Page 42 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

“Yay,” Sharon says. “We have our own club.”

The drinks flow as easily as the conversation, and in the relaxed atmosphere, we have a great time. Obviously, I’ve met Emma’s friends before, but it doesn’t escape my notice how alive she looks in their presence and how close the three of them are.

We’re in the middle of listening to an embarrassing story that Steve is relaying about me when the bartender arrives at the table.

“Hey, Ryan,” Clint says, catching my eye. “There’s a woman at the bar who wants to speak to you.”

“Not another reporter,” Emma moans.

But as I look past Clint, my heart nearly stops in my chest, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

“Is that—”

“Yes,” I cut across John. “It is.”

And then I push myself from the table and walk across to meet her, using all the strength I have to keep my anger in check.

“Hello, Megan,” I say coolly.

Her face is caked with more makeup than a Maybelline counter at Macy’s; she’s done something to her hair to make it look all bouncy, so the black strands hang over her eye in what she must imagine looks sexy. And she’s wearing a body-tight red dress and black heels, making her look ridiculously out of place in this bar.

Megan greets me with her trademark smirk, “Ryan,” she purrs, her voice as smooth as chocolate. “You didn’t think you could run away from me forever, did you?”

I force a polite smile, stepping back to keep some distance. “Didn’t realize I was running,” I reply, my voice even. “What brings you to town, Megan? You’ve never graced us with your presence before.”

She tilts her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, I just thought it was time I paid a visit. Thought you might need some… help around here.” Her gaze lingers, and then she scans past me to the table where everyone is still sitting.

I have a very solid feeling that this interaction is being closely observed, which causes a twisting in my stomach. No doubt, at this very moment, someone over there is telling Emma who this woman is if she doesn’t already know.

“I hear you’ve been keeping busy. New projects. New people.” Her tone sharpens subtly, a clear jab.

I feel a surge of defensiveness rise because I know she’s talking about Emma. My sweet, quiet, innocent Emma. At the same time, I don’t want to give Megan the satisfaction of knowing that she’s already managed to unsettle me, so I hold my poker face. The one that’s helped me win copious amounts of dollars at the card table.

“I don’t know why you’re here, Megan, but whatever you’re planning, you’re wasting your time.”

“Who says I’m planning anything?” she coos back. “Maybe I just thought I’d come and visit you—you know, seeing as you don’t answer my calls anymore.”

“You haven’t called in months, and besides, we both know the reason I don’t pick up.”

She gives me a mock smile that looks more like a snarl.

“I’m going to go back and join my friends,” I say. “I suggest you enjoy your night here and then go back to wherever you came from in the morning. To say you’re not welcome here would be an understatement.”

But as I turn to leave, her hand flies out and she grabs my arm. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” she hisses.

Yanking my arm away, I snarl back. “Whatever.”

When I get back to the table, there’s an awkward silence. I immediately pin on a smile. “Right. Where were we?”

The conversation takes some time to pick up again, but even an hour later, Emma is still looking a little withdrawn. The night eventually comes to a close, and we all pile outside to say goodnight to each other.

Steve and John pull me to the side, and with a low voice, Steve says, “What the heck was that about?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t trust her.”

“Me neither,” John says.

“Watch your back, Ryan,” Steve adds. “You know that saying about a woman scorned.”

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