Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Mabel hoots and hollers when Corbin hits the ice. Once it’s Lake’s turn to fly out of the tunnel, I cheer, but my friends nudge me like they expect me to behave like Mabel. To be all lovey and exuberant.
But is that my place as a fake girlfriend? My stomach dips and rolls, and that’s the answer to why I’m out of sorts. Because I don’t really know what my role is—how far to go, how deep to fake, who to fool.
I’d thought I was controlling the narrative, but I don’t know what string to pull or button to push.
By the time Clementine texts that she’s finally here at last, I’m grateful to slip away. I definitely can’t face her right now since not only did I blow her brother today (he’s complicated, she warned me), I also bought a gift for her dad last night—since her dad is Lake’s dad of course.
I’m buying gifts for my friend’s dad. I’m hooking up with her brother. Who’s also my fake boyfriend.
My stomach dips. Every molecule in me feels stretched too tight, like I don’t fit in my body anymore.
I need some time alone.
I trot up the steps, then do something I haven’t done before—avoid a friend. I head the other way to avoid running into her. But that other way means I’m walking right past Jameson’s beer stand.
What a stupid move. But I keep my focus forward, blinders on.
“Remy!” he calls out, and I try to avoid him, giving him a quick wave and walking on. But he rushes around the counter, leaving it to one of his servers, and catches up with me in the concourse.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I was thinking it’d be nice to get coffee and chat.”
He’s really milking this friendship BS. “Why would that be nice?”
Oh wow. Did I say that?
“Because I bet you’ve got a lot on your plate with the wedding,” he says, totally missing the bite in my tone. “And I’m your friendly expert when it comes to libations. I can recommend some beers for the reception.”
He’s so relentless in his fake friendship project. I’d really like to tell him to stop using me to get to my sister. But if I say what’s on my mind, I might rock the boat. Caroline wants everything to go smoothly for the wedding. Everything includes me, so I bottle my snappy retorts up.
I flash him a fake friendly smile. “I can’t do coffee, but I will totally think about your offer,” I say with a wave, then waggle my phone, the universal sign for I need to take a call.
I hustle off, but once I round the corner and dart into the personnel hallway, my heart is beating too erratically, my mind racing to too many places. I stop, set a hand on my chest, and try to calm down.
Since now I have another thing to worry about, and it’s not how far to go with this fake dating.
It’s what happens when I run into Lake like this when our fake romance is over? How the hell am I going to handle having two ex-boyfriends in the same building?
I close my eyes and sink to the floor.
29
GOOD LUCK NUTS
LAKE
It’s good to be the rebound guy. On and off the ice. I snag two goals—one on a breakaway, the other off a rebound that I collected before their D-men did, shooting it right back into their net.
Man, it was beautiful.
“You can all thank me. My superstitions did it,” I say to the guys as I rip off my jersey at my stall after the final buzzer.
Miller peels off a leg pad. “Nah. Pretty sure it was me and my superstitions.”
I stare down our goalie. “Because you started imitating me.”
“And we started winning again. So yeah, that means I’m the fucking good luck charm,” Miller says, patting his chest.
Riggs hums thoughtfully. “Guess that makes you a squirrel, not a fox.”
Miller jerks his gaze to Riggs, who’s not even looking at us. Just tugging off a skate as he doles out animal facts.
“Explain,” Miller demands, but I know why he picked a squirrel.
Riggs looks up, expression thoroughly even-keeled as he tugs off a skate. “Squirrels organize their nuts. Like you organized your gear. C’mon, we’ve been over this.”
Miller grabs his crotch. “Organize this.”
Ivan chuckles from his stall, then pumps his hips like he’s about to perform a striptease. “Besides, these are the good luck charms.”
I groan, waving a dismissive hand at the D-man, and the rest of my guys. “And you’ve all officially cured me of my superstitions.”
“It’s about time,” Corbin shouts as he wings his undershirt into the laundry basket. “It’s teamwork, men. Not superstition or good luck nuts.”
“Oh, I definitely have good luck nuts,” Miller shouts back at Corbin.
“Men, that wasn’t about luck.” The cool, commanding tone of Coach Ahmed cuts across the locker room shenanigans. He strides in, polished and proud in a sharp suit, and we snap our attention to the man in charge. “You played hard, you executed, you did your jobs.”