Chapter Five
Ryan
I've always been good at reading the ice—knowing when to push forward, when to pull back, when to take the shot. But standing on Jason's deck, watching Bella process what I just told her, I realize I might have just made the biggest miscalculation of my life.
Her eyes are wide in the string light glow, and I can practically see her brain working through the implications of my confession.
This was supposed to be simple—fake dating to help her make another guy jealous while she helped me save my GPA.
Somewhere between marginal utility and chocolate chip cookies, I completely lost the plot.
"Ryan—" she starts to say, but another wave of party-goers crashes onto the deck, and the moment dissolves into background noise and solo cup conversations.
I watch her retreat into herself, the confident woman who negotiated our deal disappearing behind polite smiles and small talk with people she barely knows. By the time we make it back inside, she's put up walls I'm not sure I know how to navigate around.
The party is in full swing now, with someone having commandeered Jason's speaker system to play music that's approximately forty percent louder than anyone needs.
Bella sticks close to my side, but there's a tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before.
Every time I touch her—a hand on her back, fingers intertwined with hers—she responds like she's remembering this is supposed to be an act.
Except it stopped being an act for me about the time she explained supply and demand curves using pizza as an example.
"There's Sarah McKenzie," Bella murmurs, nodding toward a girl with a phone permanently attached to her hand. "Riley said she live-tweets everything. We should probably—"
"Give her something to tweet about," I finish. "What did you have in mind?"
Bella glances around the room, and I can see her calculating social dynamics like she's planning a business merger. "Dance with me."
It's not a request, exactly, but it's not quite a command either. Before I can respond, she's leading me toward the makeshift dance floor in Jason's living room, where about twenty people are doing their best impression of coordinated movement to music that's heavy on bass and light on melody.
Dancing wasn't part of our arrangement. Hell, I'm not even sure I remember how to dance with someone who isn't trying to check me into the boards. But Bella slides her arms around my neck, and suddenly I don't care if I look like an idiot.
"This okay?" I ask, settling my hands on her waist.
"Perfect," she says, but she won't quite meet my eyes.
We sway to the music, not really dancing so much as moving together in a way that looks intentional. This close, I can smell her shampoo—something that reminds me of vanilla—and feel the way she fits against me like we've been doing this for months instead of minutes.
"Bella," I start, but she shakes her head.
"Not here. Too many people watching."
She's right. I can feel eyes on us from multiple directions, including Tanner Williams, who's positioned himself across the room with a clear line of sight to our little performance.
Sarah McKenzie is definitely taking pictures.
By tomorrow morning, our fake relationship will be verified by social media and campus gossip networks.
Mission accomplished. So why does the idea of this being over after tonight make my chest feel tight?
The song changes to something slower, and Bella steps closer.
Her body presses against mine, and I have to concentrate on not doing something that would definitely violate our "appropriate physical contact" rule.
She looks up at me through her eyelashes, and for a moment I forget that we have an audience.
"You're really good at this," she says quietly.
"At dancing? Because I'm pretty sure I'm just swaying and hoping for the best."
"Making us look real."
The word 'look' hits me harder than it should. Because that's all this is to her—an elaborate performance designed to get another man's attention. The fact that I've somehow convinced myself it could be more doesn't change the fundamental transaction we agreed to.
"Years of practice," I lie.
Bella tilts her head, studying my face. "Years of practice at fake dating?"
"Years of practice at being charming when it suits my purposes."
It's a deflection, and we both know it. But before she can call me on it, the music changes again to something upbeat and aggressive, and the moment breaks apart like a hockey fight after the referees intervene.
"I need some air," Bella says, already stepping away from me.
"Want company?"
"Actually, I think I need a minute alone."
She disappears toward the bathroom, leaving me standing in the middle of the dance floor feeling like I just got benched during the championship game.
I make my way back to the kitchen, where Jake and Tommy are holding court with a group of business majors who are clearly fascinated by the novelty of talking to actual athletes.
"There he is!" Tommy raises his beer in mock salute. "How's the new girlfriend, O'Sullivan?"
"Fine," I say, grabbing a beer from the counter and twisting off the cap with more force than necessary.
"Fine?" Jake looks offended on behalf of Bella's honor. "Dude, she's gorgeous. And smart. And she actually seems to like you for some inexplicable reason."
"It's complicated."
"What's complicated about it?" Alex joins the conversation, appearing at my shoulder with the timing of someone who's been eavesdropping. "You like her, she likes you, you're both single. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
If only it were that simple. "She's helping me with economics."
"So? I met my girlfriend in study group sophomore year." Jake shrugs. "Academic relationships can work."
"This isn't a relationship," I say, then immediately wish I could take it back.
All three of my teammates stare at me like I just announced my intention to quit hockey and join the debate team.
"What do you mean it's not a relationship?" Tommy asks slowly. "You've been attached at the hip all night. She looks at you like you hung the moon. You look at her like you want to—"
"It's complicated," I repeat, cutting him off before he can finish that thought.
"Complicated how?" Alex crosses his arms. "Are you dating her or not?"
Before I can figure out how to answer that without lying to my best friends, Tanner Williams appears at my elbow like he's been summoned by some cosmic force dedicated to making my life more difficult.
"Mind if I steal Ryan for a minute?" he asks my teammates with the kind of polite authority that suggests he's used to getting what he wants.
Jake, Tommy, and Alex exchange looks but drift away toward the beer pong table, leaving me alone with Bella's intended target. This should be good.
"So," Tanner says, leaning against the kitchen counter with studied casualness. "You and Bella."
"Me and Bella," I confirm.
"Interesting pairing. I wouldn't have expected it."
"Why's that?"
Tanner shrugs, but there's something calculating in his expression. "Bella's very... focused. Goal-oriented. She doesn't usually date athletes."
"How would you know who she usually dates?"
"We're friends. Have been since last semester." He takes a sip of his beer, watching me over the rim. "She's mentioned her dating history before. Academic types, mostly. Guys who share her career ambitions."
The implication is clear: I'm not Bella's type, and we both know it. What Tanner doesn't know is that he's absolutely right—this whole thing is an elaborate charade designed to get his attention. Which means it's working.
"People change," I say evenly. "Maybe she decided she wanted something different."
"Maybe." Tanner doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe she's trying to make someone jealous."
The accusation hangs in the air between us, and I realize that Tanner Williams is a lot smarter than I gave him credit for. He's figured out exactly what we're doing, and now he's testing to see if I'll admit it.
"That's a pretty cynical way to look at it," I say.
"I'm a pretty cynical guy." Tanner's smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Especially when it comes to sudden changes in behavior. Bella's not the type to date someone on impulse."
"You seem to know her pretty well."
"I do. Which is why I know this whole thing is bullshit."
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest, partly because he's right and partly because the way he says 'this whole thing' makes it sound cheap and manipulative. Like what Bella and I have—fake or not—is somehow beneath his notice.
"You want to tell me what you really think?" I ask.
"I think Bella Lawson is one of the smartest women on this campus, and she doesn't need to fake a relationship to get attention.
" Tanner sets down his beer and fixes me with a stare that probably intimidates opposing counsel in mock trial competitions.
"But if she's playing games, she should know that I don't respond well to manipulation. "
Before I can respond to that particular brand of arrogance, Bella reappears at my side like she's been summoned by the tension in the room.
"Everything okay here?" she asks, but her eyes are fixed on Tanner.
"Just getting to know your boyfriend," Tanner says smoothly. "We were discussing your... relationship history."
Bella's face goes carefully blank, and I recognize the expression from our tutoring sessions—it's the look she gets when she's about to deliver devastating criticism disguised as helpful feedback.
"Were you?" she says. "How thorough of you."
"I was just mentioning how surprised I was by your choice in dating partners." Tanner's smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Given your usual preferences."
"My usual preferences," Bella repeats slowly.
"Academic types. Guys with similar career goals. People who understand your ambitions." Tanner glances at me, then back to Bella. "I just want to make sure you're not selling yourself short."
The insult is delivered so smoothly that it takes me a second to process it. Tanner just called me beneath Bella's standards while maintaining plausible deniability about the whole thing.
But before I can respond, Bella steps closer to me and slides her arm around my waist with the kind of casual possessiveness that makes my pulse spike.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Tanner," she says, her voice honey-sweet and absolutely deadly. "But I think I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions about who's worth my time."
She looks up at me with an expression that's equal parts genuine affection and pure performance art. "Besides, I've discovered that I have a thing for guys who can surprise me."
Then she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me.
It's supposed to be for show—a dramatic gesture designed to put Tanner in his place and prove that our relationship is real. But the moment Bella's lips touch mine, everything else disappears. The party, the music, Tanner's calculating stare—all of it fades into background noise.
Bella kisses like she does everything else: with focus and determination and just enough hesitation to make it perfect. Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I realize that this is what I've been wanting since the moment I saw her pay for the broken coffee mugs.
When we finally break apart, Bella's cheeks are flushed and her lips are slightly swollen, and Tanner Williams is staring at us like he just watched his carefully constructed worldview crumble into pieces.
"Well," he says after a moment. "I guess that answers that question."
He walks away without another word, leaving Bella and me standing in the middle of Jason's kitchen, still pressed together like we're the only two people at the party.
"That was..." I start.
"Performance art," Bella finishes quickly, but she doesn't step away from me. "Just really good performance art."
"Right. Performance art."
But as I look down at her, still breathing hard from a kiss that was supposed to be fake, I realize that everything about this arrangement just changed.
Because that kiss didn't feel like performance art.
It felt like the real thing. And judging by the way Bella's looking at me—like she's just as surprised by her own reaction as I am—I think she felt it too.