Page 23 of Season's Schemings
“Madelyn Louise Grainger, will you temporarily marry me?”
I smile back at him. Not only because it’s absolutely endearing that he used my full name. But also because this is beginning to sound hilarious, and also smart.
“I mean… why the hell not?” I throw my head back and laugh, feeling warm and fuzzy and altogether gleeful at the mental images of Mom freaking out and Adam scraping his jaw off the floor at his gorgeous cabin in Aspen.
It’s genius.
A foolproof plan for a pair of drunken fools.
“So how do we do this?” I ask excitedly. Because right now, ridiculous, vengefully childish excitement is bubbling up in me with all the force of the Bellagio fountains. And I have a feeling that we are in for quite the show.
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!”
9
SEB
What the hell have I done?!
I pound on the door again and again, my head throbbing in tandem with the banging.
Eventually, I hear a groggy, pissed-off, “OKAY, OKAY. Jeez, I’mcoming.”
The door swings open, revealing Malachi Holmes in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts with pink candy canes all over them.
“Slater?” He stares at me incredulously for a moment before he follows my gaze to his underwear, sees my smirk, and scowls. “What? They’re festive. Chantal gave them to me. And what the hell is this very uncalled-for wake-up call about?
I blink at him. I wasn’t sure what to do when I woke up this morning, but a visit to my steady and wise team captain seemed like the place to start. Short of throwing myself off The Stratosphere. “I have a bit of a situation on my hands. Can I come in?”
For the first time, his brown eyes focus on my face. His scowl deepens, frown lines marring his forehead. “You look like hell, dude. Worse than the time that puck hit you in the nose and you had a potato face for a week.”
I walk past him and into his room without being invited, flopping down on a large, impossibly plushy cream couch that seems to take up almost half the room.
“Come in, please, make yourself at home,” Mal mutters sarcastically as he follows me into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He pulls on sweatpants over those candy cane atrocities, and sits down on the end of his bed. “What’s going on, Seb? And where were you last night?”
I shift uncomfortably. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, and in dire need of a shower. And Advil. And about twenty-five million gallons of water. “It’s a long, crazy-ass story,” I say on a sigh.
“I got time. Now, spill,” the captain says.
I hesitate. It’s probably best that I keep totally silent about all of this. But then again… I’m sure I can trust my captain not to blab. And I need to talk tosomebodyright now. Someone who takes hockey just as seriously as I do, and thereforemightunderstand exactly how terrible my predicament is.
So I spill. Tell him about my visa issues, and the conversation I had with Mike, Dennis, and Tony after the game, and how I’m looking at being benched.
Mal listens intently, the sleepy fog clearing from his expression as he focuses on what I’m saying. Only when I’m finished speaking does he let out a long, low whistle, along with a curse.
“That sucks.” He grimaces but gives a nod, the picture of a put-together captain. “We’ll get through it, though. Sure, it’ll affect our rankings, but we might still make the playoffs. Depending on how long the whole thing takes, that is. And if we don’t, there’s always next year. We can use the time to…”
He’s lying. There won’t be a next year for Mal—this is his last year in the NHL before retirement. It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but everyone knows it. This is his last chance to win the Stanley Cup, to finish off on a literal career high.
“I sorted it out,” I cut him off.
“What?”
“I kinda took matters into my own hands last night and tried to fix the problem.” I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably.
Malachi narrows his eyes. “By doingwhat, exactly?”