Season’s Schemings: A Holiday Hockey Rom Com

This morning, I am two things I was not yesterday.

First, I am a meme.

Second, I am married.

I think.

I have no idea if drunken chapel weddings where the groom is wearing a traffic cone on his head and the bride is draped in a hotel bedsheet are actually considered legal.

And I have no idea where my apparent new husband is so that I can clarify this with him.

I also have no idea why I’m so calm about this. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe I’m still intoxicated.

Or maybe, it’s because I’m more preoccupied by the fact that the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me is currently pasted all over the internet.

Basically, I woke up a few minutes ago in a strange bed (fully clothed, thank the Lord), but also wearing pizza and cuddling my new husband’s traffic cone (which is not what the meme is about, also thank the Lord). That was all a little startling, but then… I fished my phone out of my bag, and my day got a whole lot crazier.

It’s a snapshot of me with my hand on the back of Adam’s head, plunging him into a vat of red frosting.

It’s everywhere.

And like the masochist that I am, I can’t stop looking at it. Captions accompanying the photo range from “Taylor Swift fans when someone cheats on her” to “When people hang their Christmas decorations in September” and “When my boyfriend asks me if I’m on my period.”

There’s even a GIF version, with a super slow-mo of me committing the dunking offense and the word “Noooooo!” written above. Which is, coincidentally, what I currently feel like screaming.

I wasn’t planning on watching the episode of Baking Bonanza that aired last night—I didn’t want to have to relive The Incident. But now, I’m going to be forced to look at it everywhere on the freaking internet.

I’ll also have to ignore my mom’s relentless phone calls from here until eternity.

I don’t realize I’m crying until the door opens.

Seb’s standing there, looking much more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him. His hair is standing straight up, his clothes are rumpled, he has purple circles under his eyes, and there’s lipstick smudged on his cheek (mine?!?).

He lingers in the doorway for a moment, clutching a tray of takeaway coffees and a bag of what I’m praying is baked goods.

“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.”

His words are coming fast and a little panicked, and my brain—in its current molasses-thick state—groans as it struggles to catch up.

I reach across the bed for a tissue and hurriedly wipe away my tears. I’m sure my eyes are entirely panda-fied by now. “I’ll take tea, please. And a breakfast bagel. Sorry about the crying.” I hold my phone out to him. “Evil Ex and I are a meme and I’m feeling a little humiliated. My delicate hungover state probably isn’t helping.”

He looks at me carefully for a few moments, like he pities me but he’s trying not to show it. “I forgot, you said that the episode aired last night… Are you okay?”

I smile wanly. It’s sweet of him to ask. Sweet that he brought me breakfast, too. Sebastian really does seem to be genuinely nice beneath all that flirty hockey-player swagger of his. “I’m fine. I’m a big girl and Eugene deserves no more of my tears, so I should reel in the waterworks.”

Seb gives a small, encouraging nod, but his face is pale as he sinks down onto the edge of the bed. He passes a cup to me, his hand shaking slightly so that our fingers brush when I accept it. He then hands me a wax-paper wrapped bagel that smells like literal heaven—wafts of bacon and melty cheese that are making my mouth water—before saying, “Just to check… you sure you’re not crying because of this?” He gestures between himself and me.

“Well, I mean, I probably should be. Have you seen our wedding pictures?”

“There are pictures?” Seb’s handsome features relax slightly as he reaches for a coffee and takes a sip.

“Open at your own risk.” I hand him a manila envelope. I found the “Complimentary Photos of The Happy Couple!” package under my butt when I woke up, and boy oh boy, it’s a sight for sore eyes. Well, the bridal half was. The groom, meanwhile, somehow managed to pull off (literal) traffic-stopping orange and look like a top model.

It should say a lot that these are easily not the most embarrassing photos I’ve seen of myself today.

I watch Seb’s face as he examines the pictures, his eyes creasing at the corners. “I can’t believe we actually did this.”

“Me neither. When I dreamed of my fairytale wedding, I certainly never thought this was an option.”

The mood in the room suddenly shifts, and his eyes turn guarded as he looks at me—still holed up in bed and tucking into my bagel like a ravenous bear after a long winter of hibernation. “Now that we’re more, um, sober, I need to ask you: is this something you actually… wanted?” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I hope you didn’t feel pressured into something you didn’t want to do.”

He looks at me with caution, like he’s terrified that I’m about to burst into tears again. I have to admit, it’s nice to see that he’s concerned about me. Even though he is the least of my concerns right now.

My marriage is the least of my concerns right now. Unbelievably.

“It takes two to tango,” I say with a shrug. “We were both drunk and ridiculous, but I remember saying yes to this, Seb. I’ll admit, the later the night gets, the blurrier my memory becomes, but you didn’t pressure me into anything.” In fact, I’m the one who kissed you when Elvis gave us our cue. You were a perfect gentleman, waiting for my lead. “You were as drunk as I was, and I’m pretty sure nothing, erm, physical happened between us. Save for, you know, our wedding kiss.”

At that moment, a piece of pepperoni falls from my forehead onto the bedspread between us, as if to punctuate my point that, indeed, nothing could ever happen between a sexy pro athlete like him and a mere mortal like myself.

“Of course, it didn’t,” Seb confirms. Firmly. Almost too firmly. But I am, quite literally, Pizza Face right now, so I cannot blame the man for not wanting to ravish me. He sucks in a breath through his nose and releases it before continuing, “But I’m a little concerned that I asked you to do something life-altering when you were, you know, in a mind-altered state.”

“It’s not like you dragged me kicking and screaming to the altar.”

“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.

“Temporarily,” I supply with a jokey smile. “I can always have my dream wedding with my next husband.”

“It’s still a big ask.” He’s playing with his coffee cup, twisting the plastic lid back and forth. “And we could get in trouble if we get found out. You could get in so much trouble.” He looks up at me quickly. “We can get it annulled before that’s even an option. I can get a lawyer on it right away.”

I consider this.

And then, I imagine showing up to the Plumlee’s cabin in Aspen alone, while Adam and his perfectly pantsuited Elizabeth wax on about their engagement.

The family pariah who nobody can help because she’s beyond help.

I’ll be a laughingstock. A joke.

Meme Girl.

My chest pinches and I jut my chin out. “I’d say yes again if you asked me this morning, Seb.”

This must surprise him, because he suddenly twists his hand and a jet of dark coffee spills out of his cup, soaking his wrist. He winces, swears under his breath, and sets the cup down. Turns to me. “I would never want to do anything you weren’t one hundred percent on board with,” he says seriously, his blue eyes laser-focused on mine. “I want to play, badly, but I want you to be sure of this even more.”

“As long as you’re sure that you’re okay coming to Aspen and spending Christmas with my ridiculous family.”

“I 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.”

“Well, okay…” he says slowly. “I guess, this is happening. I promise to keep things professional—after last night, no more drinking. I’ll let my agent and lawyer know that we’re married, but ask them to keep it on the DL as much as possible, so we don’t make a spectacle. In return, I’ll come with you to Aspen. Make a great impression on your family, make your ex jealous, whatever you like.”

I give a little nod before he goes on with a resolute expression on his face.

“Then, after the holidays are over and I have a clearer idea of what’s happening with my immigration, I’ll get us both out of it the second I can.” He glances down at the meme girl on my phone quickly, and then back up to my face. “And I’m happy to go along with whatever breakup story you choose.”

I frown, thinking it all over. I’m not a complete newb, I’ve seen this type of thing play out before. And sure, it was entirely in romcoms and Hallmark movies, but I have to ask. “Won’t the media have a field day if they find out you got married in Vegas?”

Seb shakes his head. “Nah. It’s unlikely to make it beyond the sports blogs, at most. 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.

“I’m in.”

The words are out of my mouth before I have to think about them. Because even in the stark light of day, this remains my best option to make it through the holidays alive. And after having my breakup be broadcast on TV and becoming a meme, being temporarily married to a gorgeous hockey player doesn’t sound like the worst thing to ever happen to me.

Seb shakes his head, looking from me, to the trainwreck of a wedding picture in front of him, and back again. “So… we’re doing this?”

I take a deep breath. “We are.”

“In that case, I’d better call my agent.” His eyes focus on my cheek.

“And I’d better get cleaned up.” As I say this, I swipe at the spot he’s staring at, and come up with a rogue mushroom. Just the way I always imagined waking up the day after my wedding… not. “May I use your shower?”

Seb looks at the mushroom now on his comforter. His expression turns almost wary. “Uh, sure,” he says. Though he very obviously means, don’t you have your own room with its own shower you can use, you crazy, topping-covered woman?

“Didn’t want anyone to see me sneaking out of your room looking like this,” I explain. “Not very wife-like to do what appears to be a walk of shame.”

A smile replaces his slight frown. “Oh, yeah. Good thinking.” He gives a little laugh. “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.”

My mind immediately tumbles back to our conversation last night, when he admitted that he originally thought I was a prior conquest of his, and I smile wryly. “Right, I forgot. You normally go through so many women, you can’t even recognize or keep track of them when you come upon them in unexpected places.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that—” Seb starts, but I’m already striding to the bathroom as confidently as one can possibly stride when they look like they should be sprinkled with parmesan and served at an Italian restaurant.

I didn’t get much of a chance to explore my own room in the hotel, but I know for a fact that my bathroom isn’t nearly as nice as the one in this suite.

Or neat.

I take my time in the bathroom, helping myself to the toothpaste and mouthwash on the counter before cranking up the shower as hot as it will go. Then, I lather my body with every single bottle of free hotel toiletry.

The scalding water feels like atonement, and I imagine it washing away all of my crazy decisions from last night… but when I step out of the shower, I find that nothing has washed away at all.

In fact, I’m hit with the full weight of said crazy decisions.

I married Sebastian Slater. Number 19. Center. My ex’s favorite player. And the man who has clearly never let a girl stay at his place long enough to even shower.

Which is not ideal. Because in order for our scheme to work—and for the story we’re spinning to actually benefit either of us—we’ll need this marriage to look real. We’ll need to sell it, so that people will actually buy it.

In other words, we need a solid plan, or we’re entirely screwed.

I throw on a plush white robe and rush out of the bathroom to find Seb pacing around the room, phone in one hand and his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. His expression is dark and frowny, but when he sees me, he face becomes apologetic as he mouths “sorry, one sec.” He then proceeds to pace faster, saying “uh-huh” and “mm-hmm” multiple times, with the odd “mm-kay” thrown in for good measure.

When he finally hangs up, he turns to face me.

“We need to make this believable!” I blurt at the exact same time as he says, “I don’t think Mike believes me!”

We look at each other, wide-eyed and frozen for a few seconds, before we both laugh.

“Guess we’re on the same wavelength,” he says, his eyes quickly skipping over my robe-clad form as he sinks to a seat on the edge of the bed.

I push a wet strand of hair behind my ear shakily. Even his fleeting gaze on my body—which suddenly feels very naked under this hefty robe—brings all the blood in my face to the surface. I’m sure that I’m glowing like a neon-red beacon right around now.

“Yup,” I say crisply, trying to sound as business-like as humanly possible. I hug my robe around me and take a seat by the desk—AKA as far from the bed as I can get, as space is definitely of the essence right now—and nod at my new husband. “If this is going to work, we need to be convincing.”

Seb nods in agreement. “Mike said that he could ask the Cyclones’ lawyer to file a change of status for me right away, but I need to see that lawyer the second I get back to Atlanta. And he said that the lawyer will need to be pretty… convinced about the marriage to continue with the paperwork.” He starts scrolling through his phone. “According to Reddit, we’ll need photos of us together as a couple, mail to the same address, and family and friends to vouch for us.”

“Well, we do have photos together,” I say, gesturing vaguely towards our wedding pictures featuring traffic cone and Elvis. “As for the other stuff…” I worry my teeth into my bottom lip, pondering. “My family will obviously know, and we can get more pictures over the holidays. Are you going to tell yours?”

He shrugs, looking more than a little uncertain all of a sudden. “I’m not sure. I hadn’t gotten that far…”

“Maybe we can start by telling your teammates and the other Cyclones staff.”

“Good idea,” Seb agrees. “Okay, what about this: we could say that we’ve been dating in secret for awhile and didn’t want to tell anyone because you were going for—and then got—a job at the Cyclones?”

“Ooh, yes! That’s good.” I play with the hem of my robe, thinking. “And I can get some mail sent to your address to cover that part…”

“Or you could move in with me.” Seb looks up suddenly. “I have a spare room that you could stay in. And I mean, it’d be super convenient for you as I live close to work.”

My eyes grow wide. “Oh, I couldn’t. I—”

“Didn’t you say last night that you’ve been sleeping on your brother’s couch ever since your breakup?”

I did say that, didn’t I? Stupid loose drunky lips. “Yes, but—”

“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 close to flirty, and I give him a glare. “Okay boyo, I think we’re going to have to set some ground rules here. Rule number one: no using the word ‘dirty’ when describing anything to do with me.”

“Boyo?” He’s trying not to laugh. Failing, too.

“Yes, boyo. Rule number two: no conversations while we’re not both fully dressed.” I look down at my robe, then back up at Seb. “Obviously, that rule kicks in after this current conversation comes to an end and I get dressed.”

His mouth twitches. “Naturally.”

“Rule number three: I will come and live in your spare bedroom, as I believe this will be best for appearances’ sake. 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’s your favorite kind?”

“All of the kinds. I like all variations of hanky panky, as you so sexily refer to it.”

“Well, dear husband of mine, get used to having no variations of any of it.”

“Hmm. This is the least fun honeymoon I’ve ever been on.” He pouts, but I can tell by the way his eyes glint and his cheek tics that he’s joking.

I also can’t help but notice for the millionth time how almost painfully attractive he is. Like, I never, ever believed I’d even be in the vicinity of a man this attractive, never mind married to one.

But that is, of course, an entirely unhelpful train of thought as this marriage of ours is in name only. Sans hanky panky.

As I just decreed it.

Dammit.

“So…” I venture. “This will mean you’ll have to reign in your girl-of-the-moment tendencies. You know that, right?”

“Huh?” He blinks at me, looking genuinely confused.

“Going through so many women, you don’t even recognize them…?”

Light dawns in his eyes, and he snorts. “Madelyn Louise Grainger Slater, I believe you have yet another misconception about me.”

“Do tell.”

“Look, that’s not who I am. Dallas, maybe. Me? It’s not like that. I don’t do serious relationships because hockey is my first—my only—priority. Not because I’m against girlfriends as a principle or have some ridiculous roster of women. I’ve never gotten serious with anyone because I don’t have the time or the energy to put into a relationship.”

I’m… surprised. Pleasantly so.

And his smile tells me he knows it.

“So, to recap.” Seb’s tone is teasing again as he holds out a hand to count down on his fingers. “We’ve been dating for a while, eloped last night, you live with me, and we’re one of those married couples who never, ever have sex or anything close to it.” He pauses. Smirks. “I mean, we’ll have to have some physical contact or nobody will buy this.”

“We can hold hands,” I say primly, like I’m some kind of buttoned-up spinster-type with a million cats. “And hug.”

“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.”

My mind instantly replays that thrilling moment last night when his lips brushed mine, and I find myself relenting. “A quick kiss. If there’s mistletoe.”

“Is butt-grabbing permitted during said mistletoe kiss?”

Yes… wait, why am I thinking that? “No!”

“Hmmm.” His eyes travel over my burning face. I could fry up some eggs for brunch on these cheeks right now—FACE cheeks, not butt cheeks.

Frick. Now I have butts on the brain. My poor, hungover self cannot cope with Mr. Flirty Flirt over here, smiling at me with his incorrigible charm and making my imagination run wild.

And unfortunately for me, his smile only grows. “Let’s jot that one down as a ‘maybe’, huh?”

What on earth have I gotten myself into?