Sinfully Falling For My Husband's Hockey Son

Penny

Tears slid down my cheeks, hot and silent, tracking over skin that felt entirely too numb.

I wiped them away with the back of a trembling hand, but the moisture kept coming, blurring my vision.

Everything was moving at a terrifying, sickening speed. Just forty-eight hours ago, my life was simple.

We were poor, barely scraped by on my father’s mechanic wages and Mom’s part-time shifts at the diner. We were happy.

Then came the wet asphalt, the shattered glass, and the screeching metal.

My parents were buried yesterday. The red clay soil from the cemetery was still caked on the arches of my worn-out sneakers.

I hadn't even had time to process the suffocating weight of my grief before reality slammed into me with the force of a freight train.

There was no money. No life insurance. Just stacks of unpaid bills and a yellow eviction notice waiting like a vulture on the kitchen counter.

And then there were the men who had knocked on our door last night—shadowy, brutal men demanding my father's unpaid debts with threats that made my blood run cold.

I knew what had to happen today. I knew why Holland Stevens was in my house.

I was going to marry him.

It sounded insane, but I had made up my mind. I had no choice. I was twenty, utterly penniless, terrified, and completely alone in the world.

Holland was my father’s oldest friend. They had grown up together in the same grimy neighborhood, but while my father stayed and struggled, Holland had vanished years ago, rebuilt himself, and returned as an untouchable titan of industry. Filthy, unimaginably rich.

When he offered to clear the violent loan sharks, pay off the debts, and give me a legal shield through marriage, my survival instincts overrode my shock.

"Penny! Come downstairs, please."

The voice echoed up the stairwell.

It wasn't unkind, but it carried an undeniable authority that made my stomach twist into tight, painful knots.

My body shook violently as I forced my legs to move down the creaky stairs, my hands clutching the handrail for balance.

Holland was standing in our small living room, making the cramped space look absurdly tiny.

Beside him stood a sharp-looking man in a tailored charcoal suit—a lawyer, holding a leather briefcase and a sheath of crisp white documents.

Holland turned as I reached the bottom step. The man was fifty years old, but he carried it like a weapon.

Broad-shouldered, impossibly muscular beneath his bespoke suit, with silver-dusted hair and dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

He was dangerously handsome in a way that commanded total obedience.

"Penny," Holland said, his deep voice filling the room as he took in my trembling frame. He stepped forward, placing a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder to steady me. "It's time."

The lawyer stepped forward, fanning out the thick set of papers on the battered wooden coffee table and handing me a pen.

"This is for the best, my sweet girl," Holland said softly, though the edge beneath his words was absolute steel. "It's for your own good. Your parents are gone, and your father's old debts will destroy you if you stay here. If you are my wife, my legal standing guarantees you full protection, a name, access to my wealth, and absolute safety. No one can touch you. No debt collector will ever dare step foot near you again."

I looked at the legal document fanned out on the table. Marriage Certificate.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

My mind reeled from how fast my life had dissolved, but as I thought of those men at the door last night and the crippling weight of my dead parents' debts, I knew Holland was my only lifeline.

With shaking fingers, I pressed the tip of the pen to the paper and signed my life away.

"Pack what you need," Holland instructed calmly. "Only what matters to you. The car is outside."

I retreated to my bedroom, my head spinning. I pulled a beat-up canvas duffel bag from the closet and began throwing in a few worn sweaters, jeans, and old photo albums.

My gaze drifted up to the poster taped to the slanted wall above my bed.

It was a giant, glossy poster of the Ice Eagles—the city’s premier professional hockey team.

Right in the center was their star player, mid-skate, eyes fierce behind his helmet, radiating raw power and effortless grace.

I had saved up for months just to go to one of his games last year. Like every other girl my age, I had a massive, embarrassing crush on him.

I used to stare at that poster and dream about what it would be like to marry someone like him—someone young, passionate, dangerous, and electric.

Instead, I was marrying a fifty-year-old billionaire who felt more like a guardian deity than a husband.

A quiet sigh escaped my lips as I pulled the poster down, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the bottom of my bag.

Dreaming was over. Reality had taken its place.

I slung the heavy duffel over my shoulder, took one last, heartbreaking look at my childhood bedroom, and walked out into my new life.

Outside, a sleek, pitch-black Maybach was idling at the curb, flanked by two formidable SUV security escorts.

Holland was waiting by the open door. He took my bag, tossing it into the trunk as effortlessly as if it contained feathers, and guided me into the leather-scented interior.

The ride was suffocatingly quiet. Smooth, silent luxury swallowed us as the city bled into sprawling, gated estates.

"Nervous?" Holland asked, breaking the silence as he leaned back, resting a thick, ringed hand on his knee.

"A little," I admitted, staring down at my lap.

"You have nothing to fear in my home," he said smoothly. "Though... you should know we won't be alone. My boy is staying at the estate right now."

His boy?

I blinked, turning to look at him. Holland had mentioned a son once or twice to my dad, but I had always pictured a small, rowdy kid—maybe a ten-year-old running around in pajamas.

The thought made me slightly less nervous; a child would be a welcome distraction from the heavy, suffocating silence of this arrangement.

"Oh," I whispered, forcing a small smile. "That's fine. I'm good with kids."

Holland gave a subtle, enigmatic smirk, but said nothing more as the car rolled through massive iron gates and up a long, winding cobblestone driveway.

The mansion was breathtaking—a towering titan of glass, dark wood, and modern stone. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.

The moment the car stopped, Holland’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and frowned slightly.

"Business," he muttered, stepping out of the car and opening my door. "Go on inside, Penny. The front door is unlocked. I need to take this call from the courtyard."

"Okay," I murmured.

I grabbed my heavy duffel bag from the trunk and walked up the grand stone steps alone.

Pushing open the towering front door, I stepped into a high-ceilinged foyer with marble floors so polished I could see my reflection.

The house was dead silent, echoing with a cool, distant luxury.

Feeling completely out of place in my faded clothes and battered sneakers, I began to wander deeper into the main floor, trying to find a bathroom or a living room.

I turned down a wide hallway and followed the dim lighting into an enormous, state-of-the-art kitchen.

A single light was illuminated near the massive stainless-steel refrigerator.Someone was standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in its soft glow.

I stopped dead in my tracks. It wasn't a little kid.

It was a boy—no, a young man. Broad-shouldered, lean, and toweringly tall, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

His bare back was a map of hard, carved muscle, glistening faintly with a sheen of sweat, and a sharp, jagged scar ran down his left shoulder blade.

The sound of my sneaker squeaking on the tile echoed softly in the quiet room.

He froze, then slowly turned around.

The breath slammed out of my lungs. My pulse spiked into an absolute frenzy.

My hand went limp.

The heavy duffel bag fell from my fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud, hollow thud…