Page 5 of The Fake Date Agreement

I pull on it even harder, putting my back into it. Of course, it doesn’t open. “Because that would be too easy,” I mutter as I eye the floor, already regretting what I’m about to do, and in what was a brand-new dress, no less.

I have no desire to get up close and personal with this nasty floor, but if no one is going to save me, I have to save myself.

I lie as flat as I can and try not to breathe as I tilt my head, swallowing hard as my stomach heaves. Someone did not clean these floors as well as they should have. They get a D for effort.

“Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up,” I chant.

When my nausea passes, I squint.

The world is not right.

I take a long moment to determine that a contact has fallen out. I see a small silver object perfectly clear out of my left eye, but it might as well be a silver blob out of my right.

Yes, I could look for my lost contact, but since I have no intention of sticking it in my eye after it’s been on this rank floor, what’s the point?

Size twelve me is never getting through the gap under the door. I might be able to reach whatever that metal thing is, reattach it somehow, and get myself out of here.

I sweat as I strain.

The tip of my middle finger brushes the metal thing. Istretch. Just a little farther.

My head pounds. I’m terrified I’m going to wedge myself under this door, but then my index finger and thumb graze the metal object.

Yes.

I drag it toward me with my fingertips, closing my palm around it tightly so I don’t accidentally drop it.

It’s only when I’m on my feet, ready to reattach the object and get the hell out of here, that I realize I have to attach it to theotherside of the door.

“Fuck!” I yell as I kick the door. “Why is this happening to me?” I kick it again, and when I only hurt my toes more, I grab one of my sandals and hit the door, if only to release a little more of my frustration so I can think.

“Why!” I scream as loud as I can. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Chapter 3

Caleb

“Did you hear something?”Reid twists toward the arena’s ground-floor fire exit.

“No. Pass me a puck.” I wait two feet from the goal, stick in hand for him to tap more from the rink’s entrance.

Reid, the best left winger on the team, passes me five from the open bag beside him.

As the center, top scorer, and captain of the Lamont Wolverines, I drive each one into the goal. “Again.”

“Dude. You can make the shot.”

Reid isn’t just the best left wing. He has a positivity that earned him a nickname so ridiculous I can’t believe he takes it on the chin. If anyone gave me his nickname, they’d be getting an uppercuttothe chin. Not Reid Graves.

There is laid back and easygoing. Then there is Reid.

“If I could make it, I would have made it.”

Javier, my other friend and teammate, currently leaning against the plexiglass, checks his watch, calling out, “You realize I have better things to do, Boucher.”

“No, you don’t.” I nod at Reid when I’m all out of pucks.

Javier is Brazilian-American. Between his good looks and his accent, the girls love him. I’m happy to take advantage byducking behind him so they can focus their attention on him, and I can focus mine on the only thing that matters—hockey.

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