I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

Cecelia POV:

I noticed something was wrong with my body before I even opened my eyes.

A heavy, muscular arm was draped across my waist, pinning me to a mattress that wasn't mine. I froze, my heart hammering a brutal, frantic rhythm against my ribs. I forced myself to turn my head.

A man lay beside me, his bare back a vast landscape of sun-kissed skin and hard muscle. Even in sleep, he radiated a dangerous, overwhelming energy. I had never seen him before in my life.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream, scrambling backward until my spine hit the tufted headboard. The movement sent a wave of nausea through me, my head pounding in time with my racing heart. I looked down. I was wearing a man's oversized silk pajama top, gaping open. My clothes from last night were completely gone.

What happened?

I squeezed my eyes shut, digging into my brain, but the entire night was a terrifying, gaping void. A black hole punctuated only by disjointed flashes of neon lights, the throb of heavy bass, and the burn of tequila. Nothing else.

As I gripped the silk sheets, a cold weight on my left hand caught my attention. I stared at it, my blood running cold. A diamond ring. It wasn't huge, but it was brilliant, catching the morning light and throwing tiny, mocking rainbows across the bed.

Where did this come from? I didn't own this. I wouldn't even know how to buy something like this.

My trembling gaze darted to the nightstand. Next to a half-empty glass of water lay a folded piece of heavy paper. I leaned in, my breath hitching. A marriage certificate. The names printed on it were stark and undeniable: Garrick Sinclair and Cecelia Dalton.

A roaring filled my ears. I didn't know how I got to this stark white, impossibly high-ceilinged room. I didn't know where the ring came from, and I certainly didn't know how I had ended up married to a stranger. A profound wave of shame and utter helplessness washed over me, hot and suffocating.

The man beside me stirred. He rolled over, and my breath caught in my throat. It was a face built by angels and decorated by devils. Sharp jaw, straight nose, a mouth that looked like it could be cruel. Even asleep, his brows were drawn together in a look of perpetual annoyance.

I knew that face.

It was him. Garrick Sinclair. Captain of the Chicago Mustangs. The Beast. A man as famous for his brutal, unforgiving force on the ice as he was for his cold, dismissive attitude off it.

His eyes snapped open. They weren't hazy with sleep. They were a piercing, arctic blue, sharp as skates on new ice. They sliced right through me, pinning me to the bed like a specimen.

"Who are you?" His voice was a low rasp, laced with ice. He looked at me like I was something he'd found crawling on his floor.

My hand trembled violently as I pointed to the certificate. "We... I don't... I think we got married."

His eyes flicked to the paper, then back to me. A short, harsh laugh escaped his lips. It was a sound devoid of humor, filled only with pure contempt.

"Price."

The word hung in the air, heavy and degrading.

"What?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

"Name your price. What's it going to cost me to make you disappear?" He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. His chest was a roadmap of old scars and hard muscle, a testament to his violent profession.

Humiliation burned my cheeks, bringing hot tears to my eyes. "I'm not-I don't even know how this happened! I don't remember anything! I don't want your money!"

My desperate denial only deepened the sneer on his face. He saw it as a cheap tactic. "Every woman who climbs into my bed says that. They all end up cashing the check."

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed. "Marco, get up to the penthouse. I need a package handled."

He hung up and tossed a hotel bathrobe at me. It landed in a heap on my lap. "Put that on and get out. My lawyer will be in touch. Don't try anything."

I clutched the soft fabric, feeling like a piece of trash he was casually sweeping out of his life. I refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of him.

I scrambled into the bathroom and locked the door. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger. Smudged makeup, tangled hair, and a few faint, damning bruises on my neck that I had no memory of getting. My stomach churned violently, and I leaned over the toilet, dry heaving until my throat was raw.

A sharp knock sounded on the suite door. I heard a man's voice, respectful. "Sir, everything is ready."

I flushed the toilet and splashed cold water on my face, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dry them. When I emerged, Garrick was standing by the window, staring out at the Las Vegas sunrise, his back to me. He didn't even glance in my direction.

He just waved a dismissive hand. "Take her back where she came from."

The man, Marco, gestured for me to follow. He was polite but firm, his presence leaving no room for argument. As he led me out, I took one last look at Garrick Sinclair. He hadn't moved. It was as if I had never been there at all.

In the silent descent of the elevator, Marco offered me a bottle of water and a thick stack of cash. "Mr. Sinclair said this is for your trouble. And your travel expenses."

The wad of bills felt like a physical slap. I pushed his hand away, my voice trembling but resolute. "Tell your boss I'm not the kind of person he thinks I am."

Marco looked surprised but took the money back without a word. He led me to a black sedan waiting at the hotel's private entrance.

The car pulled away from the curb. I looked back at the glittering facade of the Vegas hotel, a neon palace where my quiet life had just been irrevocably broken.

"Where to, Miss?" Marco asked gently, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I gave him the address of my flower shop in Chicago. A world away from this one.

As the car merged onto the highway, the tears I'd been holding back finally fell, leaving silent tracks of shame on my cheeks. I was completely lost. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew my simple, peaceful life was over.

I pulled out my phone. Fifteen missed calls from my mom. A fresh wave of panic washed over me. How could I ever explain this to her? How could I explain it to myself?

Garrick POV:

The icy spray of the shower did nothing to wash away the lingering irritation. Or the baffling confusion.

How the hell did I end up married?

I was Garrick Sinclair. I didn't make careless mistakes. I didn't lose control. Yet, my memory of last night in Vegas was a complete, mocking blank.

I stalked out of the bathroom, water dripping from my hair onto the cold marble floor. My penthouse overlooked the city, the Chicago skyline a familiar, jagged line against the gray morning.

And then there was her. Cecelia.

I closed my eyes, and her face instantly materialized in the darkness. When I had coldly told her to name her price, she hadn't looked calculating. She had looked utterly shattered. The image of her wide, terrified eyes-shimmering with unshed tears and a desperate defiance-flashed in my mind. Instead of the usual disgust I felt for women trying to trap me, a strange, unbidden flutter stirred deep in my chest. An unfamiliar jolt of... something. A protective instinct I had no business feeling for a stranger.

I grabbed the hockey stick I always kept propped against the sofa, needing the familiar weight to ground me. I started my daily ritual, stickhandling a puck on the practice mat. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap was usually a meditation. Today, it just sounded like a ticking clock.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen island. It was my agent, Leo. I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker.

"Garrick, what the hell were you doing last night?" Leo's voice barked through the speaker, frantic and shrill. "Why aren't you answering any of my messages? I'm hearing insane whispers from the press. Something about Vegas? A wedding?"

"It's nothing," I snapped, my jaw clenching. "A mistake. I'm handling it."

I hung up and sent the puck flying, smashing it into a crystal glass on the bar. It shattered, the sound echoing the splintering of my ironclad control.

Cecelia Dalton. Who the hell was she? I'd already tasked Peter Stone, my head of security, with digging into her background. My gut told me she wasn't a simple gold digger. The raw shame on her tear-streaked face had been too real.

Fragments of the night surfaced. The burn of whiskey. The pulse of heavy music. Dancing with a girl who laughed like she meant it, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Was that her? The memory was slick, impossible to hold.

I raked a hand through my wet hair. Women were trouble. Period. Especially the ones who got too close. My adoptive father, John Sinclair, had drilled that into my head since I was a kid.

The thought of John sent a familiar ache through my chest. He was in the hospital, his body finally failing him. The last few times I'd tried to visit, he'd refused to see me. Too many years of unspoken words between us.

My phone rang again. A number I didn't recognize. I almost ignored it, but a dark premonition made me answer.

"Mr. Garrick?" It was the Sinclair family butler, his voice thick with tears. "You need to come to the hospital. It's your father... he's gone."

The world went silent. The air in my lungs turned to ice. I grabbed my keys, not even bothering to change out of my sweatpants and t-shirt.

I tore through the streets of Chicago, the roar of my engine a useless scream against the silence in my head. It couldn't be. The doctors said he was stable.

I burst into the VIP suite. My stepmother, Matilda, was there, flanked by her two children, my step-siblings, Hays and Kinley.

Matilda was weeping into Hays's shoulder, a perfect picture of manufactured grief. But I saw it. The brief glint of triumph in her eyes before she hid her face. I knew that look.

Kinley pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice shrill. "It's your fault! You and your endless scandals, you broke his heart!"

I ignored her, walking straight to the bed. John Sinclair. The man who'd pulled me from an orphanage, put a hockey stick in my hands, and forged me into a champion. He lay still, his formidable presence gone, leaving only a frail, empty shell.

"It was sudden," the doctor said softly. "His heart just gave out. We did everything we could."

I stared at John's pale face. We'd run out of time. All the arguments, the misunderstandings... they would never be resolved now.

Matilda approached, placing a hand on my arm. "Garrick, darling. Don't be too sad. Your father is at peace. I'll take care of everything now."

Her touch felt like a spider crawling on my skin. I shook her off. "I can take care of myself."

My eyes caught the massive sapphire on her finger, a gift from John. It seemed to gleam with a predatory light on her trembling hand. Then I saw it. The half-empty water glass on the nightstand, right next to his daily medications. I remembered the doctor explicitly stating his meds were strictly administered by the nurses.

"Who was the last person in this room before he passed?" I asked the doctor, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low register.

The doctor glanced nervously at Matilda. "Mrs. Sinclair was with him. She was just giving him some water."

"He said he was thirsty," Matilda added quickly-a little too quickly. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes.

A terrible suspicion began to form, cold and sharp in my gut. I had no proof, but I knew her. I fixed my gaze on her, and she flinched, taking a small step back.

I turned to my lawyer, who had just arrived at the door. "I want an autopsy."

Matilda shrieked, "No! Garrick, how could you? Let your father rest in peace! He deserves his dignity!"

Her over-the-top reaction was all the confirmation I needed.

I didn't argue. I just looked at my lawyer and said, "Follow procedure."

I walked out of the room without another word. In the sterile, suffocating quiet of the hallway, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Peter Stone.

Forget the girl for a minute. I need you to investigate my father's death. Everything.

I leaned the back of my head against the cold wall, a profound, hollow exhaustion settling over me.

Cecelia POV:

"Cece, thank God! Where have you been? I was worried sick!" My mom enveloped me in a hug the moment I walked through the door, her familiar scent of vanilla and soil a painful comfort.

"My phone died," I lied, unable to meet her worried eyes. "I stayed at Tilly's."Tilly was my best friend.

She didn't question it, just stroked my cheek. "You look exhausted. Go get cleaned up. I made cinnamon rolls."

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The faint marks on my neck were still there, small, ugly reminders. I scrubbed my face with cold water, again and again, as if I could wash away the memory of his touch, his contempt.

Dressed in my own soft pajamas, the smell of home slowly unknotted the tension in my shoulders. But the phantom weight of the ring on my finger was a constant, burning reminder of a nightmare I couldn't explain.

How did I even get it? Where did that marriage certificate come from? I had zero memory of a wedding. Was that piece of paper even legally binding, or just some sick, elaborate Vegas joke? I had no answers.

So, I did the only thing I could to survive the panic: I took the ring off. I shoved it and the certificate into the deepest, darkest corner of my jewelry box, forcing myself to pretend none of it had ever happened.

For two days, I tried to keep up the charade. I pruned roses at the shop, arranged bouquets for smiling customers, and forced myself not to think about Garrick Sinclair.

But he was everywhere. On the news, on every sports blog, his face plastered across the city. The Mustangs' season was about to start, and their captain was the king of Chicago.

Then the news broke. His adoptive father, John Sinclair, had passed away. I saw him on TV, emerging from a black car, his face a cold, unreadable mask. For a fleeting moment, I felt a strange pang of empathy. The man who had treated me like garbage was grieving.

That afternoon, two men in dark suits walked into my shop. The scent of roses and sunshine was instantly replaced by an atmosphere of cold authority.

"Miss Cecelia Dalton?" the lead man asked, his eyes sharp and assessing.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I kept my posture straight. I nodded.

"Our employer, Mr. Garrick Sinclair, would like to see you." He gestured towards the door. A polite invitation that was clearly not a request.

"I have nothing to say to him," I said, keeping my voice steady.

The man produced a leather-bound folder. "Mr. Sinclair anticipated you might say that. He asked me to have you review this first."

I took the folder. The title on the first page made the blood drain from my face: Post-Nuptial Agreement.

My mind spun into absolute chaos. A post-nuptial agreement? I had never seen this document in my life, let alone signed it. The contract stated that as Garrick Sinclair's legal spouse, I was bound to the marriage. If I initiated a divorce, I would be liable for a penalty of ten million dollars.

My hands trembled, but not from fear-from sheer disbelief. I flipped to the last page and saw the signatures. Garrick Sinclair. Cecelia Dalton. And... John Sinclair.

I stared at the date next to my supposed signature. It was dated a week before I even set foot in Vegas.

"This is a forgery," I stated, my voice no longer shaking, but hard and resolute. "I never signed this. I wasn't even in the same state as Garrick Sinclair on this date!"

"Our handwriting experts have verified the signature as yours, Miss Dalton," the man said, his tone flat. "Please. Don't make this difficult."

I took a deep breath, steeling my spine.

"Fine," I said coldly. "Give me a minute."

I pulled out my phone and called my mom. I forced my vocal cords to relax, projecting a perfectly calm, cheerful tone. "Hey, Mom. Listen, a last-minute floral convention just came up out of state. I'm going with a friend for a few days... Yes, I'll be fine. Love you too."

I hung up, ensuring my mother wouldn't worry or get dragged into this mess. Then, I grabbed my coat and walked past the men toward the door, keeping my head high.

We drove to a part of the city I'd never seen, descending into a private underground garage. A silent elevator whisked us upwards, opening directly into a vast, minimalist living room. It was as cold and impersonal as the man who owned it.

Garrick was sitting on a low sofa, tossing a hockey puck from hand to hand. He looked up as I entered, his eyes holding no surprise.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

I remained standing, refusing to cower. "What is this? Did you forge that contract?"

He finally gave me his full attention, a flicker of amusement in his icy gaze. "Forge it? Cecelia Dalton, twenty-four, florist, mother a retired teacher. Do you really think you're worth the effort it would take to forge a multi-million dollar contract just to keep you around?"

His words were a physical blow. He had investigated me. He knew my small, insignificant life, and he was using it to mock me.

He rose from the sofa and walked towards me, his tall frame blocking out the light. I held my ground for a second before his sheer size forced me to take a step back, my spine hitting the cold, unyielding wall. But I kept my chin high, refusing to look away.

He leaned in, trapping me. He braced a hand on the wall next to my head, his face inches from mine. "I don't know what deal you made with my father," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "I don't know what you did to convince him you were worth this."

He tilted my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. "But until I figure it out, you're not going anywhere."

For a split second, I saw something in his eyes beyond the anger. A flicker of the same confusion that was consuming me.

He pulled back, the cold mask snapping back into place. "Give me your best friend's contact information. I need to confirm you're as 'innocent' as you pretend to be."