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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Katie Bailey
Read between
December 22 - December 23, 2024
But now that a hockey team has given me a job, I am alllll about hockey. Miss Number One Hockey Fan over here. I’m super interested in all things pucks and sticks and slapshots and wrist shots and… why are all hockey terms so innuendo-laden?! Michael Scott would have a that’s what she said field day with this sport.
But the first thing that springs to mind as I stare at the woman in the men’s bathroom—who’s scrubbing her hands while sporting raw, red, teary eyes—is that scene in Macbeth where Lady Macbeth goes off the rails.
But apparently, I really am a dumb jock. Because instead, I blurt, “You missed a spot on your pants!” Then, like the gentleman and scholar that I am, I turn on my heel and bolt, and the bathroom door slams closed behind me.
Now that I’m (mostly) certain that the girl’s sane,
“We are sensitive souls under all our muscle and bruises,” I continue. “Sensitive souls who binge-watch cookie shows. While eating cookie dough.” “To be honest, that just sounds like you have PMS.” “I believe the term you’re looking for is IMS—Irritable Male Syndrome.”
“Absolutely not. She came by to drop off a bunch of supplements and self-help books for single ladies for you.” “What?!” I demand. “What did you do with them?” “Threw ‘em all in the trash.” “I knew you were my favorite family member.” “And you’re the only family member I tolerate.”
On the flight out here, she sat with one of the physios, Georgia,
YAY PT
“I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.” “Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile. “Yeah?” “Shut the hell up about potatoes.” “But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” Triple J puffs out his chest and glowers at our teammate. “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.” Jake Griswold, another of our stellar defensemen, takes a seat on the bench next to Dallas, rolling his eyes. “Binge-watching Collin
...more
The bartender nods at me a tad stiffly. I think it’s because I tried to be suave and slide him a folded twenty across the bar to keep ‘em coming, but my money turned out to be an old stick of gum from the bottom of my purse.
Maddie slurps through her straw. “Bummer, dude.” I smirk at her word choice. “Something like that.”
“You’re nicer than I thought you’d be,” she says. “And you’re saner than I thought you’d be.” This makes her smile turn wicked. “You mean, when you found me lurking in the men’s restroom like a lavatory Gollum and then ran away like a little hobbit?” I sit up to my full height and loom over her. “Hey. Who you calling little?”
“I might’ve looked crazy, but you have, like, a foot and a hundred pounds on me. What was I going to do, bludgeon you to death with a toilet plunger?” This girl, I tell you.
Oh, jeez. I’m at that handsy point of drunk, aren’t I? You know, when you have one too many and suddenly feel the need to invade other peoples’ personal space? Yeesh.
“Ewww, you’re right. Yuck, yuck, yuck.” I flap my hands and grimace. “That’ll teach me for ordering nipples.” “Nipples?” “Don’t say nipples.” “You said it first.” “Yeah, but it sounds obscene coming from your mouth.”
“Maddie, I have an idea. A crazy one.” “I like crazy.” “I know. Hence why I’m asking you.”
“Are you looking for a Good Samaritan project for Christmas or something?” Seb frowns, then leans forward and puts a big hand on each of my arms. “You are not a charity case, Maddie.”
“Sorry, sorry. I think I’m horribly mistaken. Because I’m pretty sure I just heard you say that we should get married.” “Temporarily.” “How drunk are you, exactly?” I demand. “Very,” he replies.
“And if he’s as big a hockey fan as you say he is, Eugene would freak,” Seb adds. “Who?” “I don’t know your ex’s name, so I called him Eugene in my head.”
“I can’t remember what he looks like from the show, but I’m imagining a bald spot. And that he smells like deli meat.” I cackle harder. “Are you trying to butter me up? Because it’s working. To the point where I feel like this might actually be a good idea.”
Seb chucks my chin. “Have you forgotten where we are?” “Oh my gosh!” I squeal, almost sliding off my stool again. “We’re in Vegas, baby!”
And she’s not a madwoman, I’m pretty sure. Despite her restroom-lurking tendencies and her very specific stalker knowledge, she’s… nice. Funny. Hot. Not that I should be thinking like that. The last thing I need right now is to find my new wife—who looked strangely alluring in her bedsheet-toga wedding dress last night—attractive. Which is a very weird thought altogether.
“Okay. In my defense, I was drunk.” It’s a poor defense, at best, and I’m aware I must sound like an idiot right now. “Oh, good Lord. Was she drunk?” “Yeah… but don’t worry, nothing happened.” “I wasn’t even worrying about that until you said it!”
How do I say that I woke up this morning feeling like death warmed up, sprawled out on one side of a California King bed, while my new freaking bride snored softly on the other, a piece of cheese pizza bent over her neck like a scarf?
The two of us running around Vegas like a pair of absolute lunatics because Maddie wanted something old, new, borrowed and blue to make it “official.”
And then, the fleeting skim of her lips on mine… my stomach fizzes (not unpleasantly, given my current state) at the memory. That, at least, feels warm and fuzzy.
And as long as I keep it straight—AKA stop noticing how cute and/or hot Maddie is, and instead focus solely on what’s really important here, and what my goal is (that being hockey)—maybe this will all be fine.
Where is this wife of yours, anyway?” Wife of mine. Woah, hearing the words is gonna take some getting used to. “Um, she was still asleep when I left to come here.” At this, Mal stands up, walks over to me, and smacks me upside the head. “Ouch!” I protest. “You left her asleep by herself, in your room, to wake up alone?”
“Maddie, hi. I didn’t mean for you to wake up alone. I picked up coffee. And tea. And a hot chocolate. I wasn’t sure what you drank. I also got croissants and breakfast bagels and…” He seems perturbed as he gingerly walks towards me—like I’m a chained-up dog with a biting habit—and sets down the tray of drinks. Then, he finally looks at me. “Oh, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please don’t cry, I can fix this.”
“We got married, Maddie.” His blue eyes—which look almost a bluish-gray in the morning light—glitter with all kinds of things I can’t decipher.
“I’d say yes again if you asked me this morning, Seb.”
get the 23rd to the 26th off and I have no other Christmas plans. Will that timeframe work?” “Sure. Any longer and I’m sure we’ll both want to electrocute ourselves with the Christmas lights.” “Sounds like a festive way to go.” I grin. “The festivest.” “Not a word.” “Agree to disagree.”
The mainstream media don’t really care too much who pro athletes date… unless you’re dating Taylor Swift.” Well, I’m certainly no Taylor Swift. Despite my appearance last night across the entire freaking Internet.
“Sorry, I’m not really used to being in relationships, so this whole marriage thing is gonna take some getting used to. You have full permission to point me in the right direction when I go astray.”
“So. No wife of mine is going to sleep on some dirty old couch.” “Who said it was dirty?” I demand, throwing up my hands. Then, I remember that I’m wearing a bulky robe that isn’t super snug around my upper torso region, and I immediately wrench my hands back in, grasping at the neckline and pulling it tight. Seb watches this entire debacle with a little smirk playing on his lips. “That’s just how I was picturing it.” His tone is dangerously
“Okay boyo,
“Boyo?” He’s trying not to laugh. Failing, too.
But, and I can’t stress this enough, there will be no hanky panky of any kind.” “But that’s my favorite kind,” he protests, now full-blown grinning.
“What if someone breaks out the mistletoe at Christmas?” I level him with a look, and he laughs. “What? I’m just trying to be a good Boy Scout and be prepared for anything.”
“Is butt-grabbing permitted during said mistletoe kiss?” Yes… wait, why am I thinking that? “No!” “Hmmm.”
Hello. It’s Seb Sebastian Slater Your new husband
I’ve been married for exactly thirteen hours, and I have already lost all my smoothness.
in the midst of a very logistical (and frankly, unexpectedly fun) discussion with Maddie wherein I made her blush about once every five seconds—I
Andy Fitzpatrick, an assistant coach who looks exactly like a boiled egg wearing glasses,
Also, so you know, everyone knows and they’re very excited to meet you. WHAT?!
“You’re confident,” I tell her. She grins. “Confidence is sexy, don’t you know.” I look her up and down slowly. Smile. “Agreed.
“Oh, YOU’RE Maddie! Of course. I should’ve known something was going on when Seb wouldn’t shut up about our new nutritionist.”
glance at my new wife with something akin to pride. She’s good at this.
And I find myself almost bursting to say something. Talk to her. Thank her. For making this look believable… But also for being so damn easy to pretend to be in love with.
I’m exhausted myself, but sleep evades me. Because in a couple of hours, my new wife will be moving in with me.
Aside from Adrienne, who, for HR personnel, really lays on the snide comments. I figure she’s jealous. Which I get. I mean, have you seen my husband?
