Page 21 of The Fake Date Agreement

Me?

Reid crosses his arms. “On game day, it’s just him, the team, our opponents, and the ice. That’s it. Now, that focus isn’t just when he’s on the ice. It’s all the time. That’s not good for his ability to play well or his mental health. We need you to remind him a world exists outside of hockey.”

“I can’t do that,” I whisper.

“You can because you already did,” Javier says, eyeing me closely. “The Caleb we know would have told you to get checked out by a doctor, nudged you out of the door, and returned to the ice ASAP.”

Reid leans toward me. “ThisCaleb checked your head himself, stopped practicing to hear about your night of hell, and reminded us to tell you that you need to get your head checked out by a doctor. Have you done that yet?”

I blink at him. “Done what?”

Reid motions to my head. “Had your head looked at?”

“No. I’m fine.” Leaving my dorm today isn’t happening. Not for all the money in the world.

“Get it checked out.” Javier picks up a neon yellow Post-it notepad and a pen from my desk, writing something down on the pad.

“What are you doing?” I’m leaning toward him when Reid clears his throat.

Reid flicks his gaze down. I do the same and blush at how badly my robe is gaping. I might not have much in the boob department, but I have a dodgy top button and just enough boob to pop out if I’m not careful. I belt up. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Were those squirrels?”

“And acorns.”

He smiles at me. “Cute.”

I’d thought he would laugh. I’m a twenty-two-year-old college senior, and my favorite PJs have little squirrels and acorns on them.

“My number,” Javier says, setting the notepad and pen on my desk and getting to his feet. “If you want payback, call, and we can help each other out.”

“And if I want to get back together with him?” I don’t, but I’m curious about their response.

Reid smiles at me. “You deserve better than a guy who would treat you like that, Tobie Myers.”

They leave me alone with an unexpected offer, a phone number, my confused feelings, and I don’t know what to do about any of it.

When my phone vibrates, I pick it up and immediately break out in a cold sweat.

Marc

We need to talk.

I know this conversation has to happen, but a sick churn starts in my belly, and I’d love nothing more than to hide under my bed.

I can’t.

Not about this.

Face-to-face confrontation is hard. Text is easier. We are not having this conversation in public where people will see me ugly cry. He’s coming to me.

I type out my response.

Me

We can talk in the common room on my floor.

An hour later, I’m showered, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, and hanging out in the common room on my floor as I wait for Marc to show up. Luckily, with it being a Saturday, the girls on my floor are either out at the mall or sleeping off a Friday night hangover, so I have the room to myself.

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