Page 48 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

John lifts an eyebrow. “You know what I mean, man.”

I pause a beat and then admit defeat.

“That obvious, huh?” I say.

“Oh, yes,” Steve and John say in unison.

The thing is, I’ve been well aware of my feelings for Emma of late. I just didn’t realize they have been so out there for everyone else to see. Okay. Well, maybe not everyone else. Steve and John have known me most of my life, so there is that.

After we talk some more, all three of us come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, my feelings are not unrequited. It would explain why Emma has been so weird since Megan’s arrival. She’s the one who put together that contract, right? She’s the one who wanted no emotional attachments.

And as Steve says a little later on in the evening, “If she wasn’t into you, Megan being here wouldn’t be a problem.”

He’s the only one of us who’s married, so it makes sense to go on his knowledge of the females of the species on this one.

I couldn’t have known at the time, though, that I had hurt Emma so badly back in high school, and now, as Emma and I are welcomed into the building via a side entrance, the guilt is still eating me. Mainly because I’m replaying exactly what happened that night after we’d won our match. I really was such an arrogant ass.

Emma and I are led to a private function room. Inside, there must be two hundred people milling about, all talking, drinking, and socializing together.

Beside me, Emma takes in a quick breath, and I swiftly sense her overwhelm. Dropping my hand, I take hold of hers and give it a light squeeze, pulling her in closer to me. She flashes me a glance, a timid smile, and we carry on inside. Me still holding her hand. Her not letting go.

The dinner is a fundraiser for a charity I support: Young Athletes Together. The charity helps young athletes from less affluent parts of the city, those whose parents can’t afford to buy them the best gear or shoes or equipment, to make their way into the careers they dream about.

Not only do they provide them with the right equipment, but they also get the players sponsorships so they can move up in their chosen sport. I’m very proud that I’m an advocate for the charity, and of course, I donate a large sum every year as well as get other affluent businessmen and women to do the same thing.

So most of these people are here for that. Those not in that category, and the journalists lingering amongst them, are probably here because of my flourishing new romance with Emma.

We’re just getting to our table when Phil emerges from somewhere.

“Hey, you guys,” he says, beaming a grin. “How’s it all going?”

He gives us a kind of conspiratorial look as he waits for our answer while we take our seats.

“Good,” Emma says, sounding more relaxed than I think she is.

Phil looks directly at me. “It’s working. The media is slowly drifting off your story. In fact, it’s turning in your favor. Darius Crib is now under the microscope. They’ve got a lot of commentators re-examining clips of his play, talking about his dives and how often they happen. Besides, they have bigger fish to fry now. It’s just come out that a few NFL players have been juicing.”

“So, where does that leave us?” I hear Emma say.

When I glance at her, I can’t quite read her expression. Does she look hopeful that this will soon be all over, or is that disappointment? I know which one I want it to be, but I just can’t tell.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Phil says.

And, where that ought to fill me with dread, instead, it’s like music to my ears. Which is nuts, I know. But I don’t want this to be over yet. I need more time.

“This is the media, Emma,” Phil continues, “and they’re as fickle as they come. They can turn at any time. One minute you’re front-page news; the next, you’re at the bottom of some wastepaper basket. But either way, you guys need to keep this going. If there’s one thing they don’t like, it’s being lied to.” He rolls his eyes. “The irony, but hey, that’s the way it is. When we bring this to an end, it needs to be long and slow and quiet.”

After dinner, there’s an auction. It brings me great joy to hear the amounts of money being donated to young athletes who will, one day, skate in my boots, so to speak. If you’d have asked me as a kid about philanthropy, I would have struggled to spell it—kidding—but now, it just gives me this great sense of accomplishment.

When the auction is over, the music begins, and standing, I lead Emma onto the dance floor.

“Now, darling,” I say, flamboyantly mimicking Madame Amour’s voice as I take her hand and wrap my arm around her waist, “you must let go. Trust is the foundation of all things.”

Emma begins to giggle, a beautiful sound that trickles from her lips. “I don’t know how I’m not experiencing a trauma response, hearing that again.”

“Ah, she wasn’t that bad.” I grin. “I just think she belongs on Broadway rather than that tiny island.”

“For sure,” Emma says, nodding eagerly.

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