Season’s Schemings: A Holiday Hockey Rom Com

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’m coming.”

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 to somebody right now. Someone who takes hockey just as seriously as I do, and therefore might understand 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 doing what, exactly?”

“You have to swear on your life not to tell anyone.”

“What are we, twelve? Tell me, Slater.”

I cross my arms. “I need you to swear not to tell a soul.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever.”

“Swear.” I sound like a broken record, but I’m not a complete dumbass. This could affect Maddie as badly as me if this got out. Worse, in fact. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve just had her commit a crime.

“I swear. Now, talk.”

“I got married.”

“You… got married?” Malachi repeats, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

I have a sudden flash memory of a drunken Elvis grandly declaring this last night. And then, the look on Maddie’s face—her smile wide and lazy, her cheeks pink, her eyes at once slightly dazed and totally glittery. I remember feeling… excited.

I shake it off.

“Temporarily. So I can play. It’s a loophole, apparently. Spouses of American citizens can work while their marriage immigration paperwork is pending. We could stay married until that all cleared, then we could go back to moving on with our own lives.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. We? Do you hear yourself right now?”

I shake my head. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“Damn right it does! I mean, what you’re saying is that in the fourteen hours since I saw you after the game last night, you got benched, found someone willing to freaking MARRY you, and then ACTUALLY married them?”

“Yup.” I hold up my left hand, complete with a gold wedding band, as proof.

Mal’s mouth is still opening. Closing. “You are a madman. An actual madman.” He clears his throat. “And who, may I ask, is your madwoman bride?”

“Her name is Maddie.”

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.

“Please tell me you didn’t find her on Tinder.”

“No. You know her, actually. She’s Stefani’s new hire. The assistant nutritionist.”

An incredulous squawk of a laugh bubbles out of Mal’s mouth. Apparently at a total loss for words, he shakes his head at me.

“I know, I know.” I sigh. “And that’s why I’m here. I need your advice.”

“On what? Marriage counseling? Because I met my wife the normal way—i.e. I didn’t commit international fraud with a freaking Cyclone’s staff member—so I doubt I can assist you.”

“International fraud?” I wrinkle my brow. “Do you think that’s what it’s called?”

“Sebastian, I don’t know the actual term for it, because I am not an expert on marriages that occur overnight. Mostly because THIS IS NOT SOMETHING NORMAL PEOPLE DO!”

“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!” He throws a pair of balled-up socks at me, and I’m too slow and hungover to even try to stop them bouncing off my head. “You, my friend, are a class A idiot.”

Great. Now he’s actually calling me an idiot.

Maybe because I am one.

“I know. And I just…” I trail off. 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?

Bit by bit, I started to put together the pieces of last night: the crazy drunken proposal in the hotel bar. Maddie actually saying yes, her eyes hazy and glowing. 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.”

I remember buying her a vintage sapphire engagement ring from a pawn shop on the Strip—the only store selling jewelry that was open at that hour—to check off the new, old and blue boxes at once (how in the hell do they allow people in our states of drunkenness to purchase expensive things?!). And I remember Maddie laughing ‘til she cried when I stole a traffic cone and swore I’d return it later, for our borrowed item.

We rushed into a little white chapel which was filled with way too much pink inside (I’m talking pink curtains, pink flowers, even the carpet down the aisle was pink), signed the papers, and minutes later, Elvis pronounced us man and wife.

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.

The rest feels like a fever dream sequence from a bad movie. A bad movie that I’ve gone and dragged a sweet, unsuspecting woman into. Turns out that “harmless” flirting is not so harmless, in that it can net you a brand-new wife.

“I guess I feel weird about it all,” I finish.

Mal’s jaw is working, clenching, as he takes in all this information. At least he isn’t processing it all through a pounding whiskey hangover headache. “Well,” he says eventually. “That’s actually kinda sweet. I didn’t think you had feelings about anything, save for hockey.”

I sigh and push my hair back. “I don’t, usually. But last night, I was so pissed off, I wanted to find a solution. ANY solution. I didn’t even think through the implications of this; how badly this could go for her if we get found out. Obviously, the whiskey didn’t exactly help with making a judgment call.”

Mal’s lips quirk a little. “Wow. He has feelings and he’s worrying about someone else.”

I throw the balled up socks back at Mal. He catches them easily. “Guess an old dog can learn new tricks?”

Mal chucks his socks to the side and then nods his head, his eyes turned towards the window where the rapidly rising sun is making my entire head feel like it might explode. Could also be because I’m facing the consequences of the insanely crazy thing I did last night. A little head explosion might serve me right.

Finally, the captain leans forward, his jaw set. “Look, man. This is insane, but it happened. For better or for worse, you’re married right now. Of course I want you to play, and I assume Maddie had her reasons for going along with it.”

I screw my eyes up, considering this. From what I gleaned last night, we made this arrangement with the intention to benefit us both. Strictly business, so she could get payback and I could keep playing hockey.

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.

“She did,” I reply, then clear my throat. “Last night, she did…”

He frowns. “Well, if she feels like she made a drunken mistake this morning, pretty sure you guys can get the whole thing annulled—no harm, no foul.” Malachi stares at me quizzically. “Have you talked to her about it in the light of day? 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?”

My eyes widen as my soggy brain finally clues in. I left Maddie by herself, in a random room in Vegas, after a full evening of shenanigans together that resulted in our nuptials. Shenanigans which were completely insane. But also… I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in my entire life as I did last night.

And I might not know my new wife very well, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have left me to wake up alone today. “Well, when you put it like that…”

He smacks me again. “Go!”

I leave.