Married To The Hockey Devil

Welcome to my world

Chapter 4

Welcome To My World

Emma's POV

The courthouse wedding took eleven minutes.

I know because I counted every single one of them, standing beside a man I had known for exactly two conversations, signing my name on a piece of paper that would legally bind us together for an entire hockey season.

There were no flowers there were no guests. Just Robert as our witness, a clerk who looked bored out of her mind, and Mason beside me in a black suit, staring straight ahead like he was signing a business deal instead of a marriage certificate.

Which, I reminded myself, he was.

"You may sign here," the clerk said, sliding the paper toward me.

My hand shook slightly as I wrote my name. Emma Collins. Then, a line below it, I wrote it again with his last name attached, and something about seeing those two words together made my stomach twist in a way I didn't have time to examine.

"Congratulations," the clerk said flatly, already reaching for the next folder on her desk.

That was it eleven minutes, and I was a married woman.

By the time we walked out of the courthouse, someone had already leaked it. My phone buzzed nonstop in my coat pocket, and when I finally checked it in the car, I understood why.

BREAKING NEWS The Hockey Devil Secretly Married!

My name was already trending, misspelled twice in the first three articles I opened. Photos I didn't remember anyone taking were plastered across every entertainment site, comment sections filling up faster than I could scroll.

Some people called me lucky some called me a gold digger. A few had already found my old diner and were posting pictures of it like it was some kind of scandal in itself.

"Don't read the comments," Mason said, not looking up from his own phone.

"Bit late for that advice."

He almost smiled almost.

The penthouse took my breath away in a way I wasn't prepared for. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city, furniture that probably cost more than my apartment building, a kitchen bigger than the diner's entire dining room.

Everything gleamed everything felt like it belonged in a magazine, not in a place someone actually lived.

I felt like I had walked into the wrong life.

Mason walked me through it with the same flat tone he used for everything, gesturing at rooms like he was reading off an inventory list.

"Kitchen, living room, gym, home theater, though I don't use it much your room is down that hall, second door."

"Thrilling tour," I muttered.

He handed me a folded piece of paper without responding. "House rules."

I unfolded it and skimmed through a typed list, numbered and formal, things like ‘’Do not enter my office without permission'

‘Meals will be prepared by staff, do not attempt to cook’

‘Public appearances require approval forty-eight hours in advance.’

I read the whole thing twice, then looked up at him standing there with his arms crossed, clearly expecting me to fold it neatly and tuck it away like a good, obedient wife.

Instead, I tore it straight down the middle.

His eyebrows shot up.

"I'm not one of your employees," I said, setting the two halves on the counter between us.

"If we are doing this, we are doing it my way too. So here are my rules." I held up a finger.

"You don't order me around like I work for you. I already have a boss, and it is not you."

Second finger. "We don't fight for the cameras and we don't fight for real either, not unless it actually matters.”

“And respect goes both ways in this house, Mason. I don't care how many championships you've won."

For a moment he just stared at me, and I braced myself for the temper I'd already seen once, the one that made headlines and got him into trouble outside nightclubs.

Instead, something shifted in his expression. Not anger. Something closer to amusement, like he genuinely hadn't expected anyone to talk to him this way inside his own home.

"Fine," he said simply.

"Fine?"

"You heard me. Fine." He picked up the torn halves of his own rules and tossed them in the trash without another word, like it cost him nothing at all.

I didn't know what to do with that, so I said nothing and went to find my room instead.

That evening, we had to leave for a dinner Diane had arranged, something about being seen together in public as soon as possible while the story was still fresh.

The moment we stepped out of the building, a wall of photographers surged toward us, flashes going off so fast and bright I had to blink against them, voices shouting questions over each other.

"Mrs. Brooks, over here!"

"Emma, how does it feel to be married to the Hockey Devil?"

"Mason, any comment on the scandal?"

I froze for half a second, overwhelmed by the noise and the lights and the sheer number of strangers pressing in around us, and then I felt Mason's arm slide around my waist, pulling me close against his side, steady and sure, like he'd done it a hundred times before.

"Smile," he murmured near my ear. "It is almost over."

I don't know why it worked, but it did. With his arm around me, the chaos didn't feel quite as loud. I let myself lean into him slightly, just enough to look natural for the cameras, and for one strange, unwelcome moment, I actually felt safe standing next to him.

The car ride to dinner passed in silence, his arm no longer around me, both of us staring out our separate windows like the last five minutes hadn't happened at all.

By the time we made it back to the penthouse that night, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with my usual sixteen-hour shifts.

I said goodnight to Mason in the hallway between our rooms, short and businesslike, the way I imagined roommates might.

"Goodnight," he said, watching me a beat too long before I turned toward my door.

I told myself firmly, standing there with my hand on the doorknob, that none of this was real.

Not the arm around my waist, not the strange safety I'd felt in the middle of all those flashing cameras, not the way his amusement had looked almost warm for half a second in the kitchen.

It was a contract nothing more.

But as I closed my door and leaned back against it, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling settling into my chest, quiet and stubborn, refusing to leave.

Living under the same roof as Mason Brooks, pretending to be his wife, was going to be a lot harder than I'd let myself believe walking into this.

Because somewhere between the torn-up rules and his arm around my waist, some small, foolish part of me had stopped thinking about the five million dollars entirely.