Sidelined
Sidelined
Emma Carter’s butt had gone numb from sitting in the same cushioned seat for three hours. Not even the luxury boxes at Boston Arena had chairsfortable enough for the marathon that was yoff hockey. The crowd roared as the final buzzer sounded–Boston des 3, Montreal 2.
She stood and stretched, watching as her husband Jack scored the winning goal in overtime. The fans stomped and chanted his name, their hero on ice. Emma smiled, genuinely happy for him despite everything
else.
“Mrs. Reynolds? Would you like me to call your car?” the suite attendant asked, already gathering her empty
water bottles.
“Not yet, thanks. I’m heading down to congratte the team.” Emma grabbed her purse, a simple leather tote that shed hriously with the designer outfits of the other hockey wives.
The attendant’s smile tightened. “Oh, I believe there’s a private team celebration tonight. yers only”
Emma’s phone buzzed with a text from Jack: “Don’t wait up. Team party at Murphy’s.
She read between the lines. Don’t show up. Don’t embarrass me. Again,
“Right. Of course.” Emma forced a smile. “I’ll take that car now.”
in
Three hours and two unanswered callster, Emma sat cross–legged on their king–sized bed,ptop open to a spreadsheet that tracked the household budget. Jack made millions, but old habits die hard. Her grandfather had taught her to watch every penny, even when you had billions of them.
The front <b>door </b>mmed downstairs. Emma closed herptop and took a deep breath.
“Em? You still up?” Jack’s voice echoed through their too–big house, slightly slurred.
“In the bedroom,” she called back, slipping on her sses like armor.
Jack appeared in the doorway, still in his game–day suit, tie hanging loose around his neck. At thirty–two, he was in his hockey prime–six–foot–two, shoulders like a coat hanger, jawline that could cut ss. He’d been gorgeous when they met in college. Now he was *sculpted*.
“Helluva game, huh?” He grinned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Did you see thatst goal?”
“It was amazing. Emma smiled genuinely. “That <b>spin </b>move was insane.” <fn82c8> Get full chapters from Find★Novel</fn82c8>
“Coach said it’s going on the season highlight reel,” Jack loosened his tie further but didn’t move to take <b>it </b>off. He just stood there, swaying slightly.
Emma’s stomach knotted. Something was wrong.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. No. I mean–Jack reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“What’s that?” Emma nodded toward the envelope, though she already knew. The same dread she’d been feeling for months crystallized into something solid <b>and </b>cold.
—
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Jack to the top the herds were theforter and bumped against her knee
<i>“</i>Dovera papers,” he said, his voice oddly five. My terepre draw them upst week?
En dat the ag ter name was typed on the front in cold, official letters She should cry the thought distantly the should be shocked instead, the felt like shed teen watching this train approach for
“Were you going to discuss this with me first, or just throw legal documents at my face? The words came out
Eater than she fest
Jack had the decency to look ufortable for about half a second
“Look, we both know this isn’t working” He gestured between them “You’re <i>you</i>, and fm.”
“You’re what, Jack?”
“Tm Jack Reynolds now He squared his shoulders. Tve got endorsement deals. Magazine covers. I need someone who understands this lifestyle?
Emmaughed, she couldn’t help it. This lifestyle? You mean the one where I’ve supported you through three team changes and two injuries? Where I’ve moved cities four times in six years? That lifestyle?”
“See, this is what I mean: Jack pointed at her usingly. “You’re always keeping score.”
“I’m a numbers person. Sue me Emma picked up the envelope but didn’t open it.
“The thing is,” Jack continued, pacing now, I’ve met someone who gets it. She understands the demands, the
spotlight.”
Emma’sugh turned hollow “Wow So there’s already a recement. Who is she? Let me guess–one of those j******** models who’s beenmenting on your photos?
Jack’s silence was answer enough.
“How long?” Emma asked.
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me
<b>Jack </b>sighed dramatically. “A few months. It just happened.”
Emma stood, suddenly unable to have this conversation in the bed they’d shared for eight years. Things don’t just happen, Jack. You make choices.”
“Fine. I chose someone who makes more sense for me now.” He threw his hands up. Tm not the same guy who married you in college. I need…”
“More?” Emma supplied
“Different.” Jack softened his tone, as if that made it better. “You’re smart, Em. Too sma for this world, honestly. But <b>you </b>don’t fit anymore. You hide at games. You wear Target when everyone else wears Prada “I like Target,” Emma said, knowing how ridiculous this argument was bing.
“The settlement’s <b>fair</b><b>,</b>” Jack continued, nodding at the envelope. “The house, a million cash, alimony for two years while you find yourself or whatever.”
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Sidelined.
Emma clutched the envelope tighter, crumpling it slightly. <b>She </b>thought about all the things Jack didn’t know-
about her family, her grandfather, the trust fund she’d never touched, the shares she owned inpanies whose names would make his head spin.
Her phone rang, cutting through the tense silence. Her grandfather’s photo lit up the screen.
Jack rolled his eyes.
Emma snatched the phone. I should take this.”
“Of course you should.” Jack grabbed a duffel bag from the closet–already packed, she noticed. “I’ll be at the Ritz until I find a ce. Mywyer’s number is in there. Don’t make this messy, Em.”
As Jack headed for the door, Emma called after him: “Jack?”
He turned, hand on the doorframe.
“Your career high record is twenty–eight goals in a season. My grandfather made twenty–eight million dors st week“.” She smiled sweetly. “Just keeping score.”
–
Jack’s face contorted in confusion as she answered the phone.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Emma said, watching her soon–to–be-ex–husband walk out. “Yes, I saw the game. Listen, I think I’m ready to take you up on that job offer after all.”
The job Jack thought was just some entry–level position at Mitchell Industries–owned by her grandfather, Franklin Mitchell, billionaire and majority owner of the Boston des hockey franchise.
As the front door mmed shut, Emma finally opened the envelope. Beneath the legal jargon was one simple truth: Jack Reynolds had just made the biggest mistake of his career.
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