Page 7 of Fake Out Forever

“I hate Ice Princess.”

I open the fridge and take out two beers. “Why do they call you that anyway?” I twist off the tops. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m pretty sure I know why.”

Maya picks up a cucumber and stabs it with the knife. I wince because I know it’s not the veggie she’s stabbing. I’m going to have to lock my bedroom door tonight.

“Look…” I set a beer down next to the cutting board for her, then take a quick step back. That knife is pretty sharp. “I’m sorry. That was rude. We’ll be spending the next few days together, so I’ll try to be nicer.”

“The next few days?” Her eyes pop wide. “What d’ya mean the next few days?”

“I checked the weather forecast. There are multiple storm fronts headed our way. The entire state of Colorado is under a blizzard warning. Everything is shut down.” I take a sip of my beer. “The good news is I went grocery shopping while I was starving, so we definitely won’t run out of food. The bad news? We’re stuck here until the roads are plowable.”

“Days?” She shakes her head. “I can’t stay with you for days.”

I point to the glass French doors. “Did you look outside? There’s already over two feet of snow out there.”

She picks up her beer and drains half the bottle.

“Whoa, there duchess. You should pace yourself.”

She gives me a defiant look, tips the bottle back, and empties it. “I am not happy.”

“Is it because you have to breathe the same air as a hockey player? Or because this isn’t a five-star hotel?” I open the stove, take out the broiler pan, and start to unwrap the steaks. “Medium or well-done?”

“There you go. Acting like a toddler all over again.”

I flinch as the sound of the knife smacking against the cutting board echoes through the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder. “That cucumber never did anything to you.”

Her eyes blaze fire. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Hate?” I wipe my hands with a kitchen towel. “That’s a strong word. I don’t hate anyone.”

“Fine.” She throws her hands in the air. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

I lean against the counter and study her for a few seconds. I inhale deeply, then ask her the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for the past three years. “What’s wrong with hockey players? And I want an honest answer.”

“Nothing.” Maya looks at the floor.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Alright,” I inch forward, pick up the knife, and move it away from her. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

“You?” Her cheeks flash red.

“Yes, me. When I asked you out, you said you didn’t date hockey players. I assumed it was because we don’t meet your high standards, duchess.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“Truth?” We lock eyes. “Yes.”

Maya’s face pales. She stares at me, chewing on her bottom lip again. “It’s not what you think.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I need a minute.” She pulls out a stool and sits down. “And another beer.”

“Alright.” I head to the fridge, grab her a drink, and then get to work on putting spices on the meat. I definitely went too far because of my wounded pride. If I don’t want to be miserable for the rest of the week, I’ve got to let it go. I slide the steaks under the broiler, swallow what’s left of my pride, and turn to face her. “Maya…”

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