Page 33 of Season's Schemings
I’m exhausted myself, but sleep evades me.
Because in a couple of hours, my new wife will be moving in with me.
12
MADDIE
December
A couple of weeks after the wild ride that was Vegas, I’m standing in the Cyclones’ kitchen in Atlanta when Reagan—the social media and marketing manager—walks in.
“Okay, so I’m thinking a sexy calendar,” she says as she slides onto a stool and swipes a bran muffin from the perpetual healthy-muffin-scone-and-pastry tin on the kitchen counter. “Get twelve of them up there, no shirts, holding geese and hens and a freaking partridge or whatever, and title it The Twelve Lays of Christmas.”
I practically spit out my water.
“No way management will allow that!” I sputter on a laugh.
“Forget management,” Stef snorts. She’s back at work now—started back last week—with her thumb healing nicely in a splint, and she manages to open the oven door while expertly balancing a pan of sautéed veggies across her splint. “You’re planning to get the guys on board with thishow, exactly?”
Reagan waves an airy hand before flipping her purple-streaked blonde hair over one shoulder. “Oh, please. Half of them have egos big enough to singularly drive the desire to feature in a half-naked photo shoot. And the other half… I’ll guilt into doing it because it’s for charity.”
I throw my head back and laugh. I know which category Seb will be in—the guy may have a big ego, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the past couple weeks to recognize that sexy photo shoots arenotup his alley.
Dallas and Jimmy, however, will be all over it. Guaranteed.
It’s kind of surreal—not that two of the vainest men who ever walked planet Earth would want to be featured in a calendar shoot, of course—but that I would evenknowsuch a thing about a couple of the Cyclones’ top players.
More than a few things have been surreal since I started this job.
“You’re laughing now.” Reagan points at me. “But you’re the one who’s going to have to twist the arm of that husband of yours to be front and center in the pear tree.”
I snort with laughter. “As if I have any say in that.”
Reagan and Stef join me, shaking their heads.
If you had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be standing here right now, chatting with Reagan and Stef about my hockey player husband, I would’ve laughed you straight out of the RGM arena’s industrial kitchen.
Arriving back in Atlanta after Vegas was a reality check. Because after a whirlwind wedding and life-changing decision, we were back at home, and work, and…
Married. In real life.
Which kinda makes me feel like Sandra Bullock inThe Proposal.It’s not quite the main character Sandra Bullock moment I always hoped I’d have, but Seb’s as hot as—maybe even hotter than—Ryan Reynolds, and at least nobody had to go all the way to Alaska in our scenario.
I guess I can hardly complain, though. Because for such a strange situation, it’s actually been pretty straightforward, logistically speaking.
Seb went to see Roger, the immigration and contract sports lawyer that the Cyclones work with, and, well… Seb said he was skeptical, at best, but he couldn’t exactly refute what Seb was telling him.
Meanwhile, I went straight to Jax’s place and packed my things. Thank goodness my brother was still off in the wilderness, sans cellphone, so I didn’t have to play twenty questions with him about where I was going. Lying has never been my strong suit, and lying to my brother is next to impossible. I’ve been avoiding his calls since he got home, opting to tell him via text that I’ve moved closer to work—which is, in itself, not a lie.
I simply failed to mention that I’ve moved into the huge spare room of Seb’s gorgeous apartment in one of Atlanta’s most exclusive residential high-rises. Needless to say, it’s a lot more comfortable than holing up on Jax’s old—but not half as dirty as Seb implied it was—couch with Rick Astley the dog breathing meatily all over me at 5am every day. I now have a plushy king bed, my own ensuite bathroom, and a beautiful view of downtown Atlanta.
Living at Seb’s place has led me to discover two things about my new husband: one, he is a neat freak. To the point where if I leave a bowl in the sink or a towel on the floor, it magically disappears. When he was gone for a few days, playing away games up in New England (Stef traveled with them and I stayed here), I even peeked in his underwear drawer to confirm that, yes, his boxer briefs are ironed and folded to perfection.
Two, he isdefinitelynot into decorating. His place, though luxurious, is pretty bare and sterile. For fun, I’ve added a few colorful throw pillows and blankets and decorative mirrors and pictures to make the place feel more homey. Seb protested at first, but quickly seemed to accept his fate.
I also taped one of our wedding pictures to the fridge as a joke, and for some reason, he didn’t take it down. It makes me smile every morning when I’m grabbing my orange juice—me, Seb and Elvis with our arms around each other, laughing hysterically.
The craziest part is that people actually seem to bebuyingthis story (probably because I’m refusing to show anybody said drunken, traffic-cone-including wedding pictures.)