Chapter 20
VACATION FLING
REMY
“They love the MOH.”
The bus just dropped me off and I’m walking into the arena with my sister in my ear, her voice a little husky as she tells me how her audience is liking the videos.
“And are they saying MOH too?” I tease.
“Argh! I can’t believe Fallon is rubbing off on me like that.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank god. I was worried you were going to start talking in abbreviations.”
“Nope,” she says, then must tug the phone away, since she’s now coughing faintly in the background.
“Are you okay?”
“Perfect. I’ve got vitamin C, some tea with honey, and my mind vise to put this cold into.”
“Where you’ll crush it in seconds?” I ask as I grab the door to the employee entrance and tug it open. The second I’m inside the arena my chest flutters, as I wonder if Lake’s here too. But I try to ignore those feelings, and those questions. I’m just going to work. That is all.
“Ideally. I don’t permit sickness,” she says, all stoic and badass.
“Dude, I can’t stand germs.”
“I know, Remy. Your mind vise is stronger than mine. Miss Perfect Attendance who was never sick.”
Well, the youngest had to excel at something.
But I don’t say that out loud, since it’ll sound like I was competing against Caroline as a kid.
We were too far apart in age to have that dynamic.
“I’m sure your mind vise has already destroyed it,” I say, then tell my sister to give me a second as I stop briefly at security, where I say hello as they scan my bag and I walk through the turnstile.
On the other side, I tell her I’m back.
“Good. And as I was saying, they love the maid of honor. They being Fresh Face, my viewers, and the producers.”
“That’s nice,” I say, since I don’t want to get too excited over something I have zero control over—whether my sister’s fans like me or not.
And sure, I’m vaguely tempted to suggest that maybe Fresh Face will sponsor my fledgling podcast too, but I’m not going to start poaching my sister’s sponsors or begging for them.
“And,” Caroline adds, with a little flirt in her voice now, “I don’t mind the hot hockey player in the shots too.”
And those flutters take off, flying on little wings inside me as I head to the personnel doors, half wishing I weren’t hoping to run into Lake, and half hoping I will. This is so annoying.
“Want to know why?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, intrigued.
“Because we’re showing that jackass. Our plan is working. The preemptive strike,” she says.
Oh right. That. The whole reason for the fake date. My sister is Machiavellian. “Yep. It totally is.”
“Jameson’s bringing Chelsea to the wedding now,” she says, venom in her tone.
My nose crinkles. This shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “His new…girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. All I know is he said she’s his plus-one, and I hate him.”
That is so very my sister. “Understandable.”
“But also, this is precisely why you needed that plus-one. To beat him to it and you did. So let’s keep beating him. Keep showing him that you’re not even thinking about him, or that damn Jumbotron. Why don’t you bring Lake to the MOH—shit fuck damn—the maid of honor fitting after all?”
My lips threaten to curve into a smile. It’s embarrassing how excited I am for extra time with him beyond the next wedding event. Extra time like…nap lessons?
Get that out of your head.
Ever since he teased me about those, it’s not come up again. It was just fun—that was all. So ridiculous of me to even think I’d be having nap lessons. Who does that? Who wants that?
And yet, I’m practically giddy as I say, “Sure, I’ll ask him.”
Since I have a good excuse to reach out.
“All right. I have to go shoot a promo for tomorrow’s episode. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck with the germ-crushing brain.”
I hang up, and start to head straight to the stairwell that’ll take me to my floor, but before I know it my strappy shoes are taking me someplace else.
The long way. I pass the locker room, the weight room, the game video room, hoping to get a glimpse of the players.
But it’s quiet, no one’s here yet, and when I reach the stairwell at last I feel foolish.
This feeling is an excellent reminder that as much as I want him to go to the fitting with me, there’s nothing real between us.
I reach my cube, settle in at my standing desk, and get to work on the event with the animal rescue.
As I spend most of the morning working on it, I nearly lose track of time.
Coordinating the details, checking on the venue, planning for the photographer and then lining up everything in a new spreadsheet gives me a sense of purpose I enjoy far too much.
I’m about to head down to Daniel’s office and update him on how it’s coming together when footsteps grow louder and there’s a rap on the corner of my cubicle.
I spin around to find Devon, our go-getter intern from the local university’s sports MBA program, carting a gift bag.
“Delivery for Remy Hatmaker.” Her eyes spark with curiosity.
“Looks like someone likes you. Also, I’m guessing it’s from Lake. ”
My stomach swoops once more from the possibilities of what’s in the bag, but worry chases it. This is what Daniel warned me about. People will assume things about Lake and me. They’ll be excited for me for this “real romance.” But what will she say to me when it “fake ends”?
I don’t want to think about all the sympathy looks I’ll get, the sad faces, the elbow rubs, the you’ll get through this comments.
Even if he is a gentleman. Even if I control the narrative.
But right now I’m consumed with wanting whatever’s in that bag. It’s overwhelming, this urge to open the bag. I reach for it as calmly as I can. “Thanks, Devon.”
She lingers, like she wants me to open it in front of her, but I won’t. I don’t know what it is. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide my copious excitement when I do. Or that I want anyone to see it.
She rocks on her shoes. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly, trying to strip emotions from my voice.
She sighs happily. “I love it when my boyfriend sends things to the office. It’s like peak boyfriending.”
Then she leaves, and I breathe a sigh of relief and count down the interminable seconds till I can open the bag. Finally, I do, the crinkle of the tissue paper like a prelude. I dip my hand inside, then gasp, purse my lips, and fight off a squeal.
It’s a blanket, soft and fleecy and the color of sage and sweet dreams. There’s a card attached. With shaky fingers, I flip it open.
First, you’ll need a nap blanket.
I don’t want to be this excited. Really, I don’t. There’s no place for these silly emotions to go. So I don’t pick up my phone right away to thank him, or ask him to the dress fitting. I’ve got to figure out how to maintain some semblance of…chill.
Yes, that’s it.
I am chill. Super chill. So unbelievably chill that I find myself slipping into the ladies’ room, cautiously checking behind me, then locking the door. Solo bathrooms for the win. I dial Mabel’s number before I think twice.
“Girlfriend Emergency Line. How may I help you?”
I hesitate, then ask, “How did you know it was an emergency?”
“Easy. You picked up the phone and called. What’s going on?”
The sound of the bakery on her end of the line drifts by—the clatter of a tray, the closing of an oven door.
I blow out a breath, grateful she picked up in the middle of the day.
But what do I want to say? All the things I can’t tell my sister.
For sure, the details I wouldn’t even begin to share with my therapist.
“This whole fake dating thing,” I blurt out.
“Oh, this sounds good. Give me ten seconds to set the timer on my Sweet and Salties ’cause I don't wanna fuck that up.” There’s a pause as she works on her pretzel bars, then she’s back. “What's going on?”
My heart is beating uncomfortably fast. “I’m not even sure. That’s the issue. Lake sent me a gift. Well, another gift. He’s given me a bunch.”
“Oh, I love a gift giver.”
“I know. I mean, it’s all good. It’s fine. It’s just that I don't want to enjoy this so much. This fake dating.”
“And, are you enjoying it?” she asks, inquisitive, like a curious reporter.
“Yes, so much, and it’s scaring me.”
She sighs sympathetically. “Oh, honey, why is it scary? Because he’s nice to you?”
I close my eyes, lean against the cool tiled wall. “Yes. It feels good. These little things he does to make it seem real. The stuffed foxes, and the bird feeder, and the texts, and now this—a soft blanket. I don’t want to get used to it.”
“Because it’s not real?”
I swallow roughly, then whisper in an unsteady voice, “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
She hums thoughtfully. Taking her time, it seems, before she speaks again. “Think of it like a vacation, then. You don’t go on vacation and spend the whole time thinking about all the work you have to do when you get back, or all the chores waiting for you, right?”
“Right.”
“You try not to think about how much it’s going to suck to get on that plane when the trip ends. Instead, you swim in the ocean, lift your face to the sky, and soak in the rays.”
My erratic pulse starts to calm. My breath comes more steadily as the words sink in. “He’s just a vacation from my real life,” I say.
“Exactly. You’re allowed to enjoy it. And now go enjoy the hell out of your vacation.”
That’s what I needed to feel in control again of my wild emotions.
I say goodbye and tap out a text, starting with the first order of business.
Remy: Do you think you could come with me to the maid of honor dress fitting after all?
His reply is instant.
Lake: Do you think you can come downstairs to the training room right now?
Electricity shoots through me, and I say yes.
* * *
A few minutes later, I round the corner toward the training room, but I stop in the doorway, taking in the scene.
Lake lies face down on a blue massage table, with the team’s massage therapist—Jaden—kneading the hockey star’s shoulder.