Page 7 of Skating and Fake Dating
“No.”
Imitation static sounds made by Gabe’s mouth come from the phone’s speaker. “Hang on. Can you hear me? I think our connection is bad.”
It’s not.
“I said, no, Gabe.”
“Then how do you propose you fix this?”
“By playing good hockey.”
“Of course, but we both know that’s only part of the equation. As a high-profile player, your image matters.” He lowers his voice. “You could even pretend.”
“You can’t pretend to win.” I grunt, frustrated that this conversation is even happening.
“I mean fake a relationship. Celebrities do it all the time,” he says like it’s no big deal.
I won’t be faking anything. Even though Charlene tore my beating heart out of my chest and played cornhole with it in front of all our friends and family, I was a romantic. Believed in true love. But I was wrong.
Love is a lie a woman will tell you until she finds someone better.
CHAPTER 5
CARSON
Ifinish tossing my belongings in my gear bag as Gabe outlines examples of fake dating and what it would take. In a haze, I walk out to the parking lot.
The sun is a flaxen color, transitioning from summer to fall and disproportionately bright to the sullen mood I’m trying to fight.
While Gabe continues to upsell me on his brilliant fake dating plan that will include a non-disclosure agreement between both parties, my thoughts drift to the elevator encounter with Blondie and the awkward exchange.
What kind of idiot points out that a woman’s clothing doesn’t match? Oh, I know. This loser, that’s who. Also, the guy who laughs at her when she gets a talking-to from the team nutritionist and then stumbles and ends up wearing her baked goods all over her white blouse with the little lace eyelets.
Yeah, I noticed that tiny detail. From the second she walked into the room, I was like dew on Dixie. That was one of my grandfather’s sayings to mean my gaze was glued to her. Grandaddy always told my grandmother that as long as he had a biscuit, she got half. That was love—the kind I thought I had.The kind that’s as likely for me as falling up a tree. I’d be better off hugging a rose bush.
Like a thirteen-year-old with my first crush, I had to tease Blondie instead of telling her the baked goods smelled delicious and that she looked pretty.
I was still in the Charlene breakup haze, but couldn’t help notice her maple-blonde hair, the scattering of freckles across her cute nose, and those plush pink lips.
Then I caught her writingWash Meon the back of my truck in a hasty and small scrawl. To be sure, my vehicle needed a bath. After I was rejected by Charlene, I’d find myself driving around well past the corn fields, practically halfway home, just lost. So lost.
I think Blondie writingWash Meon my truck was a little act of revenge after the baked goods incident because I’m guessing she didn’t get out the frosting stains.
It was also a wake-up for me. Some guys buy sports cars when they get their first check from the NHL and then build a collection. I bought my dream truck and have been modifying it for off-roading for the last six years. Same rig. Solid upgrades. To think that I hadn’t so much as given it a bath in months told me that I’d really let things slip. Now it gleams.
But a figure stands by the driver’s side door and I end the call with Gabe. It’s her.
She waves. “Hi. I tried calling earlier. Sorry. Not being a stalker or anything?—”
“Does that mean you’re a fan?” I ask.
She waves a stack of papers and a planner in her hand. “No, I just mean that I got your number from the file with your information and records.”
“So you’re not a fan?”
Opening and closing her mouth, she says. “Yes. No. It’s—that’s not?—”
I’ll admit that she’s adorably flustered, and the little scrunch of her nose reveals the freckles hidden under her makeup.
