I guess there could be worse ways of finding out you’re married.”
His beer bottle paused on its way to his lips, Ben Westmore shot a glance across the booth. “Do you not hear something wrong with that sentence?”
His brother Asher drained the contents of his own drink and set the empty glass on the table inside Airways, a restaurant in the Denver airport. “Look, man I think you’re sweating this whole thing for nothing. There’s no way that marriage certificate you saw was real.” He flagged a waitress as he put his baseball cap on over his hockey hair.
“You think it’s a joke?” He studied the blurry image on his iPhone. That spirally signature at the bottom looked a lot like his…
“Of course it’s a joke. This is you we are talking about.” Asher reached for his jacket. “And I’ve got a plane to catch.”
The waitress smiled at him as she set their bill on the table. She’d been smiling at him since they’d walked in. Nothing new there. Captain of the Colorado Avalanche and MVP in the league that season, he was one of the more recognizable hockey players, and his reputation as a playboy was one he wore as a badge of honor. Getting a pretty woman’s attention was easier than winning a game of pick-up hockey against eight-year-olds.
He glanced back at the phone. Had he inadvertently, unknowingly married one of them?
Not a chance. He hit DELETE and tucked the phone away.
“How was everything?” the waitress asked, still not tearing her eyes from him.
The required uniform was basic black pants and white blouse, but her black pants were leather and hugged her curves as though they were painted on, and her blouse was open at the top far enough to give them ample view of the lace bra she wore underneath. The messy bun her blonde hair was gathered in looked ready to come undone at any moment, and in another place and circumstance, he’d be more than willing to be the force that shook it loose.
But unlike the night before on the ice, today Ben was off his game a little.
“Everything was perfect. Unfortunately, we have to go,” he said.
She looked slightly disappointed as she asked, “Will you be paying together or separate?”
“Together,” Asher said. “The least you can do is buy the drinks after taking me out of the NHL playoffs,” he grumbled.
The waitress finally turned to look at Asher. “You’re both players?”
Ben tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table to cover the fifty-dollar tab and stood. “Yes, this is hockey’s greatest secret, right here,” he said, draping an arm around his brother’s shoulders. It was true. The Avalanche may have beaten the Devils the night before, taking them out of the playoffs early in the second round, but it hadn’t been from lack of ability, skill, or effort on his brother’s part. Out of the three hockey-loving, hockey-playing Westmore brothers, Asher was arguably the best. Not that Ben would ever tell him that.
“But didn’t he just say your team beat his?” She shot him a teasing smile, and the temptation to continue the conversation well into the night—at her place—was strong, but he was still in Colorado, and he didn’t mess with women in his own state. Too close for comfort.
“Bad goalie on his team,” Ben said, grabbing his leather jacket. “Thank you, you’ve been lovely.”
“Wait…your receipt,” the waitress said.
No doubt with her phone number on it. Keep walking, Westmore. He pretended not to hear as he led the way out of the lounge and grabbed his baby brother for a quick hug. “Sure you can’t stick around for a few days?”
Now that the New Jersey Devils were officially out of the playoffs for that season, his brother was free, unless he got an invitation to play in the World Championships scheduled to start the following week. Which Ben suspected he would.
“I’ll be back in a few days. I just need to wrap up a few things in Jersey,” he said, slinging his hockey bag over his shoulder.
“Like getting rid of that playoff beard?” His brother looked more like a bushman than a hockey player the longer his team had advanced.
Asher ran a hand over it. “You’re just jealous because I can actually grow one.”
Ben laughed. It was true. A thin covering of stubble was all he could hope for, despite not having shaved since the start of the playoffs four weeks ago. “Anyway, clean yourself up before Mom sees you.”
His brother shot him a look. “Pretty sure once she finds out the mess you may be in, I’ll be able to do no wrong. Later, man,” he said with a wave as he headed toward security. “Make sure to bring home the cup.”
That was the plan. After successfully taking his own brother out of the running for the Stanley Cup—no one else stood a chance of getting in the way.
His team that year consisted of a lot of young players, and while they played hard and fast, they looked up to him as a veteran in the sport to lead them to a victory. He was up for the challenge. At thirty-two years old, he’d been in the NHL playoffs three times before in his career. This was his year to win. The Colorado Avalanche’s year to win.
His cell phone rang as he headed out of the airport. Kevin Sanders, the team’s lawyer, reminding him of the “mess” Asher had mentioned. No doubt the guy was calling to see why he hadn’t responded to the lame attempt at what he hoped was a joke he’d emailed him earlier that week.
“April Fool’s Day was two weeks ago, man. That email wasn’t funny,” Ben said, answering the call. The lawyer, a well-known prankster who liked to mess with the players, had sent the email attachment of the copy of a marriage certificate from Happy Ever After, a wedding chapel in Las Vegas, dated December 31 of last year. The spirally signature—a fairly accurate forgery of his own—at the bottom had caused him a brief moment of panic, until he realized he was being punked.
Still, he’d been worried enough to show it to his brother that evening. But Asher was right—it couldn’t be real.
“I wish I were kidding,” Kevin said, sounding annoyed. “But unfortunately this is no joke.”
Ben scoffed, though his heart was a jackhammer in his chest. He couldn’t exactly claim to remember New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas with several of his teammates well enough to say a hundred percent that this marriage certificate was just a really good fake. But…“Quit messing around, man. There is no way that thing is real. I would have had to have been unconscious or drugged to get married.” Full stop.
“Well, you look conscious in the video from the chapel.”
“What video?” The cool, early-spring mountain air made him shiver as he stepped through the revolving doors and he raised the collar of his leather jacket higher around his neck.
“The one I just received from the owners of Happy Ever After.”
His gut tightened. There was footage of him in a wedding chapel in Vegas?
“And unfortunately, if you were drugged, the evidence would be out of your system by now, so we will be submitting a drunk and stupid case,” Kevin said.
“What case?” If the guy was messing with him, he could stop anytime. This shit was not funny.
“Your divorce case.”
Crossing the airport parking lot, he climbed in behind the wheel of his Hummer, slamming the door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not married.” The guy obviously couldn’t admit to a prank fail.
“According to a Ms. Kristina Sullivan and the Happy Ever After Chapel in Las Vegas, you are. Now, shut up and listen.”
He sat confused and annoyed as Kevin took him through step by step, making sure he was aware of the predicament they found themselves in. For four months, this Ms. Kristina Sullivan had remained quiet, and now after the ninety-day annulment period, she’d resurfaced to ruin his life, claiming she wanted a relationship with her “husband.” Kevin had immediately brought it in front of a judge, but the woman had lawyered up, turning what could have been a minor inconvenience to a full-fledged shit-storm.
“This is bullshit. I don’t even know this woman.”
“Since when has that ever mattered to you?” Kevin asked.
Ben ran a hand through his hair. It was true that he liked the company of women. His reputation was one he couldn’t dispute, but married? Hell no. Right? Damn, he wished he could remember that night clearly enough…or at all…to be sure.
“Ben—this is not going to just go away quietly or quickly,” Kevin said when he was silent.
He sighed. “Fine. What do we do now?”
“We’ll file the required papers to start the divorce process and just pray that this Kristina Sullivan chick doesn’t contest them. In the meantime, her lawyer is requesting a face-to-face.”
Fantastic. He wouldn’t have been able to pick out his new “wife”—he cringed at the thought of the word—from a police lineup if his life depended on it, and now he would have to sit across from her and ask that she be reasonable enough to let him out of this shit-show without too much headache? He had his doubts this meeting would go smoothly. “When’s the meeting?” he asked, stabbing the button to start the vehicle. He didn’t have time for this. In four days, he planned to lead his team to a four-game, shut-out victory in the third round of the playoffs. He couldn’t afford stupid distractions like this.
This Ms. Sullivan better prepare herself for a battle, because he was pissed. He didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, but he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Tomorrow morning at eleven,” Kevin said. “I’ll email you the address to the law office.”
“We’re meeting at her lawyer’s office? Isn’t that already setting a precedent, giving them the upper hand?” Home ice was where his team felt at ease, comfortable, more confident. The opposition always held an advantage when they met on their ice.
“This isn’t hockey. It’s a boardroom. Trust me, I can do my job anywhere.”
“I hope so.” Because if not, it was game over before it even began.
“Hang in there. Keep breathing, and we will figure this out,” his lawyer said through the speaker phone on the dash.
Where was that note of optimism two minutes ago when the man was explaining in fine detail just how bad of a shit-storm Ben’s life was about to become? “Can we figure it out quickly? Like before the next playoff round?”
“I can’t work miracles, Ben. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Disconnecting the call, he swore under his breath. So much for it being a joke. This was the last complication he needed right now. But one thing was for certain, there was no way he would let a little thing like marrying a woman he didn’t know in a ceremony he couldn’t remember prevent him from hoisting the Stanley Cup that season.
No way in hell.