Page 83 of Skating and Fake Dating
A smile spreads across my face as I shoulder my bag.
“Hot date?” Cade asks with a knowing smirk.
“Something like that,” I reply, heading for the door.
“The maple farm girl?” Jamie calls after me.
Weston hollers, “Hey, don’t forget we have the bachelor auction coming up.”
“Don’t remind me,” Lucian mutters.
“So is it for bachelors only?” I ask, hoping that’ll exclude me because I’m in a pretend relationship.
“It’s for the entire team,” Weston says.
“Right, but that’s not the point. It’s to raise funds to help save Maple Falls,” Asher adds.
“But it’s abachelorauction, by definition, that implies single guys.” Bailey said she’d be on board for this, but I’d rather take a cream pie to the face than have someone else “bid” on me.
“If you’re being technical, maybe, but you’d better believe I’d go on a date with a grandma with deep pockets if it means keeping Maple Falls from development.” Asher chuckles.
I squint. “Would you though?”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Whatever it takes, bro. Which means you’re in whether you like it or not. We all are unless you have a really good reason. Sudden missing limb, food poisoning, extradition to your country of origin.”
I rub my stomach. “I’ve heard food poisoning can take a few days to develop.”
Weston slants his eyes in my direction. “Not a chance.”
Grumbling, I mutter, “Fine. Sign me up.” And I’ll make sure Bailey bids on me.
Then, Otto, our otter mascot, shuffles through the locker room, giving me an idea.
My phone beeps again. It’s Gabe. I don’t answer, nor do I want to keep Bailey waiting, so I quicken my pace as I hurry through the arena corridors after Otto to have a quick word.
A few minutes later, I find Bailey under the soft glow of the outdoor lighting, my jersey now covered by her jacket. She rushes toward me, opening her arms for a hug. We embrace and I can’t help but want to stay like this for a long time—for her to remain in Maple Falls with me.
“Nice goal,” she says, her smile both familiar and new. Something I can’t get enough of.
“You wore my jersey,” I say, unable to hide my surprise ... and delight.
“Someone has to represent Bama. Do you guys usually celebrate afterward?”
“Not after a loss.”
“Pfft. When I was on the kickball team as a kid, we’d go out for pizza and I’d get a quarter for the Pac-Man game.”
Imagining a young Bailey, gaze focused intently on the vintage video game console screen, operating the joystick and leaning in the direction she wanted the little yellow character to go, makes me chuckle inside.
“I noticed a pizza joint in town.”
We walk toward the truck and I wonder if this moment will become a mere memory, buried away, or will Bailey and I have a future.
“The Rustic Slice. Let’s go, my treat.” She gets in the truck and slams the door.
In the driver’s seat, I counter, “No way, my treat.”
“That doesn’t make sense. You got a goal.”
