Page 81 of The Fake Date Agreement

Shit.

I had heard he was good, but I hadn’t realized he wasthatgood at fourteen.

“And?”

He glances at me. “My parents got divorced a couple of years before. It’s why my mom moved us from Canada to be closer to her family in Philadelphia. I didn’t want to go to a team and struggle to get ice time. I wanted to go somewhere I could do something special. Make a difference. Maybe there’s some ego in that, but Coach gave me the chance to make a real difference somewhere.”

“So you chose one of the worst teams in the league because you wanted to…”

“Make history.” He darts a rapid glance my way. “I’ve done that. Or I’m about to. And…”

I peer up at him. “And?”

He says quietly, “I didn’t want to be too far from my mom in case she needed me.”

I don’t know how this man keeps surprising me, but he does.

I trail him through the park, glancing at him periodically, wondering at the insane level of focus and determination he had so young.

At fourteen, I was still figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. Hell, at twenty-two, I’m still figuring it out. He knew it, and now this is it, the thing he’s always wanted.

It’s getting hard to think with the screaming kids hurtling up and down a concrete-enclosed hockey court.

“What’s that?” I frown.

“Street hockey. I used to play with my brother when I was a kid.”

The kids are nine or ten years old, maybe a little older. All are in worn-looking, different-colored hockey jerseys, jeans, and inline skates.

They’re good.

At least, I think they’re good. They’re spending more time laughing than playing as they weave around, tapping a puck to each other. A man in a black denim jacket stands off to the side, watching them with a smile and his hands stuffed in his sweatpants’ pockets.

Two of the kids are practically having a wrestling match when one flicks the other in the middle of his forehead.

One flick prompts a pile of kids screaming, yelling, and laughing as they jump all over each other.

The man steps forward, pulling his hands from his pockets as he claps. “Hey! Break it up. Let’s start this practice.”

“Wait. They hadn’t even started?” I ask Caleb.

He shakes his head. “My old coach used to do the same. The first twenty minutes we’d play and get all the excited energy out of our system before the real practice starts.”

Ah.

As the kids get to their feet, I look at Caleb. “Do you miss it?”

His eyes fly to mine. “Huh?”

I gesture at the kids. “Street hockey.”

He shrugs. “It was just something I did.”

“But did you like it?”

His jaw twitches as he watches the kids gather in front of their coach. “I did.”

“So why’d you stop?”

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