Tricky Puck: a Fake Fiancee Hockey Rom-Com (Portsmouth Whalers Hockey Romance)

Chapter 10

“I’m so glad you had a good time last night.”

I smile at Granny, unable to lie to her about last night, and take a big sip of my much-needed morning-after coffee.

“That means you’ll want to join him in New Hampshire right away. Here’s his address and his house key.”

Coffee threatens to spurt from my mouth all over the table, but I clap my hand over it and manage to hold it in and choke it down, coughing.

Granny stands and pats my back. “Don’t get excited, dear. You won’t be far, and we’ll come up to visit you as soon as?—”

“Granny, you can’t be serious…?” Again, I find myself asking the question I know the answer to, but this time, I’m a little scared because I know who I’m dealing with now.

She nods. “Of course I am.”

I feel lightheaded.

When I askedGrandma if Link knew about this plan, she assured me he was in on it. Somehow, I doubted it. One thing we both have in common is a commitment to stay single for the foreseeable future. No way did our plan to go along with our grandmothers and fake-date for a while come remotely close to agreeing to living together.

Sure, we’d planned to visit, so here I am visiting. Maybe a little sooner than we expected, but hell, we should probably talk about how to diffuse this extreme matchmaking idea about us shacking up. I’ll stop for one night on my way to George’s cabin. I probably shouldn’t keep referring to him as my friend after the stunt he pulled the other night.

But he’d given me the key and his blessing to write songs to my heart’s content, and I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. That’s my practical New Yorker state of mind talking.

It takes me a day to pack up my things, and the next day, I wave goodbye to Granny with two keys in my pocket to the homes of two very different men—George and Link.

George’s key I’ll use because he won’t be there, and I don’t want to see him. Link’s key, I can’t imagine using because he will be there, and I do want to see him—way too much for my own damn good.

Tonight is Link’s first game of the hockey season—Uncle Torin reminded me often enough all day as if I’d have forgotten. This is a long-ass drive, and I’m taking a long drag on the straw of my ice coffee.

Torin suggested that I should plan to arrive in time for the game, and that I’d be crazy not to call Link to ask for a ticket. I wisely listened to his advice without comment or committing. Asking for a ticket doesn’t sit well with me. Link should have offered it, but he hasn’t called me.

Checking the time on my navigation app, it looks iffy whether I’ll arrive in time. Should I call him? Maybe, but if it’s game day, he must be busy, right?

So by the time I arrive in Portsmouth, my car packed to the roof with all my stuff for the winter and leave it in the parking garage, it’s too late to do anything but hope I’ll nab a ticket. I would never leave my packed car in a New York parking garage, but this is the country, right? Or at least the suburbs. There’s not a building over ten stories to be seen in the downtown area.

Outside the arena, there aren’t many people around. After I find the ticket window closed—because, shit, the game has already started—I manage to find a scalper among the sparse sprinkling of people.

“I’m not paying triple the face value,” I insist.

“Sure. Good luck finding another ticket. This season opener is a hot one.” The guy sporting a cap with a spongey whale swallowing a hockey puck on top turns away.

I take a deep breath and stop him. “Okay.” This is harder than I’d thought it would be. I rummage in my bag and pull out the exact amount of cash, eying the guy warily. “So the Whalers are popular?”

“They’re like royalty in this town and for miles around. Some fans from Boston come up here to watch, too, since you can’t get Brawlers tickets.”

I nod, though I have no idea who the Brawlers are, and hand him the money with one hand as I snatch the ticket from him with the other to make it a simultaneous exchange as if we’re dealing in high-value prisoners or something.

Maybe I need to dial down the big-city paranoia.

My seats are too high in the bleachers to see much, not that I have any idea what’s going on. However, whenever they show Link on the jumbotron or mention his name when he does something special—score or assist or something—I get a flutter like my old butterflies have returned from the other night—or maybe they never left.

Even that vicarious excitement and the jam-packed crowd yelling like crazy isn’t enough to keep me warm, and I wonder how cold it must be down on the ice. Endless rounds of standing ovations, mysterious goings on with the nameless skaters speeding back and forth below, interspersed with trips to the drink vendors for cocktails that I tell myself I need for warmth, not courage, then the final horn blasts, the benches empty, and after a few bewildering seconds, during which there’s a mass exodus from the stands, I realize the game is over.

Eventually, I make it down from my extremely elevated seat and ask an usher where the dressing rooms are.

“You mean the locker rooms?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“For the Whalers?”

I give him my dead-pan stare, and he points. I follow the direction of his index finger and look for signs. When I see the restricted area, I head that way, though I’m not sure how restricted the locker room is. I came all this way and watched his game, and I’m not leaving without at least seeing him and taking a selfie as proof to Granny that I made an effort.

A security guard puts his arm out when I try to pass him.

“Hold on there, lady. This is a restricted area.”

“I’m here to see Link—Lincoln Milano.”

“Sure you are. Do you have a pass?”

Shit. “Do I need one?”

“Sorry. Please move aside.”

Shit. Why didn’t I figure they’d have security? Everyone has security these days. I move to the side and hang out in the hallway. What are the chances that he’ll be checking his phone about now? I have no idea, but it’s all I have. I text him that I’m in the hallway outside the restricted dressing room—I mean, locker room—and can he let security know I’m not a threat?

I hope Link doesn’t think of me as a threat, but at this point, I’m not so sure. We left with an agreement—that we’d see each other and go along with the matchmaking for a while—but there was no way we were planning on anything serious.

At no time was it ever hinted that we might live together. I hope Granny and the matchmaker weren’t exaggerating their case when they said he was on board with this plan. After a few seconds, where I watch the crowd and various people entering the restricted area, I realize he might not see my text any time soon, so I call. His phone goes right to voicemail. Damn. My last resort is leaving a message, so I do, careful not to sound irritated or desperate or out of sorts in any way. Because I’m not.

Fuck. I so am out of sorts. I’m so fucking out of sorts. Possibly confused. Again—or maybe still.

I probably should have called him earlier today, but I really thought he’d call me and at least tell me it was okay to let myself in since he wasn’t going to be home. Shit. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea to come to the game. Or to his house. It’s not too late to drive straight to George’s cabin without stopping at go.

I’m so out of my element in this place filled with sports fans and no longer amused by people watching, so I’m not paying attention when a group of three women, arm-in-arm and in a hurry, bump into me. I drop my phone.

“I’m so sorry.” A cute redhead stops and bends to pick it up at the same time I do, and we laugh. The other two women stop and wait, eying me curiously. One is petite with dark hair, and the other could be a swimsuit model with a magnificent mane of chestnut hair.

“No problem.” I stick my phone back in my bag, and she and her friends barrel on toward the restricted area.

Whatever crazy impulse makes me follow them, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it’s related to the remnants of all those orgasms from two nights ago.

“Shit,” I mutter as I catch up to them. What am I going say to them? The truth seems lame. That I’m here to see Link? Like they haven’t heard that before. The redhead turns. Shit.

“Is everything okay?”

I nod, and it seems my lust-inspired impulses are multiplying. “It’s just…I need to see Link and?—”

“You’re here for Link? Come with us,” the beauty with the mane of chestnut hair says—since when do I identify women by their hair color?—and she hooks her arm into mine, and the four of us coast past security—though I glance down at my feet like I have a foot fetish as we walk past the security guard who rejected me earlier. The last thing I want to do is have him call me out and start trouble my first night here.

The least I can do is hold off for a few days before causing a disturbance.

Shit. No more trouble. I’m a poet, not a fighter, right? The only guys I punch in the nose are the ones who give me trouble.

“Link always manages to find the most beautiful women,” the chestnut-haired stunner says, and I almost snort. As we turn the corner, the crowd noise that was a muffled hum gets loud.

We’re confronted by a mob of people, including lots of reporters with mics and TV cameras, a couple of hockey players coming in and out of a door that must be their dressing room—or locker room—or whatever they call it.

I don’t see Link anywhere, and he’d stand out. Now my nerves kick in. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” I say to no one in particular.

“What’s your name?” Chestnut hair says.

“What’s yours?”

Her eyes widen. Shit. I need to kill the New York attitude.

“I mean—Delaney. Collins. What’s yours?”

She smiles. “Emery…Whittier. I’m still getting used to my married name.” She blushes prettily.

“Newlywed. Congrats.” I look at the other two women and realize the redhead’s belly is at least eight months big as she rubs a hand over it absently.

“I’m Cherry Dumas. I have no trouble remembering my new married name. This baby here is a big reminder.”

“Let’s not talk about that story and scare the poor girl,” the third woman says. She has dark hair, a pert nose, and is shorter than the others. “I’m not married. Not even dating, if I’m honest.”

The other two women give her looks of sympathy.

Cherry says, “She’s the owner of the team?—”

My eyes pop.

“Stop it,” the petite lady says. “I only have a very minority stake in the team, thanks to my late father, may he rest in peace—if that’s even possible.”

“Don’t ask,” Emery whispers.

“So you and Link…?” Cherry asks. “Anything serious?”

And here it comes, impulse number three. “Yes—and no.”

“Explain, please, and I might just believe you,” Cherry says, “though I’m good friends with Link—he’s besties with my husband—and he’s never mentioned anything serious—except…” She quirks her head. “Tell us your story.” She folds her arms in front of her giant breasts and waits. And I thought I was stacked.

The impulse to share with these women, who are complete strangers but familiar with the team and Link, is fading. But I have to say something, and the only fallback I have is the truth.

“I’m moving in with him.”

“You are?” Emery says in polite surprise. “That’s fantastic.” There’s no mistaking the sincerity of her smile. I like her.

I nod.

“Why don’t we know about this?” the owner, whose name I still don’t know, asks. “I’m good friends with Jason Hall, and he’s also besties with Link, so I would’ve heard something about this.”

I shrug. “It was sudden.” Now, my New York instinct to clam up comes out in spades. I’m saved from having to elaborate when a hot young man dressed in a dark suit and tie comes over to us with a big smile and lands a kiss on Emery’s lips.

“And who do we have here?” He smiles at me.

“Delaney, this is my husband, Chase Whittier. Delaney’s here to see Link.”

His eyebrows shoot up like twin rockets, and his expression would be comical if it weren’t for the fact that it means I’m totally unexpected—at least by one of his teammates.

“Wow—”

Emery glares at him, and he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry—I meant I hadn’t heard you would be here. He mentioned you… We’re friends…”

“Never mind him,” Emery says. “Is Link almost ready? He’s usually quicker than this.”

“Yeah. He’s caught up with some media in the locker room. They got him on camera with his shirt off, and the reporter is?—”

“We get the picture,” Emery says.

I wish that were true because the picture isn’t clear to me at all. The reporter is what? Ogling his fantastic abs? Sizing him up for bedmate material?

Do I even have a right to the sudden surge of jealousy and possessiveness I feel?

Damn right, I do. We’re engaged—fake engaged—sort of. And we slept together. That was totally real, and that gives me a right. Right?

Forcing a smile, I dart a glance back in the direction of the locker room door and see several men in suits emerge carrying duffels. Two especially hunky guys spot our group and head for us. Cherry waves with a silly grin on her face, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet, and when she teeters, I reach out and catch her.

“Calm down there, mamma. Your center of gravity is majorly off-center with that baby bulge you’re carrying.”

She clasps my arm and settles down, but her grin doesn’t diminish. “You’re right, but I can’t help it. Look at him.” She gazes in the direction of one of the two hot men approaching us. He’s lasered in on her with one of those intense, knee-melting looks, and when he reaches her, I step out of the way.

He drops his duffel and encircles her in a possessive hug, swallowing her and her baby belly up in the process. Then he gives her the kind of kiss that makes me turn my head and almost blush.

Chase rolls his eyes.

“That’s Sabien Dumas, her newlywed other half. And this is Jason?—”

“Who do we have here?” Jason gives me a look like he’s ready for dessert, and I’m it.

“I’m Delaney Collins?—”

His face drops. “Shit. I mean—what a surprise.” He exchanges a quick look with Chase. When they both clear their throats at the same time, I consider running. But I’m a stubborn girl, and I admit to the chip on my shoulder, so fuck ’em if they can’t take a little surprise visit.

Link won’t be surprised, but if he is, after that night we had together, I’m certain he’ll be pleasantly surprised. Fairly certain.

Oh fuck, who am I kidding? He made it clear he doesn’t want anything to come of us—which is good because neither do I—and moving in…? Well, that adds a whole new dimension to a fake relationship. Makes it almost too real.

“Maybe I should…” I don’t know what I was going to say or do, but it’s too late.

Because I spot the impossible-to-miss imposing fortress of a man striding towards our knot in the crowd, and he looks ready to eat—I mean hungry. Not that I’m ready to eat him, though I am now that I think about it. Shit, I hope I don’t start drooling.

When the impulse strikes me to shrink back and possibly flee before he notices me, I stiffen my back and raise my chin.

“Here’s Link now,” Emery says, gently touching my arm like she knows I need support. Not that I do need support, especially from a stranger, even if she does seem sweet. I can handle Link Milano. We’re on the same page—the one where we want to please our grandmas and, at the same time, carry on with our lives.

He’s grinning at Jason as he slaps him on the back, and then his gaze shifts, and he spots me. I can tell the instant he does because he executes a perfect double-take, and surprise isn’t the word I’d use to describe his expression. Horrified, maybe?

“Hi, Link.” What else can I say?

“Delaney—” He stops himself from saying whatever expletive was on the tip of his tongue—I know him well enough to know that—and looks around at his friends.