Page 85 of Lucky Puck

“What the hell,” Ax says, moving in. Several other patrons close in around us. A couple of them raise their phones to video the scene in anticipation of some fireworks.

“Nothing to see here,” I say, hoping I’m right as I wrap my arms around Brooks.

Nora laughs and keeps laughing, clearly past tipsy and well past reason.

A man I recognize as a contributing reporter for Bar Stool Sports shoves his way through our growing audience, phone at the ready.

He asks Nora, “What’s your name? How do you know Brody Holden?”

She seems to pull herself together as I try to extricate Brooks from the gathering crowd.

“I’m Nora Shade, the old flame.”

She points at me and Brooks, trapping us in place. “Apparently Mrs. Holden can’t stand the heat.”

That statement causes gasping and a flurry of activity from the crowd. I step forward and take Nora by the arm. “You’re leaving.”

“I’ll go wherever you want⁠—”

“Not with me.” I say it loud enough for everyone’s mobile phones to pick it up.

“I’ll escort her.” Kara shows up, white-faced. “I think Nora might be a little tipsy.” She looks around at the crowd of people and tugs at Nora’s arm, moving her. Kara’s very strong, and I wouldn’t want to be woman-handled by her. The throng around us separates, clearing a path for her to lead Nora toward the door.

The Bar Stool reporter follows—or tries to. I catch him by the shoulder, stopping him.

“Leave it alone.”

“It’s a free press.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gary Edwin. I write for Bar Stool⁠—”

“How about an exclusive interview with me and my bride instead?” Holding onto Brooks, I grin, but the sincerity is missing. I hold my breath waiting for the reporter to answer as he considers the offer and pray that Kara gets a good head start in the meantime.

“Alright. I’ll take it.” Gary nods, handing over his card. “You’re a stand-up guy, Holden. Call me tomorrow.”

We arrive home at midnight after a silent car ride. Trying to concentrate on the short drive barely keeps the chaos of emotions and turmoil of figuring out what to do about this predicament with Brooks from churning in an endless loop. I know very well clips of the scene with Nora and Brooks will be all over social media before morning.

The idea of those clips reflecting poorly on Brooks bothers the hell out of me. I refuse to speculate why that is besides ordinary decency. Because of course that’s the only reason. Never mind that I’m not bothered in the least how the social media gossip will reflect on me.

Walking through my front door, two things become clear.

First, I need to get a fake divorce from Brooks sooner than later.

Second, I somehow don’t feel good about that.

So I’m less clear than ever about what’s going on in my life—except when it comes to hockey. That’s where I know exactly what to do and what I want.

“Hockey is what I need to stick to.” I say the words out loud, and I don’t blame Brooks for her confused expression, but then she nods, her face clearing as she sheds her coat, revealing my jersey stretched across her generous chest.

“I get it,” she says. And I believe her.

“I’m fucking starving.” I head to the kitchen, ignoring the pull I feel toward her. She follows me as if she feels the same pull, like there’s some magnetic connection between us that defies free will.

“Good,” she says, trying to sound cheerful. “Because I cooked earlier. Let me heat it up for you.”

“Really? You cook?”