Page 19 of Conrad

“EmPowerPlay, and it’s hardly little—whatever. It feels slimy.”

“Not if you really like him. Then it’s a meet-cute, with wins all around.”

“What are you, a screenwriter?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll put out a Request for Proposal?—”

“Stop.” She picked up the phone, took it off speaker, and walked to the window. Outside, the sun shone down on the frosty lake, gilding it, the sky a glorious blue.

“He might get traded.”Her father’s words pinged back to her, along with the squeeze of her heart.

She’d met his family. The last thing Conrad would want is to have to move. Probably.

Except Tia was suddenly in her head.“Dad is desperate for you to find ‘the One.’”

If he thought Conrad and his daughter were dating, maybe her father wouldn’t be so eager to trade him, right?

It still felt slimy. “How long do I have to do this?”

“A month, tops. By then, it’s old news. Show up to a few of his games wearing his jersey, give him a hug, maybe go out for dinner—someplace public. Snap some shots of you two doing something fun—whatever. One month of content, one million new followers, and suddenly you’re back in the black, solving crimes, finding justice.”

Doing something that mattered, on her own.

“Okay. You talk to Felicity. If Conrad agrees, then . . . one month. Then I’m out.”

“If you don’t fall in love first.”

She laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.” Because if he said yes, then he was using her too.

And she’d been there, done that, thank you.

She didn’t care how beautiful his eyes, his smile, the aura of protection, or even his Mr. June physique. She wasn’t going to fall for a liar.

THREE

Maybe he should just hangup his skates.

Conrad stormed into the locker room and sent his helmet crashing against his locker. It bounced, hit the floor, and spun out, just like his gameplay today.

Behind him, his team came in, a few slapping Justin’s—Blade’s—shoulder pads for his game-tying goal.

Blade shot Conrad a glance, a hint of challenge in his eyes, before he sank onto the bench and unlaced his skates.

Conrad already had his off, his socks sweaty, his body one giant ache thanks to the beating he’d gotten from the Colorado Sting.

He’d given out a few too, spent at least a minute in the box for boarding, but it had rattled the Sting and given Torch, his left winger, a chance to score.

And then, somehow, after the second period, he’d lost his mojo, his verve, and he was bouncing shots off the pipes, ringing the iron on all his attempts, if not outright sending the puck into the cheap seats.

He’d looked like the rookie out there.

Wyatt Marshall—their goalie—came in and sat down next to him. Pulled off his jersey, then picked up Conrad’s helmet from the floor, set it on the bench. “Could be worse.”

“How?” He put his skates in the sharpening bin above his locker.

“We could have lost.”

“We tied. I lost a half dozen face-offs, turned over the puck at the blue line three times, we had more broken plays than wins, I missed too many back-checks, and by the end of the game, I was just slapping at anything that moved. No wonder coach took me out.”

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