Eleven years ago, I married the hockey player who swept me off my feet in college.
A year ago, we sat opposite each other and finalized our divorce.
I’ve tried to move on.
I’ve tried to forget him.
But even when we were drowning at rock bottom, Jackson Carter has always owned my heart.
From the outside looking in, we’re both doing just fine.
He’s the beloved captain of the Boston Blades.
I’m hustling my way to success with my photography business.
Then Jackson comes crashing back into my world, netting me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that can take my career to new heights.
Suddenly, I’m traveling with the Blades while desperately trying to keep my heart intact.
Hotel rooms. One-on-one interviews. Cross-country flights. Everywhere I turn, Jackson is there, a temptation I’m barely able to resist.
Until I stop resisting altogether.
One heart-wrenching kiss. One forbidden touch. We may not be married anymore but one thing still hasn’t changed—Jackson is mine.
And I’m forever his.
Chapter One
Holly
The groom is sporting hard wood.
And I’m not referring to the hockey stick he wields around TD Garden for the Boston Blades. No, I’m talking about the metaphorical type of wood—the one that sprang to life in his black tuxedo pants the minute his bride, Zoe, began the walk of all walks down the center aisle of Boston’s historical Trinity Church.
My knees burn against the scratchy red rug as I angle my camera to snap a photo of the groom’s awestruck expression. While Andre Beaumont—King Sin Bin to hockey fans across the country—may have hired me as his wedding photographer, I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in having his erection memorialized in between pictures of Zoe’s gorgeous, ivory lace gown and the flower girl prancing down the aisle like a cotton ball made of tulle.
Then again, it’s the ball-busting kind of photo that his teammates and brothers-in-hockey-gear would kill to get their hands on, and Andre should have known better than to rope me into this gig.
Swallowing an ill-timed laugh, my fingers slide over the camera’s familiar black, plastic frame.
Click.
One inappropriate photo down. Only one hundred-plus elegant ones to go.
Wedding photography isn’t my thing. And, sure, maybe it’s because I lived the Happily Ever After fairytale and came out on the other side with my gold band tucked away in my dresser and my newly signed divorce papers doused in wine, sweet-and-sour sauce, and dried tears.
It was a rough night.
Scratch that—it’s been a rough three years.
Like a moth to a flame, I lower the camera and slide my gaze to the second groomsman standing to the right of Andre. My grandmother once called him “strapping.” Accurate, I’ll admit, albeit begrudgingly. He’s built like a linebacker: tall and broad with muscular thighs that strain the fabric of his tuxedo pants. Dark brown hair that’s casually tousled in the same style he’s worn for years now. Even when he graced the glossy front page of Sports Illustrated last February, he looked exactly the same.
Some things change . . . he hasn’t.
Hard, square jaw. Formidable body. Shrewd brown eyes that I imagine terrify his opponents on the ice when he comes barreling toward them.
Jackson Carter.
Captain of the Boston Blades.
Otherwise known as my ex-husband.
Those astute dark eyes meet mine now, and I wait for the rush of familiar emotions to hit me like a freight train. Only, before I have the chance to do my usual shushing of my heart, Jackson’s full lips part and he mouths something that looks suspiciously like, “Did you just take a picture of his dick?”
And that right there, that’s the reason why I’ve felt so lost for the last three years.
Our marriage didn’t crumble because one of us cheated. Jackson isn’t that sort of guy, and I’ve always been a one-man kind of woman.
It didn’t combust in a ball of fiery flames because we fought like we were prepping our audition tapes for that trashy reality TV show Marriage Boot Camp.
No, we simply . . . grew apart.
He passed out on the couch.
I slept in the bed.
He ate meals with his teammates.
I chowed down on mine alone at my desk, late into the evening hours after my employees had already gone home to their families.
He reached out to Andre or the Blades goalie, Duke Harrison, when he needed to talk.
I acted like smothering my emotions was as easy as breathing.
Eleven years ago, I married the man who swept me off my feet during my first semester at Cornell University.
A year ago, we sat opposite each other at a wooden table, our feet locked on our respective sides instead of tangling together the way we’d always done, nothing but our signatures standing in the way of a divorce.
The cry fest with the Chinese food and wine came later that night. No matter how alone I’d felt prior to finalizing our divorce, spending that first night in our house—empty but for the select furniture I’d kept—had been a hard pill to swallow. Accepting the fact that we’d failed at the till death do us part of our vows was even more difficult.
Camera feeling heavy in my hands, I lift my gaze from Jackson’s mouth and return silently: “Blackmail.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and my pathetic heart dives into an incessant thud-thud-thud that could rival the quick-paced tempo of an EDM song. Dammit. Those creasing laugh lines are more attractive than they have any right to be. Hell, the fact that I still find Jackson attractive at all feels like unjust punishment, doled out for some unknown bad misdeed I’ve committed in life. Considering my worst transgression of late is accidentally tossing half a burger into a recycling bin, the unyielding attraction seems a bit unfair.
He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, in that revealing way of his that tells me he’s trying to wrestle back a grin, and I nearly hurl my camera at his head in retribution.
I can just imagine the newspaper headlines now: Ex-wife of Famous NHL Player Interrupts Wedding of the Season by Flying Camera—Updates to Follow.
Once upon a time, I’d made it my mission to make Jackson’s infamous steel resolve disintegrate in inappropriate places. He always got me back—generally in bed with me fisting the sheets and his tight body powering into mine.
Now, I swallow hard at the memories and divert my attention to the bride.
Zoe radiates warmth and happiness. When her lips turn up behind the gossamer fabric of her veil, I readjust my grip on the camera and rise to my haunches. Knees cracking, I scoot back to avoid blocking someone’s view. The five bridesmaids to my left all smile, as if on cue, and I catch a shot of them, too.
The light streaming in through the stained-glass windows paints them in a mural of jeweled tones, and I know—even if I make my living taking photos of professional athletes—that the picture will be one that’s kept on their walls for years to come.
I get Zoe next, just as she steps up to meet Andre and her father gives her away.
Whether or not Andre is still sporting wood, I’ve got no idea. I keep my gaze above the belt, so to speak, as I step into the dance that’s become as familiar to me as breathing over the last number of years: finding the best angles for the best photos.
Beaumont looks down at his bride like she’s his greatest gift, and then he throws tradition out the window by lifting the veil and smoothing it back over her head with a mammoth-sized hand.
The Blades’ toughest son of a bitch grins, looks at the priest, and announces, “Sorry, Father, I’ll always be the worst kind of sinner.”
“Andre—” Zoe’s hands flutter upward.
He promptly cradles her face with one hand, binds an arm around her back, and, without giving anyone the chance to object, drops a heady kiss onto her mouth.
“Hell fucking yeah!” shouts one of the guys from the groom’s side. “Get it, man. Get. It!”
Someone in the pews follows up with an equally boisterous, “Don’t get her pregnant in the church, dude!”
The guests roar with laughter, palms kissing with thunderous applause.
I capture it all on camera:
Zoe’s wide gaze as her fiancé steals a kiss before the ceremony officially begins.
The top of Andre’s dark head as he glides his mouth over his bride’s, his hand flexing at the small of her back, as though he’s desperate to strip her out of the gown and touch her bare skin.
The bridesmaids whistling.
Father Christopher’s red face and twitching lips.
My lens finds Jackson.
Click.
His hands dive into the pockets of his well-tailored pants.
Click.
He grazes his teeth over his lower lip.
Click.
Familiar brown eyes land on my face, startling in their intensity.
Click.
Long ago, he’d look at me just like he is now and whisper in that rough, endearing Texas drawl of his, “Always you.”
The sentiment used to send my heart soaring.
Now he only averts his gaze, stubbled cheeks hollowing with a heavy breath, and turns back to the bride and groom.
Click.
The final shutter of the camera mimics the steady rhythm of my heart.
One inappropriate photo down.
Five too many pictures of my ex-husband already catalogued.
Father Christopher clears his throat. “Perhaps we can hold off on the impregnating until after we exchange vows?”
I snort.
And then the four-year-old ring bearer seals Andre Beaumont’s sinner status for good. Thrusting one little arm up in the air as Andre releases Zoe and steps back, the kid shouts, “Mommy! Mommy, Mr. Beaumont has a sword in his pants! I want one that big!”
I find Andre’s shocked expression with my lens.
Click.
I may not have the husband or the white picket fence or the two-point-five kids, but goddamn it, I love my job.
Some days, it feels like enough.
Chapter Two
Holly
I hate my job.
Beneath my office desk, my bare toes curl into the area rug I picked out five years ago when Carter Photography became something more concrete than an idea percolating in my head. I’ve had staff come and go, but this rug has been a constant through it all.
Why are you thinking about the damn rug?
Ahem. Probably because I don’t want to contemplate the proposition Steven Fairfax has laid out for me. A proposal that . . . oh God, it’d be hell. Like, ‘jump feet first into a vat of molten lava and then roll around in the sand’ sort of hell.
Black eyes blink back at me from across my desk. “Do you want me to go over all of that again, Ms. Carter?”
Snagging a pen off the top of my planner, I tap the butt against the desk. “I’m going to shoot it straight with you, Steven—do you mind if I call you Steven?”
The producer from ESPN’s top competitor, Sports 24/7, continues his one-sided staring contest. More rapid blinking ensues, and I’m forced to consider being a good Samaritan and offer my eye drops. Or maybe I threw him for a loop by not leaping for joy ten minutes ago when he broke out the projector and analytical graphs to brag about his TV network’s annual audience numbers compared to ESPN’s. Honestly, it was all very reminiscent of a whose-dick-is-bigger competition.
According to Steven Fairfax’s presentation, Sports 24/7 would be the uncomfortably large variety only found in pornos.
Either way, not even a symbolic ten-inch penis can change my mind.
See: the vat of molten lava and sand bit.
He treats me to a creepy tongue swipe, along with another round of robust blinking. “Will you take the offer?”
Over my dead body.
I shove one foot into a ballet slipper, then do the same with the other. Time for business. “Listen, Steven, it’s quite an honor that you flew out here from L.A. to talk to me about your new show—”
“Getting Pucked.”
Adding insult to injury, the show’s name is downright cringeworthy despite the intentional pun. And, if memory serves me well, my grandmother also had a hockey romance novel on her bookshelf by the same name.
The depressing fact is, “getting pucked” in reality isn’t as amazing as fiction makes it out to be—although is reality ever better?
At Steven’s impatient drumming of his fingers on my desk, I force a tight smile. “Right, Getting Pucked.” More smiling on my part; my lips peel back from my teeth and I briefly worry that I look positively feral. When Steven doesn’t shirk back in fear, I let out a controlled sigh of relief. “Listen, it sounds like a great premise. It really does, but—”
“Nothing’s been done like this for hockey before. Football? There’s Hard Knocks over on HBO and A Football Life televised by the NFL Network, but Getting Pucked has the ability to blow those successes out of the water. It’s a gamechanger for Sports 24/7.” Steven’s dark eyes brighten with excitement as he fidgets with the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “Can you imagine it? An intimate camera crew following the players of the Boston Blades—getting in their heads, observing their daily lives, showing the world what it really means to play for the NHL.”
I’m not buying it. Yes, I have my own reasons for not wanting Carter Photography to act as a sacrificial lamb for the cause but, ignoring the elephant in the room named Jackson Carter for a hot second, Steven has yet to answer one pressing question . . .
“Why the Blades?” I ask. “Why not the Kings since your studios are in L.A? Or even the Blackhawks? Let’s get real—Chicago won the Cup last year, not us.”
I say “us” like I still watch the Blades, which I don’t.
Seeing Jackson in his element does funny things to my stomach and inevitably leads to devouring a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream in a single sitting.
It’s not a pretty sight to behold.
Steven sits back, hands interlacing over his round belly. “You want to get real, Holly?” His mouth curls in a smarmy grin. “The truth is, everyone knows the Blades are on the verge of a complete overhaul. Half their first line is predicted to retire this year. Duke Harrison, for one. Who knows what’ll happen next season with him gone—the Blades have operated on a we-have-the-Mountain-and-we’re-good rationale for at least four years, and it’s no secret that Tommy Kase isn’t ready to fill Harrison’s shoes. Then there’s talks of Weston Cain bowing out. Man’s already got one reconstructed hip on the books.”
I wince at the mention of the Blades’ defenseman. At twenty-eight, Cain is still young, but the sport doesn’t play nice when you’ve got a penchant for dropping gloves and throwing fists. The body might be a temple, but on the ice, it’s a punching bag on the best of days and roadkill on the worst.
“And then there’s Jackson Carter.”
My gaze cuts to Steven’s, even as my stomach twists with unease. “Oh? What about him?”
“There’re rumors.”
He says it like I should know what he’s talking about. Me, the wife. The ex-wife. Jackson and I might be friendly whenever we cross paths—like we were at Andre and Zoe’s wedding two weekends ago—but we don’t talk otherwise. I don’t pick up my phone to send him a how are you? text, and he definitely doesn’t reach out either.
The Cold War has reached Boston, Massachusetts, my friends.
Appropriate, I think, since it’s so damn cold out for half the year. Which couldn’t be more different than my hometown of Natchitoches, Louisiana—a small, historical blip on the map some three hours outside of New Orleans. Living in New England for more than a decade, though, has thickened my blood in more ways than one.
I set the pen down and push away from my desk to stand. “Steven, personal reasons aside”—it’s not like he didn’t blatantly check out my bare ring finger when he first walked in—“Carter Photography isn’t equipped to handle the scale of a production like Getting Pucked. We’re a small company that packs a big punch, but we have our limits.”
“That’s what we want.”
Yeah, sure he does. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right now, you think that’s what you want. But when we’re knee-deep in preseason, and there are multiple players’ storylines to relay to the viewers, whose do we prioritize?” Folding my arms over my pink knit dress, I tilt my head and study him. “I know where you’re going with this—you want the ex-wife of the Blades’ beloved captain trailing him and making you some damn good TV. If you wanted this to succeed, you would have approached a media firm that’s as deep as the Blades’ roster.” My chin lifts. “Instead, you chose me. Us. Carter Photography. Ten employees total—three of which are strictly admin.”
Not even an eye twitch from the peanut gallery. Watching me steadily, Steven says, “Carter Photography has won multiple awards in the last few years. Your photos have graced the front page of every big-time sports magazine in the States. Every pro-sports team in the Boston area has you on their payroll because of the quality that you deliver—you and your nine other employees.”
He’s not wrong.
In the last few years, the company has skyrocketed to heights I never even allowed myself to consider tangible. Carter Photography started as nothing more than a hobby. It was my way of discovering what made me happy when faced day in and day out with the fire Jackson applied to his career. Living with a formidable force like my ex-husband . . . Well, it was either start a fire of my own or be swept up in the maelstrom that was his everyday life.
I opted for the former at the risk of being destroyed by the latter.
Turns out, my knack for taking pictures was something others appreciated. The New England Patriots have us creating visual anecdotes that they use on their social media platforms. The Boston Celtics have us on speed dial—every time they want innovation in the form of commercials or mini-documentaries about their players, Carter Photography is the first firm they call.
I might not be able to spiral a football or shoot a free throw, but I’ve spent the latter part of my twenties and early thirties making Carter Photography indispensable to New England’s professional sports teams.
And it cost you everything, didn’t it?
My lids fall shut, and I rock back on my heels as though experiencing the blow of my failed marriage all over again.
Where’s Ben & Jerry when you need them?
“I won’t lie,” Steven says, “your rocky relationship with Jackson Carter only makes this all the more interesting. But your divorce isn’t why I flew out to Boston, Holly.” When I look his way, he plants his hand down on the spreadsheets he laid out earlier in our meeting. “The teams love you and your company, and if you ever opened Carter Photography to franchises outside of the Northeast, you’d be swamped with offers. So, we’re bringing L.A. and Sports 24/7 to you here in Beantown.”
I swallow, my mouth feeling parched like I’ve skipped the liquids and have gone straight for sawdust. “Only tourists call Boston Beantown.”
“Right.” He raps his knuckles on the desk, once, twice. “Whaddaya say? You agree to be the director of photography behind Getting Pucked and we’ll supply any additional staff you need to make this happen—their wages on us. We need your eye for storytelling—the way you instinctively know where the camera needs to be—and the guys feel comfortable with you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that the guys are comfortable because they’ve known me as Jackson’s wife for far longer than they’ve known me as the ex. At the end of the day, though, if there’s anyone who can convince them to open up their lives on TV, it’s me.
“Did the board sign off on production already?” I ask, moving to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooks Arlington Street and Boston Common. If I stare hard enough through the clusters of trees, I can spot tourists meandering through the park.
Behind me, Steven grunts his affirmation. “Already done. Contracts have been signed for months now—we were only waiting till the beginning of preseason to start. Other shows film training during the summer but we want in on the real action. That’s priority, and you’re the missing puzzle piece to the master plan.”
Preseason begins in less than three weeks, which means Sports 24/7 sure waited a long time before approaching me. With a timeline like theirs, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that, despite the silver-tongued bullshit being spewed, Carter Photography was not their first choice. Might not have been their second or third either.
I’m the farthest thing from a rocket scientist.
Unfortunately for Mr. Steven Fairfax, however, I’m no pushover. I learned from the best—my grandmother who raised my brother and me, all while owning and solely operating a corner store after my granddaddy died. Once, she even pulled a gun on a man who dared rob her store. She fired, too. Caught him right in the ass as he was fleeing the scene.
Crazy woman ruled with an iron fist until her death this year, and I like to think that some of that bullheadedness trickled down to me.
In droves.
I rest my backside against the windowpane and stare at the gussied-up L.A. businessman seated at my desk. Unlike him, I don’t bother beating around the bush. “Let’s talk pay.”
Steven’s brows shoot up at my boldness. It takes him a second to recover, but then he’s leaning forward to riffle through his papers. He slips one sheet from the rest and slides it across the desk with the tip of one finger. “I think you’ll be pleased with the number we’ve come up with for you.”
I kill the immediate eagerness in my chest. Don’t let him read you like that. Until recently, my emotions were as transparent as the swirling winds just before a hurricane. I hid nothing. I lived my life in unedited freedom, always convinced that every person I met was just another friendship waiting to be started.
Learning the truth about my parents in my grandmother’s will changed all that.
But only the living can adjust to what secrets the dead reveal. Time that particular revelation with my divorce, and is it any wonder why my heart went on lockdown?
I approach the desk and quickly scan the contract. My jaw hardens when I spot the number that’s highlighted and bolded. Underlined twice, too, just in case I couldn’t see it otherwise. There could be unicorn stickers on that sheet and it still wouldn’t impress me.
It’s just like a ten-inch dick to be all show and no delivery.
Steven mistakes my silence for shock. “Exciting, I know. That’s a healthy price for four months of work,” Steven murmurs like we’re in on our own little secret. “And, of course, all of your expenses will be compensated for by the network. Travel, accommodations, dining. We pay the best for the best.”
“Double it and I’ll sign the contract today.”
“What?”
I meet his gaze without flinching. “You said that the contracts with the Blades were signed months ago. And yet, you’re here just three weeks before preseason starts. The first game is on September fifteenth. A network like yours wouldn’t show up so close to deadline unless you were in a tough spot.” Knuckles planted on the desk, I try to look more intimidating than my five-foot-one frame will ever be. “I can read between the lines, Steven. You tried to hire other companies first. For whatever reason, they turned you down. And so here you are.”
His Adam’s apple dodges down his throat. “And so here I am,” he rasps, the rapid blinking resuming once again.
He’s out of luck—there’s no way I’m offering my eye drops now.
Sorry, not sorry, buddy.
“You’re out of options and signing this contract puts me in an unfavorable position.” Let’s face it, spending hours upon hours in Jackson’s company will send me into diabetic shock. I’ll be lucky if I don’t drive good ol’ Moose Tracks into early extinction. “Here’s how this is going to work. Double it, or Carter Photography is off the table and you’re back to square one.”
Checkmate.
As I wait for Steven Fairfax to answer, I make a point to keep my expression neutral.
He makes another pass of his tongue along his bottom lip. Then reaches into his briefcase to pull out yet another folder. Setting it on the desk, he flicks it open and spins it around so that the words are legible from where I stand.
“You know,” he drawls with a subtle edge, “your ex-husband warned us that you wouldn’t agree to our first offer. Seems he still knows you pretty well.”
Every thought scatters on my next exhale.
I shake my head, mouth parting and then snapping closed as the words sink in. Jackson spoke to him? It sounds so utterly ludicrous that laughter bubbles to life in my chest, demanding to be released in all of its sarcastic, bitter glory.
Not now. Be professional!
“I’m sorry”—my gaze falls to the contract pinned to the desk under my palm—“but did you say that Jackson told you that I’d ask for more money? When in the world . . . why would he—”
“We were required to meet with every player to re-verify that they would allow us to film them. The owner’s request when we first did our rounds. Same with the coaches.” Sports 24/7’s producer only shrugs. “Only this time, Carter wouldn’t sign unless you were the one who . . . Well, you can see where I’m going with this.”
You can see where I’m going with this.
Oh yeah. I can absolutely see where Steven Fairfax is going with this, and my professional veneer cracks a little more. So, it wasn’t at all that Sports 24/7 had gone through other companies before arriving at mine. Or maybe they had. Hell, maybe they’d even gone so far as to sign on one of the countless firms across the country—until Jackson threw a goddamn wrench in their plans and had them spinning a complete one-eighty in the opposite direction.
A direction that points unfailingly at me.
My fingers clench at my sides, nails carving half-moons into my palms.
I’m going to kill him—and I’m going to make it hurt, too.
His precious hockey stick right to the twin pucks between his legs.
It’d serve him right for interfering with my life after we made the joint decision to go our separate ways.
I stride to my office door and yank it open so hard that Shelby, my poor assistant, flings herself at the wall. The folder she was holding drops to the floor and her hands lift in the air as if to shield her face.
After three years of working together, her reaction doesn’t come as a shock. She’s an aspiring actress with a love for drama, even if she’s never had a single callback. Every few months she tells me that her big break is coming and that she’s preparing her resignation letter—and every time, she waltzes back into the office the very next morning like nothing happened.
Even so, I’m totally going to have to pick up her favorite peanut butter brownies from Mike’s Pastry on the way in tomorrow or she’ll be giving me the stink eye for the rest of the week.
When Steven calls out my name, I glance over my shoulder at him.
He gestures to the papers spread about my desk. “Do we have a deal? You take the six-figures and you sign on with Getting Pucked for four short months. This will be massive exposure for your business. Massive.”
Thirty minutes ago, I’d been hesitant to sign onto a project that would have me working in close spaces with Jackson for months. Hesitant, but still intrigued, despite my reservations. A job like this could be the difference between keeping the business relegated to New England or expanding across the country.
But knowing what I do now—that Jackson won’t even commit to the show unless Carter Photography is involved—my answer is a lot firmer than a maybe.
My fingers circle the doorknob. “No deal, Mr. Fairfax. You can tell Jackson Carter that I don’t need his pity. Better yet, I’ll tell him myself.”
The Cold War is about to come to a boiling, explosive end.
Damn you, Jackson. Damn. You.