“What’s up?”
“Luca,” Cal’s voice is breathless, and I start to sit up instantly. I know that tone. “Sloane hasn’t seen it yet, so you need to tell hernow—”
“Tell her what?”
Cal goes silent on the other end of the line, and the pause is heavy, my heart thudding loudly in my chest as I wait.
“Luca.” Cal clears his throat, and I can picture him running his hand through his hair, trying to figure out the easiest way to say whatever he’s going to say. “An article came out this morning. With details. About you and Mandy.”
“Details.”
“…the arrangement the two of you had,” he says, and I can hear the wince in his voice. “I’m not going to lie to you, man, it’s pretty bad.”
Mandy broke her NDA.
That’s the only possible way the news about this could have gotten out, because I’m not going to entertain for a second the idea that Wren might have had something to do with this. Even with how weird she’s been lately, I know she wouldn’t talk to anyone about something I told her in private.
And certainly not to the press.
I repeat that mantra in my head as I end the call with Cal and get up, getting ready, thinking about his advice for me to tell Sloane as soon as possible.
When I’m out of the shower, dressed, and with my luggage heading down to the rental car, I pull out my phone and Google my own name. The first article that comes up is from a big publisher, and it knocks the air out of my lungs as I read it.
The details of what happened. Mandy and I agreeing to the contract marriage. Pictures from our wedding. Sly, paparazzi-like photos of me leaving my place. Photos of me and Mandy, Mandy and Christie Elle. And then—finally—a section on me and Wren, capped off with a question about whether we’re the real thing.
When I exit back out to the search, there are plenty of other articles cropping up, addressing the first one.
“Luca McKenzie and His Contract Wife”
“NHL Star from Milwaukee Frost Forces an Arranged Marriage”
“Is Love Doomed? Reflections on the McKenzie Situation”
How can strangers be reflecting onthe McKenzie situationwhen I feel like I haven’t even had the chance to reflect on it yet? I know I shouldn’t, but I tap over to social media, jaw getting tighter and tighter as I scroll through posts and comments about Wren and me.
Guy like that needs to hire a wife, we’re all fucked.
I always knew there was something creepy about him.
Yeah and this whole thing with the team manager girl is fake, too. You can tell.
“McKenzie?” the driver calls, and for a second I step back, thinking it’s a member of the press. But then I see him standing outside the car, giving me an odd look.
“Yeah.” I grab my luggage and bring it to the car. “That’s me.”
The ride is silent, the driver getting my hints about not wanting to talk after a few seconds of prompting for conversation. I get out at the airport, find my gate, and sit heavily, knowing I shouldn’t look at my phone again.
Then it’s in my hand, but instead of tapping over to the news results again, I see a single email from a Frost address.
It’s Coach.
Subject: Emergency Meeting, My Office
Just fucking great.
Wren
Once, in Thailand, I ate some mango sticky rice that had been sitting out for too long and got the worst food poisoning of my life. I suffered in our luxury hotel room, rolling from side to side, writhing in pain.
