Chapter 29
GOOD LUCK NUTS
LAKE
It’s good to be the rebound guy. On and off the ice. I snag two goals—one on a breakaway, the other off a rebound that I collected before their D-men did, shooting it right back into their net.
Man, it was beautiful.
“You can all thank me. My superstitions did it,” I say to the guys as I rip off my jersey at my stall after the final buzzer.
Miller peels off a leg pad. “Nah. Pretty sure it was me and my superstitions.”
I stare down our goalie. “Because you started imitating me.”
“And we started winning again. So yeah, that means I’m the fucking good luck charm,” Miller says, patting his chest.
Riggs hums thoughtfully. “Guess that makes you a squirrel, not a fox.”
Miller jerks his gaze to Riggs, who’s not even looking at us. Just tugging off a skate as he doles out animal facts.
“Explain,” Miller demands, but I know why he picked a squirrel.
Riggs looks up, expression thoroughly even-keeled as he tugs off a skate. “Squirrels organize their nuts. Like you organized your gear. C’mon, we’ve been over this.”
Miller grabs his crotch. “Organize this.”
Ivan chuckles from his stall, then pumps his hips like he’s about to perform a striptease. “Besides, these are the good luck charms.”
I groan, waving a dismissive hand at the D-man, and the rest of my guys. “And you’ve all officially cured me of my superstitions.”
“It’s about time,” Corbin shouts as he wings his undershirt into the laundry basket. “It’s teamwork, men. Not superstition or good luck nuts.”
“Oh, I definitely have good luck nuts,” Miller shouts back at Corbin.
“Men, that wasn’t about luck.” The cool, commanding tone of Coach Ahmed cuts across the locker room shenanigans. He strides in, polished and proud in a sharp suit, and we snap our attention to the man in charge. “You played hard, you executed, you did your jobs.”
He spins toward me and tosses the game puck my way.
I catch it, and turn it over in my hands.
Maybe I’ll give it to Remy. She could tell this story at the next wedding event, the shared shower or the spa or what-the-fuck-ever is next on the list. I don’t even care.
But she could say I gave her a game puck and it’d be as true as the foxes and the succulent, and all the other stories of our romance.
Like the cat tower she built for me this afternoon.
The little sneak. I didn’t notice it till she’d left, but I’d like to thank her for it.
Ideally with my tongue between her thighs.
But a simple thanks with words will work too.
“And I expect you to do your jobs in Evergreen Falls as well,” Coach continues.
The reminder of our schedule snaps my attention back to the here and now.
Our crosstown rivals, the Sea Dogs, have a new minor league team in the Christmas-y town near Lake Tahoe about three and a half hours away.
Sometimes they host games there to draw more attention to their affiliate.
When he mentions the plan, and the date for the team bus departure for the road trip, my thoughts race again. To the next item on the Five Things To Do Before I Say I Do list.
It’s about a road trip.
What if we could hit the next item on that list with the Evergreen Falls game? My fingers itch to text Remy but I do my best to give Coach all my attention.
He deserves it, and hockey deserves it too, since hockey saved my scarred and empty heart three years ago.
I was a damn good player before then. But I hit a new level after Heather died.
More goals, more points, more speed. The game gave me everything I needed in the aftermath of her death.
It was an escape from the things the press said about me.
The things the public thought they knew about me.
Things I’ve started sharing with Remy.
When Coach is done, I whirl around to my stall so fast, and I text her, asking to meet here at the arena soon. She doesn’t respond right away, but I shower fast anyway, feeling confident she will.
But as I button up my dress shirt ten minutes later, there’s still no note from her.
Hmm.
That’s not entirely like her. She’s responsible to a T. Maybe she’s busy.
Well, of course she is. She has a fucking life.
I toss my tie around my neck but don’t knot it as I pocket my phone and head out, determined to find her. Maybe she went home already, but we’ve got an animal rescue photo op tomorrow at a local shelter—or so I heard the other guys saying. I bet she’s still here, still working.
I should make sure she has a ride home.
I head to the stairwell, bound up the steps, and march down the corridor. It’s a little pushy to show up at her cubicle, but I’m a little pushy.
Only when I scan the marketing department, it’s empty, like I’d expect in the evening after a Sunday afternoon game.
No one’s here—not even a tall, leggy brunette working overtime.
My chest hollows out. A question rushes through my brain—is this too much? Is this that love-bombing shit guys do?
No one likes that.
Well, fuckhead, you’re standing at her desk, looking for her on a Sunday night. If the shoe fits…
I drag a hand roughly through my short hair—still getting used to it—and get the hell out of the marketing department.
I can’t be this guy. She wanted a fake boyfriend, not a real stalker.
Except as I retreat, heading down the corridor to the players’ lot, I ask myself—is it truly stalking to check in on a woman who went down on you unexpectedly in your closet? Is it obsession to ask her if she needs a ride home? I mean, it’d be ruder to leave without saying goodbye.
And if I know Remy, and I’m starting to, she’s probably planning a date for someone.
In seconds, I’m marching through the concourse, empty now. All the fans have gone home. Most of the vendors have shut their stalls. I circle around the arena, heading straight toward the plant wall.
And my Remy radar was right.
One tall, leggy woman sits in front of the ferns and evergreens in a chair made of reclaimed wood. Her brunette hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves. Maroon headphones cover her ears. She nibbles on the end of a pen as she stares at a notebook in her lap.
Fuck, she’s beautiful and fierce, and she made me a cat tower. My heart thumps dangerously hard as I stride closer.
The echo of my wingtips on the concrete floor grows louder. The sound must penetrate her headphones, since she snaps her gaze up, flinching.
“Sorry. I know you hate surprises,” I say, as she takes off the headphones.
“Hi.” She sounds distant. Because you’re chasing her too much.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. I just came here to plot a date for a new client. Someone from my podcast. They didn’t even mention the breakup. Yay,” she says, but she sounds unenthused.
She brandishes her notebook. It says World Domination on the cover—so her, so fucking her—but when she opens it she shows me a mostly blank page with just the words:
First date night in two years since their kid was born.
And the only other words are maybe a paint and sip.
Hmm. That doesn’t seem inspired, but what do I know about the kind of fancy date planning she does? “It’s a good start.”
She shakes her head. “It’s really not.”
I scratch my jaw, unsure what to say as I crouch down to her level. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“Maybe,” she says with a heavy sigh.
She’s really off tonight. Is it from this afternoon at my place? I should ask, but I’m not sure I want to know. “That animal rescue thing tomorrow? You still need players?”
“You’re always welcome there,” she says, a smile shifting her lips at last. A real one. “It’s pretty simple anyway. Hockey players holding dogs and cats looking for homes.”
“I can do that,” I say impulsively.
“Yeah?”
“I can.”
She arches a questioning brow. “Are you just doing this because—”
Because I like you? Fuck yes. But that’s not a good answer. “Because I’m your boyfriend?”
“I don’t want to look like I’m, I don’t know, using you to get ahead?”
My chest twists. I hadn’t thought of all the ways she’d be perceived or misperceived. But I should have since I know what that’s like. “You’re not,” I insist, since that’s all I can do. “I want to be there.”
“You never used to before,” she adds, gentle, but a reminder.
“I do now,” I say, then try to figure out what else is going on. But maybe she just has a lot on her mind. “Thanks for the cat tower. That was a surprise.”
Another real smile comes my way. “You liked it.”
“Yeah. I was going to finish putting it together,” I say, scrubbing a hand across my jaw. “Eventually. But it was nice to wake up to.” Something nags at me though. Something I know the answer to, but I ask anyway. “You didn’t nap?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“You just slipped back in when you were done?”
She nods. “Sorry.”
I’m not mad though. She’s clearly telling me the truth, and that’s all I’ve wanted from her. But I also want to help her. She’s got a lot on her plate, and I can take some of the burden off. “The next thing on the list?”
“Number two? Go on a road trip before you say I do?”
“Yes. We have this Evergreen Falls game coming up this week. Do you want to—”
“Take a road trip there?” She sounds so enthused, and it’s the first true spark I’ve heard from her tonight. “Like, go up a day earlier?”
More than I want to win the cup. “Let’s do it,” I say. “I’ll handle all the plans.”
“I’m in,” she says, and my chest doesn’t feel so hollow anymore.
Until she nibbles on the corner of her lips, and furrows her brow. And shit. We’re not good after all.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighs heavily. “I ran into Jameson during the game.”
I look around, ready to pummel that jackass. “Where is he, and when do you want me to fuck him up?”
“I wish. But also you’ll need to get in line. Caroline offered to murder him a few weeks ago.”
“I’m down with that. With anyone who hurts you.”
“He wanted to talk about his beer, of course. And I said something vague and left, but I kept thinking…someday, someday soon, I’m going to have two exes in this building.”
Something turns sour inside me. I hate everything she’s saying, especially because she’s not wrong.
“And I worry about that,” she adds.
“I get it.”
“I worry that if we…do anything again,” she says, then makes a rolling gesture with her hand, “like this afternoon, that it’ll just be too complicated.”
My heart sinks like an anvil’s tied to it. But I can’t be a little prick and whine that she doesn’t want to let me bury my face between those sweet thighs of hers. I need to be a mature adult. “It would be complicated,” I say, speaking the plain truth.
“Right?” Her voice is wobbly, a touch desperate. Like she needs the confirmation from me.
“Definitely.”
“I just think maybe we should focus on the wedding and this list. I don’t want to make things harder when they end.”
My bones chill with the clear reminder—maybe the one I needed—that this fake romance will finish.
I’m frozen, but this icy feeling is for the best. I was getting in too deep. I was too obsessed. Thank fuck someone pressed the brakes.
I swallow, pushing down my feelings far, far away. “I don’t want to hurt the people I care about. But I do want to give you a ride home.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I do.”
She gathers up her stuff and walks with me to my car. I’m just being a good fake boyfriend. That’s all.
The drive is quiet. We’re never quiet. But neither one of us seems to have anything to say as I cruise through the foggy night.
When we reach her porch, mist still curling around us, she gives me a resigned smile.
“Thanks again for understanding. I don’t want to mess things up for my sister, for work, for everything. You know?”
Right. The fake romance needs to be airtight.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” I lie, smoothly. Because I’m sure as hell not going to tell her that I can’t stop thinking about her.
I’m a good fake boyfriend too the next morning when I show up at Little Friends and pose for a picture with a frosty-faced old Papillon mix with wise eyes, big ears, tufted paws, and one tooth. Judy looks at me like she can tell why I’m here.
To impress a woman.
But she’s not going to rat me out.
“Smile, Lake Onion,” Miller calls out in between giving hugs to a Malinois mix that seems to have his number.
I try to smile with Judy. Maybe I even manage a hint of one. But I’m pretty sure it doesn’t reach my eyes.