9 worst idea
By the time I get home, I already regret everything.
Not in a dramatic way, not in a "this ruined my life" way, just in the steady, irritating realization that I willingly sat at a table in public and pretended to date someone who openly called my sport aggressive ice ballet without even hesitating.
Declan, unfortunately, has not stopped thinking about it since.
"This might be the best thing that's ever happened to you," he says, leaning back against the hood of my car like he lives there now.
"It's not."
"It absolutely is."
"It's not even close."
He shakes his head slowly, like I'm the one missing something obvious. "You're fake dating a girl who doesn't care about hockey, doesn't care about you being captain, and still managed to make you look like you were enjoying yourself."
"I wasn't enjoying myself."
"You smiled."
"I didn't."
"You almost smiled," he corrects.
"That doesn't count."
"It counts enough."
I grab a bottle of water from the cooler in the garage and twist the cap off, taking a sip just to avoid responding immediately.
The heat outside is still lingering, the kind that sticks to everything even after the sun's gone down. The driveway lights flick on automatically, casting everything in that dim yellow glow that makes this feel more like a conversation I can't leave than one I chose to have.
Declan watches me for a second, then pushes off the car.
"So," he says. "How are we feeling about your girlfriend?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Right. Fake girlfriend."
"She's not that either."
"She sat across from you in public while people filmed you like a documentary," he points out. "That's something."
"That's a situation," I reply. "Not a relationship."
"Sure."
I exhale slowly, already tired of this.
"She's difficult," I say.
Declan nods like he agrees. "Yeah."
"She's argumentative."
"Also true."
"She doesn't listen."
"That one's debatable," he says. "She listens. She just chooses not to care."
"That's worse."
"It is."
I lean back against the garage wall, arms crossed. "This isn't going to work."
"It's already working," he replies.
"That doesn't mean it's good."
"It means it's effective."
I don't respond to that, because I know he's not entirely wrong.
The café wasn't a disaster.
It should've been.
It started that way-awkward, off, completely unnatural-but somewhere in the middle of it, something shifted. The conversation stopped feeling forced. The timing lined up. The reactions made sense. Like we weren't just pretending anymore.
Which is exactly the problem.
"She doesn't take anything seriously," I say instead.
Declan raises an eyebrow. "You take everything seriously."
"That's different."
"It's not."
"It is."
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "You don't like that she doesn't react the way people usually do."
"I don't like that she makes everything harder than it needs to be."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what I meant."
He lets that sit for a second, then shrugs. "I think it's funny."
"I'm aware."
"You should try it."
"I'm not trying anything."
"You are," he says. "You're trying not to like her."
I look at him. "That's not a thing."
"It's definitely a thing."
"It's not necessary," I reply. "I don't like her. That part's easy."
Declan hums like he's not convinced, but doesn't push it.
For a second, it's quiet. Then-
"She literally hates hockey."
He pauses. Not long, just enough to register it properly. Then he grins.
Actually grins. Like something just clicked into place in a way that makes this ten times more entertaining for him.
"Oh I know," he says. "I love her."
I stare at him. "You don't even know her."
"I know enough," he replies. "She sat there, in front of you, in public, and called your entire sport aggressive ice ballet without backing down. That's confidence."
"That's disrespect."
"That's personality."
"That's a problem."
"That's interesting."
I shake my head, pushing off the wall and walking a few steps away just to reset the conversation.
"This isn't about her being interesting," I say. "It's about keeping this under control."
"And you think she's the one making it hard to control?"
"Yes."
Declan laughs quietly. "I think she's the only reason it's not worse."
That stops me for a second.
"Explain," I say.
"She's not trying to impress you," he says. "She's not trying to play along perfectly. That makes it look real."
"It's not real."
"I know," he says. "That's why it works."
I don't respond immediately. Because again-
He's not entirely wrong.
"She's still difficult," I say after a second.
"Yeah," he agrees easily. "But you're not exactly easy either."
"That's different."
"It's really not."
I exhale, running a hand through my hair as I think about it longer than I want to.
The way she talked.
The way she didn't hesitate.
The way she looked completely comfortable in a situation most people would've tried to handle carefully.
Like none of it mattered, like I didn't matter. And that-
That's new.
"You're overthinking it," Declan says.
"I'm not overthinking anything."
"You definitely are."
"I'm managing it."
"You're analyzing it."
"That's part of managing it."
He laughs again, shaking his head. "You're not going to win this."
"I'm not trying to win."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
I don't answer that, because I don't actually know.
The only thing I do know is that this was supposed to be simple.
Controlled.
Temporary.
And somehow, after one public appearance, it already feels more complicated than that.
Declan pushes off the car again, stretching his arms like he's completely relaxed.
"I'm excited," he says.
"For what?"
"For whatever this turns into."
"It's not turning into anything."
He grins. "We'll see."
I look away, focusing on literally anything else. Because the truth is-
I don't like this.
I don't like the attention.
I don't like the situation.
And I definitely don't like how easily she fits into it.
Still-
When I think about the way she said it-
aggressive ice ballet
I almost laugh.
Which is exactly why this is a problem.