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

Chapter 20

Ididn’t open my eyes when he kissed me good-bye this morning because I’m such a fucking chicken. I didn’t want him to see my feelings because he surely would have seen everything in my eyes.

Now I have until tomorrow to calm those stupid feelings the fuck down. By the time he returns, I’ll be back to myself, back to neutral, merely amused by him and, okay, occasionally very sexually excited by him. But that’s it, I swear.

Whatever else I’ve been feeling is temporary, not real. It can’t possibly be real—just some stupid crush.

Except that’s never happened to me before. I don’t have crushes. I have flirtations. I don’t get feelings. I hate feelings. I turn over in bed and put the pillow over my head as if I can hide.

Oh god. I think I may have feelings.

We arriveat the Portsmouth Historical Society for the Whalers annual charitable event arrive and I’m relieved to see the familiar faces of Cherry, Tina and Emery. I’ve been to my share of dress-up shindigs, but this time I need to behave. I need to impress Link’s coach.

“You look like my favorite dessert.”

His breath tickles my ear and it might be getting hard to breathe, but I hold onto my New Yorker mantle. “What’s that?”

“An ice cream cone and I want to start licking?—”

“Slow down hockey hunk. We just got here. And since when do pirates like ice cream? You need to work on your flirting or people will think you’re going soft, Milano.”

“That’s a lot of words.”

“Are you suggesting I’m nervous?”

“Are you?” He’s serious and his green eyes pierce me.

“Sure. I’m a fish out of water. I’m supposed to be nervous. I’ve never been around so many athletes.”

“Hell no. That’s not it,” he whispers, purposely making me shiver.

“Which one is the coach?” I see a group of hockey players at the bar. Not surprising.

“He’s the one scowling on the end. The only guy with gray hair.”

“Got it. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy.”

Link laughs and I get a lump of happy in my throat, but I swallow it down before I choke on it.

He leads me over to the bar and we mingle with his friends while I keep an eye on Grumpy the coach.

“Let me have one drink before I introduce you,” he says.

“It’s that bad, eh?”

He heaves a sigh and orders a shot of Pappy Van Winkel for each of us. I’m not surprised when he knocks his back in one go.

“Old times sake,” he says.

I nod and knock mine back. “Still as smooth as silk. But that’s the last shot of Pappy I’m having, so don’t get any ideas.”

He raises a brow and I imagine him with a patch over his eye and a sword in his pants—the kind of sword that stabs—oh fuck. I think he already has me where he wants me.

With his hand at the small of my back, he walks me to the end of the plank and I find myself face to face with the monster coach.

“Coach Spence, this is my fiancée Delaney Collins.”

“Glad to meet you. I’ve heard a lot of talk about you.” I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean as he scrutinizes me. I let him because I know I look good, as good as every woman here—except maybe Emery because that woman could be crowned Miss Universe if she ever let them.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too.” He darts a look at Link, but doesn’t change his expression. This man is a cagey one. “All good of course. They call you the miracle coach. I believe them based on the games I’ve seen.”

He smiles and I think it’s genuine. “You a hockey fan?”

I knew this was coming and I can feel Link stiffen behind me, but I’m ready for it. “Of course. A girl can’t be in love with Link Milano and not be obsessed with hockey. We’re both so looking forward to the Whalers taking the Stanley Cup this year.”

“We all are,” he says, his smile widening. His wife interrupts us then, thank god, and after a brief introduction, they disappear to take care of some kind of family thing.

I turn to Link. “He has kids?”

Link shrugs. “Guess so.”

Hmmm. “I think that went well.”

“You were spectacular. You’re one of the best pretenders I’ve ever seen.”

“Buy me a glass of wine to celebrate.”

“It’s open bar,” he says and I laugh.

As we rejoin his—our—group of friends, my phone buzzes so loud he can hear it.

“Who would be calling you this late?” he says.

“That’s odd.” I slip my phone from my bag and we move away from the crowd to a quiet hallway.

“It’s Torin.” I put the phone to my ear and my heart starts racing. I hold Link’s gaze, needing the connection, while he watches me.