Chapter One
Holly
The groom is sporting hard wood.
And I’m not referring to the hockey stick he wields around TD Garden for the Boston Blades. No, I’m talking about the metaphorical type of wood—the one that sprang to life in his black tuxedo pants the minute his bride, Zoe, began the walk of all walks down the center aisle of Boston’s historical Trinity Church.
My knees burn against the scratchy red rug as I angle my camera to snap a photo of the groom’s awestruck expression. While Andre Beaumont—King Sin Bin to hockey fans across the country—may have hired me as his wedding photographer, I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in having his erection memorialized in between pictures of Zoe’s gorgeous, ivory lace gown and the flower girl prancing down the aisle like a cotton ball made of tulle.
Then again, it’s the ball-busting kind of photo that his teammates and brothers-in-hockey-gear would kill to get their hands on, and Andre should have known better than to rope me into this gig.
Swallowing an ill-timed laugh, my fingers slide over the camera’s familiar black, plastic frame.
Click.
One inappropriate photo down. Only one hundred-plus elegant ones to go.
Wedding photography isn’t my thing. And, sure, maybe it’s because I lived the Happily Ever After fairytale and came out on the other side with my gold band tucked away in my dresser and my newly signed divorce papers doused in wine, sweet-and-sour sauce, and dried tears.
It was a rough night.
Scratch that—it’s been a rough three years.
Like a moth to a flame, I lower the camera and slide my gaze to the second groomsman standing to the right of Andre. My grandmother once called him “strapping.” Accurate, I’ll admit, albeit begrudgingly. He’s built like a linebacker: tall and broad with muscular thighs that strain the fabric of his tuxedo pants. Dark brown hair that’s casually tousled in the same style he’s worn for years now. Even when he graced the glossy front page of Sports Illustrated last February, he looked exactly the same.
Some things change . . . he hasn’t.
Hard, square jaw. Formidable body. Shrewd brown eyes that I imagine terrify his opponents on the ice when he comes barreling toward them.
Jackson Carter.
Captain of the Boston Blades.
Otherwise known as my ex-husband.
Those astute dark eyes meet mine now, and I wait for the rush of familiar emotions to hit me like a freight train. Only, before I have the chance to do my usual shushing of my heart, Jackson’s full lips part and he mouths something that looks suspiciously like, “Did you just take a picture of his dick?”
And that right there, that’s the reason why I’ve felt so lost for the last three years.
Our marriage didn’t crumble because one of us cheated. Jackson isn’t that sort of guy, and I’ve always been a one-man kind of woman.
It didn’t combust in a ball of fiery flames because we fought like we were prepping our audition tapes for that trashy reality TV show Marriage Boot Camp.
No, we simply . . . grew apart.
He passed out on the couch.
I slept in the bed.
He ate meals with his teammates.
I chowed down on mine alone at my desk, late into the evening hours after my employees had already gone home to their families.
He reached out to Andre or the Blades goalie, Duke Harrison, when he needed to talk.
I acted like smothering my emotions was as easy as breathing.
Eleven years ago, I married the man who swept me off my feet during my first semester at Cornell University.
A year ago, we sat opposite each other at a wooden table, our feet locked on our respective sides instead of tangling together the way we’d always done, nothing but our signatures standing in the way of a divorce.
The cry fest with the Chinese food and wine came later that night. No matter how alone I’d felt prior to finalizing our divorce, spending that first night in our house—empty but for the select furniture I’d kept—had been a hard pill to swallow. Accepting the fact that we’d failed at the till death do us part of our vows was even more difficult.
Camera feeling heavy in my hands, I lift my gaze from Jackson’s mouth and return silently: “Blackmail.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and my pathetic heart dives into an incessant thud-thud-thud that could rival the quick-paced tempo of an EDM song. Dammit. Those creasing laugh lines are more attractive than they have any right to be. Hell, the fact that I still find Jackson attractive at all feels like unjust punishment, doled out for some unknown bad misdeed I’ve committed in life. Considering my worst transgression of late is accidentally tossing half a burger into a recycling bin, the unyielding attraction seems a bit unfair.
He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, in that revealing way of his that tells me he’s trying to wrestle back a grin, and I nearly hurl my camera at his head in retribution.
I can just imagine the newspaper headlines now: Ex-wife of Famous NHL Player Interrupts Wedding of the Season by Flying Camera—Updates to Follow.
Once upon a time, I’d made it my mission to make Jackson’s infamous steel resolve disintegrate in inappropriate places. He always got me back—generally in bed with me fisting the sheets and his tight body powering into mine.
Now, I swallow hard at the memories and divert my attention to the bride.
Zoe radiates warmth and happiness. When her lips turn up behind the gossamer fabric of her veil, I readjust my grip on the camera and rise to my haunches. Knees cracking, I scoot back to avoid blocking someone’s view. The five bridesmaids to my left all smile, as if on cue, and I catch a shot of them, too.
The light streaming in through the stained-glass windows paints them in a mural of jeweled tones, and I know—even if I make my living taking photos of professional athletes—that the picture will be one that’s kept on their walls for years to come.
I get Zoe next, just as she steps up to meet Andre and her father gives her away.
Whether or not Andre is still sporting wood, I’ve got no idea. I keep my gaze above the belt, so to speak, as I step into the dance that’s become as familiar to me as breathing over the last number of years: finding the best angles for the best photos.
Beaumont looks down at his bride like she’s his greatest gift, and then he throws tradition out the window by lifting the veil and smoothing it back over her head with a mammoth-sized hand.
The Blades’ toughest son of a bitch grins, looks at the priest, and announces, “Sorry, Father, I’ll always be the worst kind of sinner.”
“Andre—” Zoe’s hands flutter upward.
He promptly cradles her face with one hand, binds an arm around her back, and, without giving anyone the chance to object, drops a heady kiss onto her mouth.
“Hell fucking yeah!” shouts one of the guys from the groom’s side. “Get it, man. Get. It!”
Someone in the pews follows up with an equally boisterous, “Don’t get her pregnant in the church, dude!”
The guests roar with laughter, palms kissing with thunderous applause.
I capture it all on camera:
Zoe’s wide gaze as her fiancé steals a kiss before the ceremony officially begins.
The top of Andre’s dark head as he glides his mouth over his bride’s, his hand flexing at the small of her back, as though he’s desperate to strip her out of the gown and touch her bare skin.
The bridesmaids whistling.
Father Christopher’s red face and twitching lips.
My lens finds Jackson.
Click.
His hands dive into the pockets of his well-tailored pants.
Click.
He grazes his teeth over his lower lip.
Click.
Familiar brown eyes land on my face, startling in their intensity.
Click.
Long ago, he’d look at me just like he is now and whisper in that rough, endearing Texas drawl of his, “Always you.”
The sentiment used to send my heart soaring.
Now he only averts his gaze, stubbled cheeks hollowing with a heavy breath, and turns back to the bride and groom.
Click.
The final shutter of the camera mimics the steady rhythm of my heart.
One inappropriate photo down.
Five too many pictures of my ex-husband already catalogued.
Father Christopher clears his throat. “Perhaps we can hold off on the impregnating until after we exchange vows?”
I snort.
And then the four-year-old ring bearer seals Andre Beaumont’s sinner status for good. Thrusting one little arm up in the air as Andre releases Zoe and steps back, the kid shouts, “Mommy! Mommy, Mr. Beaumont has a sword in his pants! I want one that big!”
I find Andre’s shocked expression with my lens.
Click.
I may not have the husband or the white picket fence or the two-point-five kids, but goddamn it, I love my job.
Some days, it feels like enough.
Chapter Two
Holly
I hate my job.
Beneath my office desk, my bare toes curl into the area rug I picked out five years ago when Carter Photography became something more concrete than an idea percolating in my head. I’ve had staff come and go, but this rug has been a constant through it all.
Why are you thinking about the damn rug?
Ahem. Probably because I don’t want to contemplate the proposition Steven Fairfax has laid out for me. A proposal that . . . oh God, it’d be hell. Like, ‘jump feet first into a vat of molten lava and then roll around in the sand’ sort of hell.
Black eyes blink back at me from across my desk. “Do you want me to go over all of that again, Ms. Carter?”
Snagging a pen off the top of my planner, I tap the butt against the desk. “I’m going to shoot it straight with you, Steven—do you mind if I call you Steven?”
The producer from ESPN’s top competitor, Sports 24/7, continues his one-sided staring contest. More rapid blinking ensues, and I’m forced to consider being a good Samaritan and offer my eye drops. Or maybe I threw him for a loop by not leaping for joy ten minutes ago when he broke out the projector and analytical graphs to brag about his TV network’s annual audience numbers compared to ESPN’s. Honestly, it was all very reminiscent of a whose-dick-is-bigger competition.
According to Steven Fairfax’s presentation, Sports 24/7 would be the uncomfortably large variety only found in pornos.
Either way, not even a symbolic ten-inch penis can change my mind.
See: the vat of molten lava and sand bit.
He treats me to a creepy tongue swipe, along with another round of robust blinking. “Will you take the offer?”
Over my dead body.
I shove one foot into a ballet slipper, then do the same with the other. Time for business. “Listen, Steven, it’s quite an honor that you flew out here from L.A. to talk to me about your new show—”
“Getting Pucked.”
Adding insult to injury, the show’s name is downright cringeworthy despite the intentional pun. And, if memory serves me well, my grandmother also had a hockey romance novel on her bookshelf by the same name.
The depressing fact is, “getting pucked” in reality isn’t as amazing as fiction makes it out to be—although is reality ever better?
At Steven’s impatient drumming of his fingers on my desk, I force a tight smile. “Right, Getting Pucked.” More smiling on my part; my lips peel back from my teeth and I briefly worry that I look positively feral. When Steven doesn’t shirk back in fear, I let out a controlled sigh of relief. “Listen, it sounds like a great premise. It really does, but—”
“Nothing’s been done like this for hockey before. Football? There’s Hard Knocks over on HBO and A Football Life televised by the NFL Network, but Getting Pucked has the ability to blow those successes out of the water. It’s a gamechanger for Sports 24/7.” Steven’s dark eyes brighten with excitement as he fidgets with the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “Can you imagine it? An intimate camera crew following the players of the Boston Blades—getting in their heads, observing their daily lives, showing the world what it really means to play for the NHL.”
I’m not buying it. Yes, I have my own reasons for not wanting Carter Photography to act as a sacrificial lamb for the cause but, ignoring the elephant in the room named Jackson Carter for a hot second, Steven has yet to answer one pressing question . . .
“Why the Blades?” I ask. “Why not the Kings since your studios are in L.A? Or even the Blackhawks? Let’s get real—Chicago won the Cup last year, not us.”
I say “us” like I still watch the Blades, which I don’t.
Seeing Jackson in his element does funny things to my stomach and inevitably leads to devouring a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream in a single sitting.
It’s not a pretty sight to behold.
Steven sits back, hands interlacing over his round belly. “You want to get real, Holly?” His mouth curls in a smarmy grin. “The truth is, everyone knows the Blades are on the verge of a complete overhaul. Half their first line is predicted to retire this year. Duke Harrison, for one. Who knows what’ll happen next season with him gone—the Blades have operated on a we-have-the-Mountain-and-we’re-good rationale for at least four years, and it’s no secret that Tommy Kase isn’t ready to fill Harrison’s shoes. Then there’s talks of Weston Cain bowing out. Man’s already got one reconstructed hip on the books.”
I wince at the mention of the Blades’ defenseman. At twenty-eight, Cain is still young, but the sport doesn’t play nice when you’ve got a penchant for dropping gloves and throwing fists. The body might be a temple, but on the ice, it’s a punching bag on the best of days and roadkill on the worst.
“And then there’s Jackson Carter.”
My gaze cuts to Steven’s, even as my stomach twists with unease. “Oh? What about him?”
“There’re rumors.”
He says it like I should know what he’s talking about. Me, the wife. The ex-wife. Jackson and I might be friendly whenever we cross paths—like we were at Andre and Zoe’s wedding two weekends ago—but we don’t talk otherwise. I don’t pick up my phone to send him a how are you? text, and he definitely doesn’t reach out either.
The Cold War has reached Boston, Massachusetts, my friends.
Appropriate, I think, since it’s so damn cold out for half the year. Which couldn’t be more different than my hometown of Natchitoches, Louisiana—a small, historical blip on the map some three hours outside of New Orleans. Living in New England for more than a decade, though, has thickened my blood in more ways than one.
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