That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

7. WADE

WADE

A Jersey, a Kiss, and One Hell of a Headache

I stood there, completely dumbfounded, unable to wrap my head around what had just happened. The longer I lingered, the less sense it made. Who the hell walked into a bar as a stranger, invited a horde of people he apparently knew, and then had them all decide my hidden, tucked-away bar would be their new go-to spot? And after that, he worked for free—multiple nights—because, clearly, he’d brought in the crowd. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d found me staff, designed a whole new name and frontage. To be fair, it looked damn good. The whole inclusive sports bar concept was genius, and I caught myself wondering why I hadn’t thought of it first. I mean, I was gay and loved sports… but I guess my looks had sheltered me. I never got side-eyed or mistreated in a regular sports bar, so I forgot not everyone had it so easy. Maybe I was the asshole.

Taron stood in front of me, smirking like they’d been waiting for my existential meltdown.

“That’s the Cal Johnson effect,” they said, voice rich with amusement. “He’s a whirlwind. He sweeps into your life, and suddenly you’re spinning in his orbit before you even realize it. The guy doesn’t know the effect he has on people.”

Cal. I rolled the name around in my head, as if tasting it on my tongue. I knew it would sound good if I said it out loud. Just a name, though. Just a damn name.

“He’s like that with everyone?” I asked, hoping I sounded casual. Part of me—some ridiculous, soft part—wondered if he’d done it just for me. I regretted the thought immediately. I wasn’t about to let someone flip my life upside down again. This was my bar, my space. I’d done my time dancing to other men’s tunes. I wouldn’t let some pretty boy become the center of my universe.

“Yep,” Taron confirmed. “He’s the shepherd of lost causes. Even if you don’t tell him you’re in the shit, he just knows. Then suddenly, he’s ushering you towards success, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

Lost cause. The words stung, and I clenched my jaw. I’d almost been at the point of selling. The last few days had saved my ass, helped me pay rent and bills, and I even managed to pay my new employees, but still. If Cal thought I wasn’t going to pay him back—or that I’d just roll over—he had another thing coming.

It was the first shift in over a week that he hadn’t shown his pretty face, and I totally didn’t check the door every time the bell chimed, waiting for that whirlwind’s sexy ass to make its way in.

When closing came, I told myself it was for the best. I was torn between gratitude and anger. He’d done this without my say-so, ignoring the fact I said, “Not yet.” Who even paid for all of it? This was my business, damn it.

Showered and in bed, I couldn’t stop myself from Googling him. Because how could I not? And Jesus, the talent on the ice… an hour later, I forced myself to stop watching videos. I needed sleep for tomorrow’s likely busy day.

The next morning, I went down to the bar—my eyes flickering to the sign like they couldn’t help themselves, dragging my thoughts straight back to the one person I didn’t want them lingering on. I groaned and scrubbed a hand down my face. I didn’t have time for this—any of it. I threw myself into getting the bar ready, hoping the mindless motions would distract me.

The sound of the doorbell ringing snapped me out of my brooding, and I poked my head out of the kitchen to see Sadie and Taron strolling in, all smiles. And once again, I was speechless.

“Where did you get those?” I growled, the bite in my voice barely contained.

Sadie beamed, completely oblivious to my frustration.

“We picked them up from Cal’s place. His roommate helped organize them. Aren’t they cool? And the signage! It’s so good!” She twirled like it was a damn runway, showing off the jersey like she’d just won it on a game show.

The both of them wore matching jerseys emblazoned with the same artwork as the window decal—proudly sporting the bar’s new name.

The kicker? Custom numbers and their names printed on the back. I had no clue how Pretty Boy managed to pull this off, and the worst part was, I couldn’t even hate it because it looked incredible .

Taron, smirking like they were enjoying my silent meltdown, chimed in.

“Don’t question it. Cal’s a networking wizard. He’s friends with the equipment manager for the Voyageurs, got the contact for the jersey supplier, handed it over to his decal guy, and boom—uniforms.”

I couldn’t process it all, especially when Taron handed me my own jersey. I stared at the number 69 and “Jack” printed across the back, feeling a laugh threaten to escape. I wanted to laugh, but I swallowed it down. If they so much as caught a glimpse of a smile, Cal would hear about it, and I’d never live it down.

Shaking my head, I focused on the roster in front of me. I had two new hires to finalize and no time to deal with my swirling thoughts about a certain Pretty Boy and his damn generosity . Under no circumstances was I putting on that jersey—not until I had a word with him.

I didn’t expect to see Cal that night— Pretty Boy , as I kept calling him in my head—especially since he’d said he was running on next to no sleep. But the second I heard his voice cutting through the hum of the bar, my blood pressure spiked. I stormed out of the kitchen, and there he was, perched behind the bar like he owned the place. He even had the audacity to wear one of those jerseys—number 96, with Pretty Boy stamped across the back like it was his royal title.

A scoff escaped me before I could catch it. He glanced over his shoulder, gave me a cheeky wink, and turned back to pour a drink for someone like he belonged there.

“You. Out.” I growled, striding up behind him, placing my hands on his hips—which, by the way , felt far too good under my fingers.

“And why would I do that?” he replied, all playful innocence. He wasn’t innocent. Not even close.

“Because you should be at home resting , that’s why. I don’t have the time or energy to scold you for everything you’ve done tonight, so just leave.”

Cal rolled his eyes, wiggling his hips in my grip like he was daring me to react. “But I’m having so much fun! Besides, my friend Tyler always says, ‘You’ll rest when you’re dead.’ Starting to see the appeal of that logic.”

“Well, you can’t die,” I shot back, letting my hands drop and crossing my arms instead. “Because I’m in debt to you for all this, and I can’t have that hanging over my head. Also, I’m mad as hell you went ahead with it. I told you I couldn’t afford it.”

He shrugged, lips curling into that infuriating grin.

“But I could afford it, and I’m impulsive. Plus, I love to shop. Really, this was more for me—seeing that signage every time I walk in gives me a rush. Selfish, honestly. Same with helping out at the bar, I love it.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to say—what could I say to someone like him? I’d never met anyone who did something just because they could , not expecting anything back.

“Still not okay,” I grumbled, shaking my head. “Now get out of here and get some sleep, Pretty Boy. I can’t have that face of yours suffering from a lack of beauty sleep.”

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Too close to a compliment. Too dangerous.

Cal, being Cal, just sighed dramatically.

“Fine. You’re no fun.” And then, because he clearly enjoyed torturing me, he peeled off his jersey right there. The fitted top underneath clung to him in a way that made it very hard not to look. I willed my eyes anywhere else . He folded the jersey—badly—and handed it to me.

“Keep this safe. If I take it home, it’ll probably get lost,” he said casually. “I’ll see you soon, Jack.”

Before I could protest, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek—just like he had done before. I froze, heat rising to my face like I was fifteen again.

Then he strutted out the door, jeans hugging his ass in a way that should have been illegal. On his way, he kissed both Taron and Sadie on the cheek too, which did not make me feel better.

I stared down at the damn jersey in my hands, my mind spinning.

What in the actual hell had just happened?