Chapter 13
MY GAME PLAN IS NO GAME PLAN
LAKE
“Are we going to talk about the elephant in the car?”
Remy’s looking at me with curious eyes as I drive through the Haight on the way to her home, the afternoon sun dipping lower in the sky.
“My hat trick back there?” I deadpan.
She laughs. “Yes, but also your sunshine personality. What bag of tricks did you pull that from?”
I scoff, like she’s being ridiculous.
“No, I’m serious. You were pure cinnamon roll.”
I play dumb. “What are you talking about?”
“You were a different person at the picnic,” she presses, and she sounds…amazed.
But I rewind all the way to her first comment. Talk about the elephant.
If Remy wants to talk, that might mean I can finagle an extension of this time together. There’s no hockey game or practice today. I don’t need to return to Big Steps for a little while longer. And I happen to know a great puzzle shop not far from here.
“You free right now?”
“Um,” she says, then holds up her hands. “Since you haven’t tied me up, I’d say yes.”
It’s a miracle I don’t crash my car from the fantastically filthy images flashing through my mind of her pinned to my bed, wrists bound, chest heaving. “I mean, do you have someplace else to go? Like another—”
I choke on the word date as a dark storm cloud hangs over my head. We never talked about whether this fake boyfriend arrangement meant we’d date other people. It better not.
“We have more rules to discuss,” I bite out.
“Okaaaay,” she says, thrown off but rolling with it.
I scan for a spot and find one at the end of the block. I pull over, then hop out and grab her door.
“What rules, Lake?” she asks, as a line digs into her forehead. Remy doesn’t let things go easily. She wants to understand everything and doesn’t want to be duped.
I seriously respect her tenacity, but I’m too irritated by the unwanted thoughts of her dating to have the convo this second. “Coffee,” I mutter. “They have coffee.”
Coffee will center me.
“C it is then,” she says, talking like Fallon in initials. I’m irritated, too, that I find that endearing.
Irritated because I’ve got to get my act together with her. On the one hand, I’m jealous about the possibility of her dating anyone else while she’s fake dating me. On the other hand, I’m annoyingly captivated by every little thing she does.
I drag a hand through my hair as we head to the yellow door of the Puzzle Me This shop. I grab it and hold it open for her, when a third emotion wallops me.
Missing.
My chest aches. I’m taking her to a shop I used to go to with my dad.
A place I still go for him. I’m stepping into a place that’s deeply personal without thinking about it, just because I want to steal another moment with her.
But that seems to be my game plan these days—if a game plan can be not thinking things through.
I watch her take in the store’s offerings, turning in a circle as she gawks at the displays.
A 500-piece cat quarantine puzzle is perched on one shelf, featuring cartoon cats lounging across a living room, bingeing shows, knitting, and reading.
Then a frothy pink one called Sugar Rush featuring photos of jars of candy, then a “dogs with jobs” puzzle, where mutts wear lab coats or type at desks.
She spins back around and stares slack-jawed at me. “I could send couples here on their dates.”
I wish I could say that’s why I brought her here. But see above—my game plan is act on instinct.
Instead, I try to see the shop through her eyes—the eyes of a woman wanting to make other people happy. “Yeah, I could see this being a good date spot.”
“A terrific one,” she says, perhaps soaking in the warm cozy vibe, the well-worn couches in the shop, then the tables in the café where couples and friends work on puzzles as they sip coffees and lattes.
That’s an opening if I ever saw one. “Better make sure,” I say, with a wiggle of a brow.
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Okay then, you puzzle nerd.”
“You’re a spreadsheet nerd.”
“And you didn’t deny you’re a puzzle nerd.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Can’t deny it.”
“Birds, puzzles, free food. You’re an interesting man.”
And you’re the most fascinating woman I know. We head toward the café, and…what the hell? I grab her hand, then give a shrug. “The moment called for it.”
“The moment is making a lot of calls today,” she muses, as she looks at our linked fingers.
“So damn many,” I say as we get in line. A few people are ahead of us, and briefly it occurs to me we’re out in public again.
Sure, we were at Costco, but that didn’t look romantic. Yes, we attended the picnic, but that was a closed event. I haven’t really been out on a date like this in a long time. Hockey players aren’t always recognized in public, or even often recognized at all, but you never know.
One part of me hates the idea of putting myself out there.
Another part of me can’t stop wanting to be with this woman. I also don’t want her to have to lie to her family, so as I thread our fingers more tightly together, I say in a low voice, “Next time you see your mom, you can tell her you planned another great date for us.”
“Aren’t you strategic?”
“Yep. Since this is date-worthy. Or so the romance designer tells me.”
“It’s so DW,” she says, and I don’t let go of her hand as we walk to the counter, as we order, as we wait.
It feels too good to touch her, like it did earlier at the picnic.
But all good things come to an end, and I have to let go when the barista places the cups onto the counter.
I grab the coffee and the chai latte, and we slip into a booth with our beverages.
There’s a half-completed puzzle of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge on the table. Maybe two hundred pieces total.
I scan it, instantly spotting a few pieces of cables, and sliding them in easily.
She spots one and slots it in. I feel a little like I’ve pulled off a bank robbery.
I stole some more time with her on what feels like a real fucking date.
I roll up the cuffs of my shirt a few times, and her gaze snaps to my right forearm.
“You have an owl tattoo,” she says, staring right at the fine black lines of the bird.
“I do.” I wonder if she’s seen it before. I wear T-shirts—most of the guys do—during media interviews. Maybe she’s never noticed. No big deal.
Right. You wish she’d catalogued every detail of you.
She leans closer, studying the linework. It’s a simple drawing, more stylized than realistic. “It’s so minimalist and pretty.”
I’m about to ask if she wants to touch it, but I don’t have to.
Because there she goes, reaching for it, her hand coming closer, so close my skin is tingling with anticipation.
But she stops when she’s an inch away, pulling back her hand and taking a drink.
“It’s a great tattoo,” she says when she finishes.
“Thanks. I like it a lot too.”
She glances down at it once more, and I swear her breath catches. And I file that reaction away, too, as I take a drink, hiding a sly grin.
But the grin vanishes when she wags a finger at me. “We have a lot to discuss. Starting with your acting.”
I groan, slumping back in my chair. Not sure why but I don’t really want to dive into the alleged sunshine side of me. Or the acting, since it was hardly acting. Tattoos are more fun to talk about. “What about it?” I ask, all gruff again.
“You were so upbeat. It was…a contrast.”
“You saying you think I’m, what? A grump?”
She gives me a gentle look. “You’re kind of…broody.”
“Understatement,” I say under my breath.
Even though I really want to say And do you like that? But I’m not going to fish for compliments. I drink some coffee, and she takes a swallow of her latte, then adds, “I was kind of surprised.”
Yeah, I was too. I wasn’t expecting to have to go full simp today.
When I set down the mug, I scrub a hand across my beard, then answer her with honesty. “I figured you didn’t want a grumpy-ass hockey player who despises people-ing as your fake boyfriend.”
She laughs, snorting out some of her chai, and holy shit, it’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen.
More so when her pretty brown eyes sweep down her shirt, checking for spots. Grabbing a napkin, she shakes her head and says, “Pretend you didn’t see that.”
“Nope, can’t unsee it,” I say. “You totally snorted it right out of your nose. That was…impressive to say the least.”
“It’s your fault. You made me laugh,” she says, pointing a finger.
“By speaking the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not wrong though. About any of it.”
“I don’t know,” she says, her tone doubtful. “You were pretty social there at the picnic. You talked to everyone.”
“I talked to the people you wanted me to talk to. I did it for you,” I say plainly, then grab a piece of the orange pylon and slide it into place.
She stops with the drink halfway to her mouth. “You did?” She sounds shocked, but delighted too. It’s a good sound.
“Of course I did,” I say.
She’s quiet for a beat before she says, in a softer voice, “I don’t even know what to say.”
Say how much you liked the kisses. Say you want another one. “I was just doing what you asked me to do,” I say, nonchalant. “Being your plus-one.”
“Lake,” she says, gently correcting me. “That was above and beyond. You were so much more. You had my parents eating out of the palm of your hand. You handled it all so well. The photographer too. I used to think I was good at handling surprises, but you? You meant it when you said you love surprises.”
“I’m an athlete. I’d better be able to handle them.”
“You handled my ex too,” she adds, and her smile spreads so fast it’s like a comet. But then it vanishes into the night sky. “But something seems off about him, don’t you think?”
“Oh, you mean because he’s a complete and utter fucknozzle?”
“Well, there’s that, but why is he so intent on being friends with me? It was almost like too much. What was all that ‘Let’s go on a double date’ about? It felt a little like he was—”