I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

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.