I glance at him with mild disinterest, nod, and even smiling at him once.
When I’m on the bench, I can see Wren sitting in the stands with an old notebook open in her lap, grinning ear-to-ear. I catch her gaze, and she mouths, “I told you so.”
Stanch’s passes are a half-second too late. His positioning off. Several times, he wipes out, landing flat on his ass on the ice for no good reason.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Maverick mutters, skating by me after the Sharks are called for a penalty. “What the hell is going on with that guy? It’s like he’s lost his mind.”
In the third period, Stanch takes a stupid penalty—charging after I casually poke-check the puck away from him. Two minutes in the box, and we score on the power play.
When he comes back on the ice, he’s still rattled, whiffing on an easy shot.
It’s actually startling how accurate Wren was about what we should do and how he would react. It’s startling to know that if we hadn’t enlisted her, she could be working with another team right now, picking apartourweaknesses.
Halfway through the third period, I glance over and notice the press jostling around, peering out toward the ice, looking more agitated than normal. The Sharks have been having a great season so far—it’s a little unprecedented for us to beat them this bad.
We win the game four to one.
We file off the ice and toward the locker room, and some of the press crowd around the tunnel, their badges swinging. I keep my head down and try to think about what I’m going to say during the post-game press conference.
“That wassick,” Tyler Chen says, wrestling into a sweatshirt, his black hair springing out when he pops his head through. “Did you see Stanch totally fall apart? What the hell was that?”
“Beaumont, right?” Maverick asks, rifling a hand through his hair and cutting his eyes to me.
I shrug, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. What would it be like to apply Wren’s effect backward throughout my career? I think about all the times I lost a game because my mental game was off. All the times I was sure I was physically and skillfully there, but something just wasn’t right.
Then again, maybe it’s unnatural to go into a game like this. To play multiple games at once.
Callum, Maverick, Petrov, and I file into the press room, tired, hungry, and just waiting for this to be over so we can go home and get something to eat. Normally, a PR person might give us a run-down before we take the stage. But tonight, there’s nobody waiting for us, so we just continue forward, heading out and lining up in front of the microphones.
Questions start like always—about the game, about how we played, about how our opponents played. Maverick fields the questions about defense. Callum charms and does his boy-next-door thing. Petrov answers in his thick Russian accent.
I field fewer questions than normal, my mind still on Wren, already working ahead to the next game, the next team, whether or not she’ll be flying to Canada with us.
“What do you have to say about the photo, McKenzie?”
I blink, jolted from my thoughts at hearing my name. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked what you have to say about the photo,” he says, raising his voice slightly.
I stare at the reporter and try to figure out if I heard him wrong. We just swept through the San Jose Sharks, securing our top-of-the-league record and playing to the very best of our abilities,and they’re asking me about some picture taken during the game?
“What picture?” I ask, glancing down the bench at Callum and Maverick, who look equally as confused as I am.
The reporter’s eyes go wide, and they practically start to drool, microphone held up toward me. “You haven’t seen the picture? You haven’t heard?”
“Heardwhat?” Frustration starts to rise up in me, and I grit my teeth, trying not to let it show. Something in the look on his face tells me that I’m not going to like what comes next.
“The picture of yourwife,” the reporter says, clearly trying not to grin from ear-to-ear, “on a date with Christie Elle.”
Wren
As soon as Luca disappears into the press room, Sloane comes hurrying over to me—as fast as she can hurry, considering her belly growing bigger every day. Her face is red, her phone loose in her hand, and there’s a general air of fury around her, like a little cartoon dust storm.
“Did you know about this?” she asks, breathless and angry, raising the phone up jerkily so I can see a photo. But her hand is shaking hard enough that I can’t see it until I reach out and steady it.
When it comes into focus, I can’t stop myself from gasping dramatically.
Because the photo is one of Luca’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and world-famous pop star, Christie Elle. Christie Elle from the songs that play on the radio, and in the gym, and in every single TikTok that comes across my page.
