Page 18 of Fake As Puck
“Cool.”
We lapse into silence again. I can feel him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next.
“How’s, uh,” he starts, then stops. “How’s work going?”
“Good,” I lie, because I’m not about to unpack my career crisis with someone I haven’t seen in forever. But I stiffen, remembering that he’s paying me to be here. Nothing screams desperate like being paid to fake-date your best friend’s brother. I regroup, “It has its ups and downs. We’re in a slow season right now.” I swallow the lump in my throat because is there seriously a slow season in the online space? I suck in a breath, awkwardly and mutter, “Yeah.”
“What are you working on lately?”
“Oh, you know. Different things. Freelance stuff.”
“Right. Freelance.”
Jesus Christ, we sound like aliens trying to have a human conversation.
“How’s hockey?” I ask, because that feels like safe territory.
“Good. Season’s over. Now it’s just training and off-season stuff.”
“That must be nice. Having time off.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Do you miss it? When you’re not playing?”
He considers this, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Sometimes. But it’s also nice to have a life outside of hockey for a few months.”
“What does that look like? Life outside of hockey?”
“I don’t know. Normal stuff. Sleeping in. Grocery shopping. Gym.”
“Very normal.”
“The most normal.”
The tension breaks slightly, and I feel like I can breathe again. Maybe we can do this. Maybe we can pretend to be normal human beings.
“So what’s the game plan?” I ask. “How long have we been together? How did we get together? Basic logistics.”
“Four months. We met through Tessa, spent some time together, realized we had feelings.”
“Feelings,” I repeat.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of feelings?” I tease.
“I don’t know. The regular kind?”
“Okay, the regular kind.”
I glance at him, and he’s nervously scratching his head.
We drive through neighborhoods that get progressively nicer, all manicured lawns and houses that look like they belong on HGTV. I try not to think about what his mortgage payment must be or how different our lives are.
“This is me,” he says, turning into a driveway that leads to a house that’s exactly what I expected. It’s modern, clean, probably worth more than I’ll make in my entire lifetime.
We sit in the car for a moment after he parks, both of us staring at the house like it’s going to give us instructions on how to proceed.
