Page 44 of One Pucking Chance

“Are you still going to pretend that nothing is going on between you two?” Miranda crosses her arms and narrows her eyes.

“There’s not.” I smile. “I promise.”

“Anna, you could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife.”

“That is so not true,” I scoff. “There was no tension, sexual or otherwise.”

She looks toward the closed door. “You know, sometimes, when I see you two together, I forget that it’s all fake. It seems real.”

“We have a great rapport, for sure. He’s become a true friend, and I enjoy hanging out with him. That’s all you’re seeing. You know I have no interest in dating anyone right now. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be Jaden. He’s not my type. It would never work.”

“If you say so.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know so.”

“Go shower.” She flicks her hand toward the bathroom. “We have places to be.”

I laugh. “You’re just bitter we’re leaving Michigan. Who knew you had a die-hard Cranes fan hibernating inside you all these years.”

She sighs. “Yeah, I really am going to miss it here.”

“It sounds like we’ll be going out with a bang, at least.”

“True. Now, go… I was serious about that. We have to leave for dinner soon.”

“I’m going!”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

JADEN

Iskate around the ice, waving to the crowd of fans as they give us a raucous applause. Winning at home never gets old. No matter what I have going on, this kind of adoration always lifts my spirits.

A group of fans start chanting my name. “Lewis! Lewis! Lewis!”

I stop and face them. Touching my gloved hand to my heart, I hold it out to them and wave with a grateful smile. A woman from this group hurries down the steps toward the ice and tosses a pink poster board to me. It hits the ice, and I skate toward it, giving her a wave of thanks.

When I reach it, I force a smile. In the center of the board, it says “We love #2” in big black letters while the rest of the board is filled with cutouts of Annalise and me from pictures printed in various magazines over the past month. Holding the sign over my head, I face it toward the VIP box where Anna and Miranda sit. With a final wave toward the woman who threw me the sign, I blow a kiss to the VIP box because everyone knows that my supposed love is up there, and that’s what a man in love would do. I’ve gotten very good at playing this game. With a final skate around the ice, I retreat toward the exit, anxious to get away from the stares.

The landscape of the crowd has changed a little over the past month. There are definitely people here that care more about getting a view of Annalise or of the pair of us together than they do about the game. My jersey sales have skyrocketed, and I seem to have more fans than ever. Fans of hockey? Not so sure. Fans of true celebrity love? More likely.

The added attention toward the sport is great. I’d never bash something that creates more love for the game. Despite how they came to be a fan, I’m hoping when the dust settles on this sham, they’ll stay because they’ve grown to love hockey.

After the night that could’ve been the greatest of my life, the date of which we do not speak—things changed. I no longer venture outside of the prescribed agenda. Miranda sets up a public outing, usually dinner, where certain photographers are waiting to capture us together. They get their shots, Anna and I have a nice meal, and I return her to the hotel.

I haven’t brought her back to my house since that night. It’s better this way. I’d never admit it, but she was right to stop things. I barely touched her, and it’s still all I can think about. I couldn’t have stopped my feelings from progressing if I tried. Full-on sex with Anna would’ve been the death of me, I’m certain. To feel all the things I do and have none of it be reciprocated would’ve hurt in a way I can’t even describe.

Do I regret volunteering for this torturous faux-boyfriend experience?

No, how could I?

I’ve gotten to spend so much time with Anna, and I’ve loved every second of it. We’ve built an incredible friendship and get along so well. If I had to choose between having this small piece of her or nothing at all, I’d take the scraps any day, despite how difficult it can be.

A round of hoots and hollers greets me as I enter the locker room.

“J-man, our celebrity!” Beckett cheers. “Let’s see the glamour shots.”

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