Page 42 of Ice Dance Hockey

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I just got the news that I’m going to be paired with the best skater in our league. Wanna see what he looks like?” I’m already pulling up a picture. The man is so stunning that it will distract everyone from asking about my fake boyfriend.

Cliff takes the phone. “Wow, yeah. He’s a looker. Looks like trouble, too.”

Jack studies the phone. “Oh, boy. That’s trouble all right. Might wanna show that to … you know who.”

“Oh, Lo, I think you’re getting a call from someone called Hockey Gorilla…?” Cliff says.

Fuck my life. Do I take it? I don’t have to take it. I want to take it. “Jack, you might as well fill him in. I’ll be right back.”

Hopping off the porch, I answer the phone. “Why are you calling me?”

“Why shouldn’t I call you? Frankly, it looks weird that I’m not spending your birthday with you. The paparazzi will have already figured it out and?—”

“Is the paparazzi going to show up on my door, Rhett?” I seethe into the phone.

“No, of course not. Anyway, I called because of your text. I told you that you weren’t winning that argument and you’re not. I was tied up this morning. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I don’t feel like arguing with him and for once, I’m too happy. “Fine, fine, but it’s got an expiry date. I was assigned my partner, and he lives in town.”

“I’m going to need his name, Logan. This will need to be handled by the family PR team.”

Oh, Jesus. “Scott Orser. Two-time Olympic gold medalist.”

“Insanely attractive,” he adds when he—I assume—looks him up on his laptop. “Will you be fucking this guy?”

“No. God no, I mean, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but I’m not planning on it.”

“Good. If you do, you’ll remember what I said about being discreet.” He’s not asking.

“Discretion—Elkington family motto—got it. Are we done?”

“We’re done.” He sounds pissed, though. “See you in the morning.”

Awesome. My fake boyfriend’s already mad at me on my birthday.

* * *

The news doesn’t go over well with Mercy either.

“That guy is a fuckboy,” he says, staring at a picture on his phone that someone—probably Jack—pulled up for him. No way he found it on his own.

We’re back in the kitchen by this point. Grant and the captain are serving up the meat outside at the long-ass picnic table and I came in to help bring out the other dishes, used to helping now that I’ve lived with Meyers long enough, but also to take a break from the pandemonium.

“Gee, tell me what you really think, Merc. Fuck.” Between him and Rhett, I swear.

“Sorry. I’m just warning you because I know you’re inexperienced.”

“Yeah, well, I’m nineteen now. Maybe I’ll get some experience.” Some of Jack’s friends hinted at taking me out to a bar after this. I declined, but I can change my mind.

“Nice try getting that one by Rhett,” he says, and I think he’s grateful for the overbearing ape for once.

Right. I guess going to nightclubs and getting piss drunk isn’t a discreet activity. What would happen if something ended up on social media about me the next day? Rhett would probably have to fake break up with me.

Clutching a bowl of potato salad, I storm out of the kitchen and into the backyard, and once it’s placed on the table, I sit, not planning on going in for anything else. Jack’s to my left, on the other side of the empty space where Merc’ll sit. My eyes look for Stanley and as Cliff predicted, the captain has him now.

What happened?Jack mouths.

I shake my head.

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