I accidentally bought a hockey star at a charity auction.
Don’t ask me how—it happened fast. One minute I was sipping champagne, the next I was “dating” Rake Hanson, the league’s grumpiest player. Correction: a musclebound, six-foot-four mistake.
Rake Hanson is a walking cliché: too many abs, zero personality, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Not my type. At all.
Our chemistry? Frozen. Our date? A disaster. Our marriage? …Yeah, about that.
One wild night in Vegas later, I’m suddenly Mrs. Puck-Head. His agent insists we stay married for the season. My sanity insists otherwise. The problem?
My fake husband may grunt more than he speaks, but he kisses like he means it — and looks at me like I’m his winning goal. Every time he touches me, I forget why I can’t stand him.
Someone save me — before I fall for the grump with the big stick.
