Page 11 of The Fake Date Agreement

“Dude. Seriously. We have to go home,” Reid calls out.

“And we will.” Caleb finishes lacing up his skates and taps six pucks into the rink before he steps onto the ice. “In ten minutes.”

Reid rolls his eyes, which makes me think it’s not the first time he’s hearing this.

I ask a question I should know already. “What time is it?”

Reid glances at me. “Ten.”

I’m not sure what disturbs me the most—being unconscious for so long or having my face pressed against a urine-soaked floor for well over an hour.

Caleb’s grace on the ice is impressive for a muscled guy well over six feet tall. Considering he’s only in a long-sleeve tee and the others in Wolverines hoodies with the name and logo of a snarling wolverine on it, he doesn’t seem to be the least bit cold.

I watch him slam a puck into the goal.

“Why are you here so late? Aren’t you tired from the game?” I ask.

Thank God the ticket agent corrected me before. They would have laughed me out of the arena if I’d called it a match.

“Caleb missed a shot, so he needs to practice until midnight to atone for it,” Reid explains.

That seems like a harsh punishment, but what do I know about college sports? “Isn’t your coach here to make sure?”

“Ah, no.” Javier shakes his head. “This punishment is self-imposed. Caleb talked our coach into letting him stay.”

“He volunteered us as tribute,” Reid adds with a grin.

“Fuck you,” Caleb calls out. “You volunteered yourself.”

“Because we have had the fact that this is a team sport drilled into us since we were kids.” Reid lowers his voice and adds in a conspiratorial whisper. “He took advantage of our selfless, giving nature.”

He says it with such a bright smile, I’m not sure whether to believe him.

Caleb flips him off and continues hammering pucks into the back of the net.

“Oh, well, sorry you lost,” I apologize.

Javier snorts. “We didn’t lose.”

I frown. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s his shot. The shot henevermisses.”

“But youwon,” I say, still not getting it.

“He thinks it’s bad juju,” Javier explains. “For a guy who says he’s not superstitious, he sure is superstitious about that shot.”

“Why?”

“The last time he missed that shot was in his high school finals,” Reid says.

“And?”

“They lost the championship.”

I look at Caleb slamming the puck into the back of the net with such violence. I now fully understand why the goalies wearso much padding that they resemble the Michelin Man. Because to be on the receiving end of those…

I shudder.

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