Chapter 15
FOR FOX’S SAKE
REMY
Confession time—I had to read one of those Hockey for Dummies books when I took this job.
I had zero idea how the sport worked. I got the gig here since I was friendly with Daniel from an event planning agency I’d worked at. He asked if I wanted to interview for the community relations manager role, and I said yes.
Then I tunneled down into the rabbit hole of hockey for a crash course, watching videos, researching the sport, and devouring the book.
I want to say I love the game, but I’m not obsessed with it like I am with setting up an event, or planning an amazing proposal for a couple.
I don’t often slip away to watch some of a game in the press box.
But tonight…after I answer Lake’s text with a Yes, I feel an almost inexplicable pull in my chest to learn more about hockey when it’s game time.
If I’m going to study the gameplay, maybe I want to do that alone.
When I’m done with my work—planning an upcoming event with a youth sports clinic where the players are going to teach the kids for a day—I head up to the concourse, passing the plant wall, weaving through the food court, then flashing my badge at ushers.
I don’t need a seat. I can simply stand at the top of the bowl, watching from there, blending into the crowd.
First period’s underway and already the arena seems to be vibrating with energy. The Foxes had a wobbly start to the season but they’ve been on a tear recently, firing on all cylinders.
Rowdy fans in purple jerseys sail past me carting nachos and gourmet pizza, sodas and cocktails.
Determined to expand my hockey knowledge, I narrow my gaze to number seven.
With the ends of his hair spilling out just past his helmet, Lake’s racing down the ice, flanking Corbin, flipping the puck back and forth with him.
Jostling for an opening, Lake finds none, so he passes the little black disc to Riggs, who flies around the back of the net.
That makes sense. It gives Riggs a chance to scan the ice for a teammate to pass to. In a nanosecond, Riggs sends the puck zipping right to Lake. My breath catches as Lake lifts his stick, swings, and aims for the goalie’s legs. That’s a wrist shot.
“C’mon,” I mutter, crossing my fingers, hoping so hard.
But the goalie blocks it, and a D-man gets the rebound, then ferries the puck toward Miller.
The game goes like that for the rest of the period, tight and scoreless, as I file away the details of each play and each penalty. But soon, my shoulders are tight. Must be because I’ve been focusing so hard, trying to record all the info.
No, you wanted Lake to score. You wanted it so bad.
I blow out a breath, tear myself away from the stands, and tell myself to go home and focus on Romance By Design.
I have a new client at long last. A referral, and that’s such a relief.
I should plan his upcoming special date, but as I ride home on the bus, I’m staring out the window, watching the waterfront roll by and daydreaming about the haircut I’m going to give the hockey player with the finest flow on the ice.
* * *
When I arrive home, I bound up the steps to my porch on the side of the townhome, ready to punch the code into the keypad, but I stop in my tracks.
In front of my door is a huge gift bag from the Foxes gift shop. Tissue paper spills out of the top, and anticipation bubbles inside me.
This could just be a work gift, maybe. Something from Daniel? I pull back the paper, and once my fingers brush across soft, plush material, I don’t think this is a gift from my boss after all.
I grab the bag, punch in the code with lightning speed, and carry it inside. Once the door snicks shut, I drop my phone on a table, sink to the floor in a squat, and paw through the bag like a ravenous dog.
I pluck out a stuffed fox.
A tiny ferocious one, and he’s holding a note. My breath catches as I reach for the small white card in the fox’s paws.
I unfold it and read.
For fox’s sake, will you have coffee with me?
Tingles rush down my arms. I fish around for another fox. This one, in a cute little purple jersey, holds a card tucked under its arm.
I don’t give a fox about anything but taking you on a date.
I’m grinning so stupidly, so broadly it should be illegal. I grab another fox and open another note.
Zero foxes given about anything but taking you out…for cake.
I feel deliciously carbonated now, a soda bottle all shook up.
I dip my hand in again and again, pulling out more foxes from a nearly never-ending supply. Finally, when I’m surrounded by tawny stuffies, I reach inside the gift bag and find a bigger card. This one has today’s date on it.
I flip it open.
There. It did happen.
He recreated the story of how he asked me out to make it real. After I send him a thank you text, laden with exclamation points, I spend the rest of the night redecorating with a dozen stuffed foxes, enjoying it more than it feels I should.
* * *
I rattle off the details of the wedding for my therapist, Elena, the next day at our early evening session.
“And Caroline has her own wedding planner, but I’ve been managing some things for her too.
Don’t worry though—I want the things I’m planning to be perfect, but not too perfect,” I say, a nod to one of the things I’ve been working on with her.
“That’s good to hear because we can’t control everything.
Or most things, but it’s good to remind yourself that you can handle the outcome regardless of what happens.
Just like you handled the Jumbotron situation,” she says.
With warm bronze skin and a grandmotherly attitude, Elena Alvarez has seen a lot as a therapist. A Jumbotron breakup was a first though.
“I’m wondering if all this wedding planning stirs up anything about how a younger you had to deal with planning? ”
That’s a damn good question. That’s also why I came to her office in the first place even though I don’t entirely love talking about how my sister and I grew up differently.
Those eight years made a big difference.
Mom and Dad were happy when Caroline was a kid; they’d nearly split up by the time I was ten and she was in college.
“Sometimes,” I admit, with a sigh. I didn’t love the way I felt at the picnic when my parents praised me for the dates I planned for them when I was in grade school.
But if I dive into that with Elena, I’ll have to tell her I have a fake boyfriend, and I doubt fake dating is one of the approved cognitive behavioral therapy techniques.
I keep my pretend romance to myself for now, and I kind of like my secret.
* * *
I’m grabbing my to-go cup and slinging my canvas bag on my arm a few days later, ready to catch an early bus to a meeting with an animal rescue we’re partnering with for an upcoming event, when someone bangs on my door with a battering ram.
I swing it open, and yup. It’s my sister. In full TV makeup and sporting a luminous blowout, she brandishes her tablet triumphantly, with the words It’s done on the screen.
I squint to see an email from Fallon. “What’s done? Does she mean she booked everything for the cake tasting tomorrow?”
Shaking her head, Caroline’s eyes gleam with retribution. “The photographer who was a little too frisky with you? I made sure he was fired from the assignment. No one treats my employees that way, let alone my sister.”
Oh.
I’m oddly touched, though it’s wholly unnecessary. “It didn’t really bother me that much,” I say, since my maxim for the wedding is don’t rock the boat.
“Please. He was asking you to go to his hotel. Fallon overheard him.”
I didn’t realize Fallon was skulking around, but that seems on brand for her. Plus, I was distracted when Lake swooped in with a kiss. “True, but it didn’t seem—”
She holds up a stop-sign hand. “Look, this is better than the alternative. I was strongly considering wringing his neck with my bare hands. Margot talked me down.”
“It’s good to work with a pacifist who wants to keep you out of prison.”
“No one fucks with my people. There will be a new crew coming for the cake tasting.” She spins around, ready to march down the steps and back into her townhome in her ethically sourced eco-friendly kitten heels when she stops and wheels back around. “But they want to stop by here first.”
“Sure. So you can get ready,” I say, gesturing to her townhome.
“So we can,” she corrects. “I told them you’ve been using their makeup forever. The brand is all about real people and authenticity, so they’re going to grab some quick B-roll of you first, then me.”
“Okay,” I say, trying my best to sound excited, but likely failing. Being chronically online is so not my thing, but it can’t be too hard to do a get-ready-with-me video.
“And make sure Lake is there.”
My chest flutters. That’s an awfully inconvenient reaction to his name. So’s the shimmer of heat rushing through my veins.
“I’ll let him know,” I say evenly, since I don’t want to entirely let on how excited I am for a little extra time with him. But hold on. He’s theoretically my real date, and a good fake girlfriend would be glad about that. Right?
Shoot.
Real girlfriend.
A real girlfriend would be glad about that, I repeat in my head. Man, it’s hard keeping track of what’s real and what’s not. I really don’t want to mess anything up.
All day long at work the next day, I keep my head down and focus on the animal rescue event, but when a text from him lands in the early afternoon, all thoughts of work vanish.
Lake: My place or yours?
He’s asking about the haircut. Of course he’s asking about the haircut. But I tug at my shirt collar and fan my face before I answer with Mine.
* * *
Everything’s ready. A towel, scissors, a comb. A spray bottle of water. A chair in the kitchen. I pace around my home, checking to make sure the counter is clean. I do a quick online check, making absolutely sure I have everything for a haircut.
I scan the site and my supplies. Perfect. I’ve got this.
But maybe I should practice some breathing exercises since my pulse is rocketing to the freaking moon. It’s just a haircut. That’s all. There’s no need for my heart to beat so infuriatingly fast.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and—
The doorbell trills, and I jump.
“Shit,” I mutter, then I check my reflection in a mirror in the hallway. Minimal makeup since I’ll need to touch it up for Fresh Face.
I stride down the hall, smooth a hand over my T-shirt, and open the door, all while trying to hide the racing of my pulse.