Page 23 of The Pucking Fake Boyfriend

Her face briefly contorts with a deep hurt, tugging at my heartstrings.

“What about you?” she suddenly blurts out.

I feel an instant foreboding about that question. “What about me?”

“Is this the life you imagined as a hockey player? Having numerous hookups and not someone permanent? Or did you want something more?”

Instinctively, I push my chair back, as if trying to move as far away from the question as I possibly can. All I want to do now is shut her up with a cutting remark, but I can’t quite do that, not when she’s been so open with me.

“Not exactly.”

It’s when those words fall from my lips that I realize it really is the truth.

“So . . . what happened?” she asks, leaning closer and resting her face on her hands, her curls spilling over her arm.

Her warm blue eyes meet mine, and I feel instant panic erupt in my chest.

Nothing about Britney is terrifying.

But for the fact that she’s skilled at making me do things I’d sworn I’d never do.

And that she’s good at making me say things I don’t even want to think about.

A million alarm bells are going off in my head. Delving into this pool where we talk about our feelings is a death trap. But I also know I’m going to tell her. For some reason, I want to tell her.

Besides, staying in the feelings pool makes me think less about how much I want to jump her bones.

“When I was ten, my mother left,” I begin, my voice tinged with bitterness. “One Sunday, I woke up to a void. There were no pots clattering in the kitchen, no smell of pancakes. I went through the house calling for her, but there was only the echo of my voice. My father was lying drunk on the sofa. I could tell that something was wrong. I waited for her the whole day on the street, thinking I’d hear her car approaching. I hoped she’d come back, maybe bring me a Lego surprise.

“But the evening rolled around, and my father threatened me to come inside the house. Days passed. She was still not home. When I went to my parents’ room, I noticed that her side of the closet was cleared out. My father refused to talk to me. He would shake his head and take another swig of whiskey. So, I stopped asking. It took a few weeks for me to lose all hope, but eventually, it dawned on me she wasn’t coming back.” I pause, swallowing hard at the bitter memory. “I couldn’t understand why she didn’t take me with her. How she could leave me without saying goodbye.”

The heavy lashes shadowing her eyes fly up. It does not surprise me.

“Recently, I found out she passed away from cancer,” I reveal, my voice tinged with sadness. “Her girlfriend contacted me, and I learned that all she wanted was a fresh start, to erase her old self and begin anew.” I stop, fighting back the lump in my throat. “She never came back for me. Never contacted me, not even when I was grown up.” I make my tone as detached as possible, not wanting to connect to any of the words I just said. “I never forgave her, and now, I can’t even if I wanted to.”

“And your father?”

“He’s gone too. Drank himself to death a few years ago.”

“Alex,” Brit says. It’s the first time she’s spoken my name without an iota of desire or derision.

Now, it sounds . . . pitying.

Annoyance roils up in the pit of my belly. I would much prefer she hate me than pity me.

“I’m sorry,” she starts to say, stretching her fingers out to cover my hand.

“You don’t have to be,” I say, cursing myself for even wanting to share personal matters with her. Nothing about our new dynamic pleases me.

I glance at the transparent wall beside us. There are no cameras flashing. Evidently, Furman’s team had come, taken a picture, and left during the time we were having a heart-to-heart.

It’ll make the pictures look that much more believable, I suppose.

I turn to her, grateful for the fact that I can now leave this night—and everything about it—behind.

“Come on.” I stand up. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Um,” Britney protests, a note of hesitation in her voice. “Can we . . . not? Yet?”

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