Page 94 of The Fake Date Agreement

“You know him?” A girl in the row in front of me twists around to ask me.

“Uh, yeah, I uh…” I cram a handful of popcorn in my mouth and chew rapidly so I don’t have to be the center of attention for a second longer than I have already.

I release a sigh of relief when the game starts, and everyone focuses on the ice instead of on me. It’s weird to be sitting in the season ticket holders’ section of the arena. I feel like a fraud because I don’t like sports, and I’m not even wearing a Wolverines’ jersey.

My nerves were frayed as I entered the arena with a ticket for the game that Javier gave me the day before. Then I spotted Hallie near the concession stands, laughing with her friends, and I had a flashback to what she’d said before.

Puck bunny.

That’s what she’d called me.

I’ve tried to deny it to myself, but she’s right.

I’m here to play pretend girlfriend and not because I have any interest in hockey.

Within minutes, I’m shivering. My glasses are fogging up, which, I guess, doesn’t really matter since even if I could see properly, I’d still have no clue what’s going on. I just know it’s not as much fun as the game I played with Caleb and the kids.

My eyes skate around the arena as I chew my popcorn.

Chants start and spread before dying down. People gasp and yell, fully immersed in a sport they love.

Then there’s me, busy counting down to the end of this game so I can slip away like the fraud I am.

My eyes settle on an attractive blond couple on my right.

Both are laughing as they point at something on the ice.

Marc and the girl he brought to the last game.

As if he feels my attention, he glances at me, and his smile fades.

I look away.

I’m getting ready to leave when the energy in the arena changes.

Figures are traversing the ice like they were born to it. I recall my Bambi-like ice skating prowess, and I mentally snort at myself.

A natural, Reid said. Yeah, right.

On my left, someone mutters something about the Magic Three, and I know they must all be on the ice now.

Caleb, Reid, and Javier.

With their dark blue, silver, white, and pale blue uniforms with helmets, it takes me a minute to pick them out by the numbers on the backs of their jerseys—Caleb is #9, Reid is #16, and Javier is #20.

When they’re on the ice, they make magic happen. That’s what Reid and Javier told me. It sounds utterly ridiculous, but the crowd is hushing up and leaning toward the ice as if they don’t want to blink in case they miss that magic.

The anticipation is thick. It wraps around me, and my breath sticks in my throat as I wait for that magic too.

There’s no mistaking Caleb. He’s always had this presence that draws attention to him and holds it.

He’s in the center, puck in front of his stick.

“It’s easy, Myers,” Caleb told me at the park. “Just score more goals than the other team. That’s it.”

He never looks up.

Occasionally, he turns to the others, but whatever he says is lost to the cheers and the roaring crowd.

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