Page 13 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

From the frosty reception I’d received on my first visit, I figured Miss Carter wouldn’t be able to tolerate my indulgences for very long, though with the guy’s advice, I made sure it wasn’t too over the top.

“Don’t make it too big,” Steve had said. “You’ll overwhelm her.”

“Yes,” John added. “You want to win her over, not get yourself a restraining order.”

It’s taken her four days, but I’m glad she’s called.

“This has gone on long enough, Mr. Steele. It has to stop.”

“First of all, my name is Ryan. Second of all, I agree. But it only stops if you agree to see me.”

I’m met with a deathly silence. I know she’s still there. I can hear her breathing. Clearly, she’s taking a moment to consider her position. A position where she really has no choice. But then, I did that on purpose.

“Fine,” she replies eventually. “Be at the clinic at 10:30 tomorrow. And bring your notes.”

“Thank you, Miss Carter,” I reply smugly. “I look forward to seeing you.”

When I hang up, I feel pretty pleased with myself. Sure, with my fame, it’s ridiculous that I’ve had to go to such lengths, but in a way, it’s been kind of refreshing.

Thomas walks into the living room about ten minutes later. “What are you grinning about?”

He’s his usual scowling self, but then, I’ve gotten used to that in the last few days.

“None of your darned business,” I reply, pushing myself up from the chair with a wince.

The following morning, John drives me into town. John the butler, not John, my friend. I know where his loyalties lie, though, so I get him to drop me off on Main Street. That way, he can’t run back to the house and report my whereabouts to my brother.

“Do you need me to wait, Mr. Steele?” he asks, after opening my door.

“I’m good, John. I can get a cab back.”

I don’t move until the car pulls away. It might be overkill, but I’m used to playing these cat-and-mouse games. Particularly with the media. Those guys don’t care about privacy. They’re only interested in their views. With the coast now clear, I head across the street—not at any great speed with the pain and this darn limp—and turn in the direction I need to go.

“Good morning, Mr. Steele,” Sharon says with a smile when I enter the clinic. “Won’t you please take a seat? Emma will be with you shortly.”

“Thanks,” I say, limping over to the seats flush against the wall.

There’s an awkward silence, and then she puts her head down to her keyboard again. Another minute later, she says, “Can I get you tea or coffee?”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“Well, if there’s—”

A door opens across the room, and Sharon stops mid-sentence as Emma walks out with an efficient stride.

“Mr. Steele,” she says, her tone professional and cold. Ice cold.

“Ryan,” I correct, pushing myself to stand.

She doesn’t reply and just stands there, holding the door open, waiting for me to reach it. When I get to her, I dig into my jacket and hand her a thick folder.

“My notes.”

“Good,” she says, taking them out of my hand.

Jeez, she’s an ice queen.

But even with that thought, I can’t help but enjoy the sweet smell of jasmine and coconut as I pass by her.

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