Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

11. Sawyer

11

SAWYER

I slam into the boards, my mind a million miles away from the ice. The Cleveland Monsters’ defenseman gives me a shove, but I barely register it. All I can think about is Maggie and those damn flowers. I know I shouldn’t still be stewing over it after all these days, but that was just the first of several little things this week—like how she fished my dirty underwear out of my hamper, then put them in my truck’s glove box. Or how she covered my toilet seat in Vaseline Admittedly, the worst part was Maggie giving me the cold shoulder.

“O’Malley! Get your head in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench.

I shake my head, trying to focus. But it’s no use. Every time I close my eyes, I see that text message. ‘Thank you for the beautiful flowers, husband.’ Who the hell sent my wife flowers?

Pushing that thought down, I skate away from the boards, my blades cutting into the ice. Cleveland’s defense is tough tonight, but I’m tougher. Or at least, I should be.

As I chase after the puck, Hendrix appears out of nowhere, stealing it from a Cleveland player. “Sawyer! Heads up!”

“Yo!” I cry out. I had it. But Hendrix maneuvers Cleveland’s defense, weaving between them, and sends the puck to Owen, who scores a goal.

A moment later, Hendrix skates over to me and claps me on the shoulder. “You’re distracted, man.”

He’s not wrong, but I’m not going to admit it here in the middle of a game.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period. As we skate off the ice, Owen catches up to me, staying with me as we put on our blade guards and take the corridor to the locker room.

“What’s going on man? Everything okay?”

“Yep. Everything’s just…great.”

“Your head’s not in the game tonight. Where are you?”

“Back home,” Hendrix says, running to catch up to us. “With his smoking hot wife.”

“Shut it,” I snap, but there’s no real heat behind it.

We go into the locker room for a quick break and wait for a pep talk from the coaches. Owen tosses me a water bottle. “Seriously, man. What’s going on?”

Griffin chimes in from across the room. “Trouble in paradise already? That was quick.”

I sigh, catching the bottle. “Maggie got flowers the other day…with a frickin little love note. Except, I didn’t send them.”

The guys exchange glances. Hendrix whistles low. “Ooh, plot twist. You think she’s got a secret admirer?”

“Or she’s messing with you,” Griffin suggests. “That woman’s got a wicked sense of humor.”

I hadn’t considered that. It does sound like something Maggie would do. Or, it might be one of my dad’s enemies. My insides twist with worry at the thought.

“I could ask Emily,” Owen offers. “Ya know, just poke around, see if I can pick up some hints?”

“You need to track her, dude,” Hendrix says. “Get one of those apps.”

“I’m not going to track my wife,” I say, “She’ll consider that a violation of her privacy.”

“I track Emily,” Owen says. “And she tracks me. It’s no big deal.”

“Have you met Maggie? She’d bite my head off just for suggesting it.”

Owen nods. “True.”

“Has she been acting weird lately?” Griffin asks. “Mood swings, anything like that?”

“Her whole vibe is a mood swing,” Hendrix quips.

“I swear you better shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” I grit out through my teeth. “That’s. My. wife.”

My fake wife. Who hates me. The ice queen who gives me the cold shoulder every chance she gets, yet her presence alone makes the house feel warmer. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve finally got the family life I always wanted, and it’s with a woman who can barely stand me.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, okay.” Hendrix lifts up hands. “I was only joking.”

“Just give her time,” Owen says, wiping the sweat off his neck with a towel. “It’s a huge adjustment for her. And as for the flowers. Why don’t you just straight up ask her?”

I slump my shoulders. “She’ll probably just lie about it.”

I should be used to people lying to me by now. My dad, my mom…like how Uncle Whitey isn’t really my uncle, and how Dad’s accounting business isn’t about filing people’s taxes.

“Catch her in another lie first,” Griffin suggests. “Something small. Incidental…like if she ate the last Twinkie. Girls never want to admit stuff like that. That way you can learn her ‘tells,’ and then you will know if she’s telling the truth about the big things.”

“Sounds like an awful lot of work just to get information about flowers,” Hendrix muses.

Griffin shrugs. “Love is a long game.”

Hendrix leans in, a knowing smirk on his face. “Remember when away games were all about hitting the town and picking up chicks? Now look at you.”

True. I used to live for away games. New city, new adventures, new…companionship. But also, the roar of a hostile crowd, the post-game celebrations that often stretched into the early hours. But now? Now I just want to go home. To Maggie. My fake wife who’s slowly becoming my real obsession.

Coach Knight’s voice booms through the locker room, calling us for the pre-third period pep talk. “All right, boys! Huddle up!”

I should be there, soaking up every word of strategy. Instead, I catch Owen’s eye and jerk my head toward the door. “Bathroom,” I mutter. “I need a minute solo.”

I slip out before anyone can question me. In the quiet of the hallway, I pull out my phone. My thumbs hover over the screen for a moment before I start typing. What do I even say? ‘Hey, wifey, miss your scowling face’? I shake my head, opting for something less likely to get me castrated over text.

Me: There’s $5000 in the safe. Combination is our wedding date. The real one, not the BS we fed the media. ;) Buy yourself something pretty. Anything you want.

I hit send before I can overthink it. Maggie is gorgeous, and she knows how to rock a skirt. But when I think of how she only brought one small suitcase of clothes when she moved in, I just want to treat her. To fill that walk-in closet with beautiful clothes.

Knowing Maggie, she’ll probably blow it all on shoes. The woman’s got more footwear than Imelda Marcos. But if it makes her happy…

Part of me wants to add more. To ask about the flowers, to demand answers. But I know better. Maggie’s not the type to spill her secrets over text. Plus, I’ve got a game to finish.

“O’Malley! Get your ass back here!” Coach’s voice echoes through the locker room.

“Coming, Coach!”

But as I jog back to join the team, all I can think about is getting home to my beautiful, infuriating, absolutely perfect fake wife. The woman who has my heart in a chokehold. The woman whose defense mechanism clicked into place, like shutters on a window, the second I hurt her.

Back on the ice, my mind is laser-focused on the game now. The score’s tied, and we need this win like we need air. The crowd’s roaring, a deafening mix of cheers and jeers that I’ve learned to tune out.

Owen wins the face-off, sending the puck my way. Sticks clash against mine, but I snag it, weaving between two Cleveland players like they’re standing still. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Hendrix open on the left wing.

“Hendrix!” I shout, passing the puck his way.

He catches it smoothly, skating toward the goal. The Cleveland defense closes in, but Hendrix is too quick. He fires off a shot, but their goalie blocks it effortlessly, sending it ricocheting off to the side. I race after it, my skates carving into the ice.

I snag the puck, feeling the satisfying thud as it connects with my stick. I'm moving fast, dodging checks left and right. Cleveland’s defense is closing in, but I spot a gap.

“Sawyer!” Hendrix yells, wide open on my left.

I fake a pass to him, drawing their goalie’s attention. Then, in a split second, I shoot.

The puck whistles through the air, but their goalie manages to get a piece of it. It deflects high, arcing over the net and disappearing from view.

The crowd groans. I grit my teeth, circling back to our zone.

Cleveland gains possession, pushing hard toward our net. Griffin’s on high alert, crouched and ready.

That’s when things get weird.

Their center fires a slap shot, putting all his energy into it. The puck flies toward Griffin, fast and low. He blocks it, but it ricochets off his pads. We all hold our breath, waiting for the telltale sound of rubber hitting the crossbar.

But it never comes.

Griffin spins around, searching for the puck. “Where’d it go?”

“Behind you!” I yell, but my voice is lost in the cacophony of the arena.

Griffin backs up, still scanning the ice. He takes another step back. And then, in slow motion, I watch as he inadvertently slides backwards into the net. The ref’s whistle blows, and I feel my stomach drop.

The crowd goes wild.

What. The…

Griffin looks bewildered then horrified as he realizes what’s happened. The ref skates over, peering at Griffin’s back. And there it is—the puck, nestled in the folds of his jersey like a demented Easter egg.

“Own goal!” the ref calls out. The crowd erupts in a mix of cheers and boos.

The puck seriously landed in the back folds of his jersey, and he’d just backed into his own net, scoring for the other team. The scoreboard changes, putting Cleveland up by one. Griffin’s shoulders slump as he fishes the puck out of his jersey.

Coach Knight is losing it on the bench, his face redder than our jerseys. We’re down by one now, with less than ten minutes left in the game.

I skate over to Griffin, patting him on the back. He looks like he’s been slapped with a fish. “I…don’t know what happened. I didn’t feel it.”

‘Shake it off, Griff,” Owen says, rallying us to get back into position. “We’ve got this.”

“Hey, it happens,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ve still got time. Let’s get it back.”

But as I look at the clock, I know we’re in trouble. It’s going to take a miracle to pull this one out of the fire.