Fake As Puck (As Puck #2)

1

“Three weddings are officially RSVP’d,” I say, yanking open the fridge door like I’m on a mission. Cold air blasts my face.

Bea’s perched on one of the kitchen stools, scrolling on her phone like she didn’t just sleep in my bed, wearing my T-shirt like it’s not a big deal.

“Bea?” I prompt, voice casual.

“Hmm?” she hums, still smiling, thumbs tapping away.

“We have three weddings this spring,” I say, pulling out the Brita pitcher like it’s going to fix my rising blood pressure. “Almost back-to-back.”

“Three?” she scoffs, eyes flicking up. “I thought there were only two?”

“Yeah, well Hendrix proposed and it’s happening fast, so I RSVP’d for us.” I pour a glass of water, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she tucks her knees up to her chest.

She’s got a look.

You know the one where the smile doesn’t reach her eyes and her whole body suddenly goes tight, like she’s about to throw a grenade in the middle of my kitchen and doesn’t want to get blood on the floor.

“Everything okay?” I ask, the glass cool in my hand, the air not so much.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just shuts her eyes.

Oh no.

Not good.

Abort mission.

“I want to break up,” she blurts. Like ripping a Band-Aid off with all the tenderness of a back-alley dentist.

Her eyes are still squeezed shut like if she doesn’t see me, maybe I won’t exist.

“I mean,” she continues, “we were barely together. We had sex one time, and I’m not ready to meet the team, your friends, or your family. Three weddings?” Her eyebrows reach the sky.

I set my water down.

Very carefully.

Like if I move too fast, the entire moment will explode in my face.

We had sex one time ?

Ma’am.

It was four times. And one of those times involved whipped cream and emotion .

But okay.

I nod. Because apparently that’s what mature adults do when they get sucker-punched at 8 a.m. in their own kitchen.

“So…” I start to say, but my brain is short-circuiting. What do I even say to that?

Don’t say anything dumb. Don’t ask her why. Don’t be petty. Be cool. Be chill. You’re a guy who takes rejection like a fucking man, damn it.

I nod again. Slow. Thoughtful. Deep inhale, like I just hit downward dog and discovered inner peace.

“You okay?” she asks. Eyes wide now. Like suddenly I’m the fragile one in this situation.

Honestly, the whites of her eyes are showing a little too much and she’s giving a strong “human version of a deer blinking at oncoming traffic” vibe. And it’s making her look... less cute.

“Yeah. Yes.” I nod again. (That’s like four nods now. Do I have a tic?) “I am okay. I guess I’m just in shock.”

Her eyes soften. “I know. I’m sorry. Last night was the last shot. I’m just not feeling it. You’re not mad, are you?”

I shake my head and grab my water again, mostly for something to do with my hands.

“No.”

But I told all my teammates I had a girlfriend.

I told my neighbor I was taken so she’d stop FaceTiming her niece every time I carried groceries in.

I booked a couples’ massage after the wedding because I thought, “hey, romance is effort.”

I told my sister to quit making thirst-trap TikToks about her single hockey player brother… which went disgustingly viral, by the way.

I smile at her. “Not mad at all.”

She stands. Fidgets. Takes a few slow steps like she’s trying to ease out of a bear trap.

“For what it’s worth, it’s not you. My ex messaged me, and when I realized how excited I was, I knew that wasn’t fair to you.”

But you slept with me anyway?

Cool cool cool cool cool.

“I get it,” I say with a forced smile. “Don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t,” she says.

Shit.

My bad.

“Right. Sorry. Uh, yeah, it’s no problem. You should get back with your ex.”

“He was abusive,” she says, and my entire nervous system hits the brakes like a full-body record scratch.

Oh.

I stare. Because I don’t know what else to do. My thoughts just fled the building.

“I just have things I need to work out on my own,” she adds.

I nod again. Jesus Christ, I need to stop nodding before my neck gives out.

“Yeah. Yes. It’s no problem, Bea.”

She disappears down the hallway, and I stare into the middle distance like I’ve just been hit by a bus I saw coming a mile away but was too polite to dodge.

Don’t react. Don’t be dramatic. Just vibe through the heartbreak, man.

I shake my head slowly, sipping my water.

Then she reappears.

Fully clothed. Back in her clothes. No more t-shirt. No more thigh peek. No more hope.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks again.

“You keep asking,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m white-knuckling my sanity.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want this to be awkward. We could still be friends.”

Friends?

Right.

Because friends absolutely suck each other’s souls out through emotionally charged sex (that happened four times) and then pretend it was a quirky accident.

“I’m a little too busy for friends,” I blurt.

Goddammit.

She raises a brow.

“That came out wrong,” I scramble. “I mean… hockey, you know. It’s very time consuming. It doesn’t leave much time for anything.”

She just grins . The kind of grin that says wow, he doesn’t want to be my friend?

“This was fun,” she says, all breezy and casual as she drifts to my front door. Then she glances back, voice soft. “Bye.”

“Bye,” I say.

And wave.

Like a total fu cking idiot .

The second the door shuts behind her, I exhale so dramatically I almost pass out. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Reed: West RSVP’d for two, boys. It’s official!

Hurley: Should we add him to the couples text group?

West: You fuckers have a separate text thread for couples?

Hurley: Yeah we do

Reed: Wait until after the wedding

West: What is that group even for?

G: Date nights. Ladies are part of it too

I set my phone down like it’s personally betrayed me and drop straight to the floor.

Push-ups.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Not bothered at all.

One push-up.

Two.

This isn’t heartbreak. This is core strength.

Three.

Four.

I don’t need a girlfriend.

Keep going.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

I have to find a girlfriend. Fast.

Push-up thirty-one ends in a groan. Not from pain.

From realization.

I have three weddings.

Three.

And every single one of them has been RSVP’d for two.

The text thread already thinks I’m “taken.”

There’s a couples group chat I didn’t even know existed.

And Reed’s wife loves themed place settings.

I need someone believable. Someone who can fake laugh at uncle jokes, eat plated chicken like it’s fine dining, andnot mention that I was dumped this morning while holding a glass of water.

I roll over onto my back, stare at the ceiling, and start mentally flipping through the Rolodex of all the women I know.

Option #1: Kara-from-Tinder. Hot. Smart. Allergic to eye contact. We matched, messaged, then she sent me a TikTok of a rat eating pizza and never responded again. Unstable energy. Wedding risk level: HIGH.

Option #2: My neighbor, Linda. Widowed. Seventy-four. Obsessed with her cats and me. Keeps asking if I’m “still single, sugar.” Once brought me banana bread in a heart-shaped pan. Honestly the most consistent woman in my life. Wedding risk level: Oddly low.

Option #3: Daisy, my ex. Knows how to dress for weddings. Also knows how to throw a wine glass when tipsy. I told her I needed space. She responded by keying “SPACE” into my truck. Wedding risk level: Felony.

Option #4: That barista with the nose ring.

Always writes ”Stay sexy, West” on my coffee cup.

Once said I have the “energy of a dad who used to model.” I’ve never been more confused or more flattered.

Do I know her name? No. Do I think she owns heels?

Also no. Wedding risk level: Espresso-fueled chaos.

Option #5: My sister’s best friend. Knows my mom. Would play along. Has also seen me in footie pajamas at age twelve. Told me I smell like “boy math and Red Bull.” Still not sure what that means. Wedding risk level: She’ll roast me in the car ride there.

I groan and roll over again, smashing my face into the carpet.

There has to be someone. Someone believable. Someone hot. Someone who can survive three open bars, five dance floors, two bouquet tosses, and an Aunt Sharon.

Who do I know that can lie convincingly, pretend to like me, and not ruin my life in the process?

Shit.

I know exactly who to ask.

And she’s going to say no. So hard. So fast.

But I’m desperate. And mildly good-looking. And I once helped her move a couch up three flights of stairs.

Time to cash in that favor.