Page 11 of Fake As Puck

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3

Friday.

I book Liv’s ticket for 8:02 AM. One-way. No return flight. Total commitment move.

Then I spend the next three hours trying not to have a full-blown identity crisis over a fake relationship with my sister’s best friend.

It’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I never told the team Bea’s name. Just that she existed. A vague, hot, off-limits woman who definitely wasn’t into hockey and totally wasn’t imaginary.

So technically, I’m not even lying. I’m just revising the narrative. Retroactive girlfriend swap. Happens all the time.

Right?

I open my Notes app and scroll through my bullet points.

FAKE DATING PLAN

Liv = girlfriend since January

Long-distance until now

She’s not on social media (blame “digital detox”)

Team group chat gets cute pics once a week MAX

No PDA in front of Tessa or Mom unless Liv initiates

I throw my phone on the couch and exhale hard enough to rupture a lung.

This would all be so much easier if Liv wasn’t Liv. If she wasn’t… sharp and hot and terrifying. If she wasn’t the same girl who once told me I looked like a golden retriever who didn’t get drafted.

Now she’s flying to me. And we have to pretend we’re in love. And not murder each other.

No big deal.

Now I’m driving to Target in a panic because I can’t just sit at home any longer.

I walk to the shampoo aisle and grab two different bottles.

Herbal Essences or Pantene?

Does Liv have a preference? Does she use fancy stuff? Is there a wrong choice here that will immediately blow our cover before we even get to the wedding?

Jesus Christ, I’m losing my mind.

A teenage employee who looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else is walking past me, so I stop her. She glares at me, so I gulp.

“Do you know what kind of shampoo women like?” I ask, then immediately realize how that sounds. “I mean, my girlfriend is visiting, and I want to make sure she has everything she needs.”

The girl looks at the bottles in my hands, then back at my face, and I can see her mentally calculating whether I’m a thoughtful boyfriend or a potential serial killer.

“Most people just bring their own shampoo,” she says like it’s a fact.

“Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

She walks away quickly, probably to report me to security.

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