break, Sawyer skates toward me with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. He turns his back to the glass, slamming against it. The name “O’MALLEY” stretches across his broad shoulders. But then he turns his head over his shoulder and points from his name on the jersey to me, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Real subtle, Sawyer. Why don’t you just pee on my leg while you’re at it?

I shake my head vehemently, mouthing “Not happening” at him.

He just grins wider, blowing me a kiss before skating away. The nerve of this man, I swear.

A few minutes later, a brunette beauty in a Spirit Squad uniform approaches me, holding a folded jersey. “Excuse me, are you Maggie?”

I nod, eyeing the jersey suspiciously.

“Sawyer wanted me to give you this,” she says with a megawatt smile. “He insists you put it on right away.”

“Did he now?” I take the jersey, not wanting to be rude. “I love your hair.”

“Thanks. Oh, and congratulations on your marriage!” she chirps before bouncing away.

I stare at the jersey in my hands, debating whether to put it on or use it to strangle Sawyer at the next opportunity. However, I’m freezing my nipples off in this dress, so I slip the jersey over my head. It’s way too big, hanging off one shoulder like I’m auditioning for an 80s music video. But it’s warm, and it smells like Sawyer even though I’m sure it’s been washed since he last wore it.

The first intermission rolls around, and Emily comes out, driving the Zamboni. That machine is so huge, she looks comically tiny on top of it. The crowd loves her, though. I wonder if she ever gets the urge to do donuts out there.

Twenty minutes later, she plops down next to me, bearing a massive bucket of popcorn and two sodas. “Miss me?”

“Always.”

“So,” Emily says, eyeing my new attire. “I see you’ve embraced the jersey life.”

I tug at the oversized fabric. “More like I was freezing my tatas off. Sawyer’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“You love it,” she teases, tossing a kernel into her mouth.

“Love that he’s annoyingly persistent?”

“Or that he’s concerned for your comfort.”

“I think he just wants everyone to know he’s got a wife. You know…for the charade.” But even as the words fall from my lips, I know this marriage sham is more than fixing his PR nightmare. He’s like a dog guarding his toys, and I’m not sure if that makes me want to smack him or…well, never mind.

“Speaking of the devil…” Emily nods towards the ice.

I look up to see Sawyer skating over in all his sweaty, hockey-padded glory. His eyes lock onto me like a heat-seeking missile, and he comes to a stop right in front of our seats. He pounds on the plexiglass, the brute. That makes the fans around us go a little nuts taking photos with their phones.

“Turn around,” he mouths, twirling his finger.

I give him a hard look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures for me to turn around, clearly wanting to admire his name on my back like the narcissist he is.

“What, you want to make sure I’m wearing your name like a good little hockey wife?” I call out, knowing he can’t hear me well through the glass and with all the noise around us, but enjoying the sass anyway.

He nods slowly, a sideways grin forming on his mouth.

“Fine,” I huff, standing up and doing a slow spin. “Happy now?”

Apparently not, because he’s now pointing at his left hand, then at me.

Oh, for the love!

“You like my manicure?” I quip, wiggling the fingers of my right hand.

He raises an eyebrow, challenge written all over his stupidly handsome face, tapping his ring finger insistently.

“See what I mean?” I say to Emily. “He’s all about the performance.”

She just shrugs.

Narrowing my glare at him, I lift my left hand, ring finger extended proudly in what could easily be mistaken for a certain rude gesture.

Sawyer’s laugh booms even through the glass. I’m married to a man-child.

He blows me an exaggerated kiss, beaming like he’s just won the Stanley Cup, then skates backward, shooting me a triumphant grin as he takes center ice.

Show-off.

I stick my tongue out at him but instantly regret it when he wags his brows suggestively, mouthing the words, “Later…wife.”