Chapter 2 #3
“Poor schmuck?” I ask. The fucking audacity of this girl. “I have millions in the bank to prove I’m anything but poor or a schmuck. Also, you’re the one who came up to me. You’re the one who kissed me, so why the fuck am I the one defending myself?”
“Because in this day and age, you can’t trust anyone,” she says before taking a drink of her margarita.
“So what makes me think I can trust you?”
“Oh, you can’t.” She shakes her head and sets her glass down.
“I’m a total wild card. Truly, the most ornery in the morning, especially after drinking.
I tend to focus more on my needs than others, and even though I say I don’t want something, secretly, I always do.
Completely untrustworthy, so if we’re done here, I shall retreat to my friend to see how he’s doing with his conquest to sit on Fernando’s penis. ”
She starts to move, but I place my hand on her thigh. “Not so fast. You can’t scare me away with your nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” She dramatically clutches her hand to her chest. “How dare you speak of my life like that—”
“Cut the shit,” I say. “I did you a favor. Now you need to do one for me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I can see we haven’t given good thought to the whole white knight thing.” She rolls her wrist for me to continue. “Please, regale me with your demands.”
Yeah, regale her with your demands, Silas.
I take a long, slow sip of my drink.
How the fuck can she help me?
My phone lights up beside me, and my eyes catch a glimpse of a text from Hornsby.
Hornsby: What the fuck are you going to do about the welcome dinner?
And just like that, a light bulb switches on in my head.
The welcome dinner, where everyone in the organization comes together before the season starts, and we toast to a healthy, successful year with ice skating, hot cocoa, and all that bullshit.
Which means Sarah will be there.
And the last thing I want is for Sarah to think I’m alone and unattached, possibly still pining for her.
No fucking way.
There’s only one solution I can think of, and I’m rolling with it.
“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
“What?” she asks with a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
I swallow down the rest of my drink and say, “I’m dead serious.”
“Pretend to be your girlfriend?” She blinks a few times. “Dude, I kissed you for like five seconds, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend? You’re supposedly famous,” she says, using air quotes. “Hire someone.”
“I’m not going to hire someone. Do you know how lame that is?”
“Lamer than asking a girl in a bar ten years younger than you to be your pretend girlfriend?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose because, dammit, she has a point. This is all lame.
“You know what? Never mind. Forget I even asked.” I turn back toward the bar and try to flag down the bartender to order another drink.
Anything to help forget this awkward conversation and the fact I’ll have to deal with Sarah at the arena.
We don’t always interact with the front house staff, but from the description of Sarah’s job, it seems like she’ll be out on the ice for certain games with sponsors, so I’m bound to run into her.
“Why do you need me to pretend to be your girlfriend?” Ollie asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Go see how your friend is progressing with the penis sitting.”
I feel her hesitate like she doesn’t quite know what to do, so I encourage her.
“Seriously, go.”
“Okay,” she says softly while stepping down from the barstool. But she doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, I feel her eyes on mine. It’s like she has more questions that she wants to ask but is trying to pluck up the courage to ask them.
“Ollie, I’m serious. Leave.”
“I can see that you’re serious,” she says. “But I feel like I should stay.”
“Why?”
I finally get the bartender’s attention and ask for another Scotch. He gives me a concerned look but fills me up without a word.
“It seems like you’re maybe in a bad mood.”
I lift my glass to my lips. “What gave you that impression?”
“Hmm, I wonder,” she says sarcastically, staring at my drink. “So what is it? What’s causing you to drink this much and ask strange women to be your pretend girlfriend?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Is it a girl?”
I grumble under my breath. “Ollie, please, for the love of God, just go.”
Because she’s a defiant ass, she takes a seat on her barstool again and pokes me in the side. “Tell me. It’s a girl. What did she do to you?”
“Do you really think I’m going to tell a complete stranger that?”
“Well, you did ask me to be your pretend girlfriend, so I assume, yeah, you would.”
For how annoyingly young she is, she’s quite clever and quick on her feet. Absolutely terrifying.
“Just an ex who has re-entered my life,” I say, keeping it simple. She doesn’t need to know the details.
“Were you in love with this ex?”
“Yes,” I answer. “She was my high school sweetheart.”
“Oh,” Ollie says softly, empathy evident in her voice. “I’m assuming she’s the one who broke your heart?” I nod. “Yeah, that’s pretty obvious. Okay, how did she re-enter your life?”
“Got a job with the Agitators.”
“As in your hockey team?”
I nod again. “Yup.” I wonder if the bartender will pour me another drink after this one.
“Knowing full well that you are on the team?”
“Yup.”
“Wow,” she says, and I catch her shaking her head. “What a wench. That’s all kinds of messed up.”
“It is. And the reason my phone keeps blowing up is because my teammates know, and now it’s going to be this big fucking thing.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I turn toward her again and rest my arm on the bar while keeping a solid grip on my glass.
“They’re protective of me. They saw what she did to me, they saw how she came back this summer and messed with my head for a goddamn second, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she searched out this job to continue to fuck with me.
And they’ll be up my ass, making sure I’m okay. ”
“Aah, I see.” She glances to the side. “So . . . would I be your pretend girlfriend to fend off their concerns? Make her jealous? What’s the proposal here?”
“You don’t have to. It was a stupid idea,” I say.
Her hand lands on my thigh, drawing my attention back to her gleaming eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I feel like we could help each other out. I have this assignment to take care of, and I know nothing about hockey. You have friends to fend off and an ex. I think we could, you know, work things out. But . . . the offer has to be good.” She lifts up and smiles.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to be indebted to you?”
“Because isn’t that how it always is? You truly need more from me than I need from you.”
“What about that doofus of an ex of yours and that Candace girl? Pretty sure you needed me first.”
“Semantics.” She waves her hand at me. “So what do you have to offer?”
“You’re not kidding?”
She shakes her head. “No. I need to see your offer, and if I think it’s worth my time, I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure you’re studying journalism? Not law?”
“Positive,” she says with a wide smile.
“Well, the fuck if I know.” I lift my drink. “Frankly, I’m kind of drunk at this point, so I don’t think I’m in the right mindset.”
“Great, so why don’t we talk this over tomorrow when you’re fresh?”
“Not quite sure you understand how hard it is for a thirty-one-year-old to bounce back from a night out.”
“You’ll be fine.” She grabs her clutch and pulls out her phone. “Here, enter your phone number and your name. What is it again? Simon?”
“Silas,” I say. “Jesus Christ, every hockey fan in the city is crying right now that you got it wrong.” I type my phone number into her phone.
“Ooo, sorry, Mr. Big Shot. Wasn’t aware you were so popular.”
“You need to pay attention more. My face is on quite a few billboards around the city.”
“That’s cute,” she says, patting my cheek. “I’ll text you tomorrow, and we can figure this all out. Bring your best proposal.”
“How can I bring a proposal when I know nothing about you?”
“That’s fair. Umm, let’s see.” She hops off her stool and straightens out her dress.
“I like working out. I like sandwiches. Like all kinds, especially ones with lots of meat. I enjoy interior design and reading books. I also really like anything concerning lifestyle trends. Oh, I love a good face cream. Anything to keep those thirty-one-year-old wrinkles away, you know?” She presses her finger to my brow, and I swat her hand away.
“When you have to skate on the ice with two-hundred-pound men, you’re bound to get wrinkles.”
“Don’t quite see the connection, but hang out with me, and I’ll get that face looking fresh.”
“What the fuck? It does look fresh.”
“Okay.” She smiles at me. “See you tomorrow . . . Simon.”
“Silas,” I call out.
“Yeah . . . Silas.” She twiddles her fingers at me and takes off toward her friend.
I’m pretty sure I’ll regret all this when I wake up, especially the three glasses of Scotch.