Chapter 14 Des #2
“I want to meet the family, see how you’re balancing things. If this promotion’s going to put you in charge of a whole team, I need to know you’ve got support at home.”
Support at home. As if emotional scaffolding was an itemized expense report.
“Of course,” I said with the calm of someone white-knuckling a plane crash. “We’re excited to have you over.”
Stan gave me that genial, terrifying smile. “Great. I’ll bring a bottle of wine. Your husband drink red or white?”
“Red,” I said, the one fact I recited today that wasn’t a lie.
Kyle, who’s been watching this conversation with bated breath, claps his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Stan, what if my family joined on Tuesday? Make it a fun group work dinner for all the higher ups to get together.”
My eyes want to bulge out of my head. It takes all of my professional training not to yell “what the fuck?”
“It’ll help create team unity. I remember you and my dad would have family barbeques together.
I always loved those times. Your hamburgers were delicious.
” I can see Kyle fighting past his flop sweat in real time to sell this pitch.
The man was born with the ability to kiss ass.
“Plus, I’d love to meet the man who finally took Des off the market. ”
“That does sound nice. I don’t want this race for creative director to become ugly. We’re all family here. Des, would that work for you?” Stan asks me.
“I love that idea,” I say, the only acceptable answer. “But Kyle, don’t you need to check with your wife?”
“We’re free Tuesday night,” he says without missing a beat.
“Perfect.” I plaster on a smile. No amount of makeup can conceal the venom I want to spew Kyle’s way.
Once they leave, I find myself turning back to the family picture. God help us.
That evening, I arrive at the ice rink still half-full of caffeine and rage. It’s only a practice night. I hope my teammates will love me in the morning.
I find Tanner near the benches, lacing up his skates.
“You look like you aged a decade,” he says, handing me a helmet.
“Stan’s coming for dinner, along with Kyle,” I mutter.
“Kyle?”
“And his whole family.” I’ve bitched about Kyle enough times for Tanner to be familiar with his level of annoyance.
“How’d that happen?”
“Kyle is onto us.” Tanner’s face sinks for a moment, probably images of skyrocketing insurance premiums dancing in his head. I reach out for his hand. “We’re not going to let him find us out.”
“He invited himself to dinner?” Tanner asks, yanking his laces tight.
“Fucker. Now we have to worry about Stan and Kyle and I’m trying to work on this pitch for Silq.” I rub my temples. I’m so ready to smash a puck into a net. I might blow a hole in the rink.
Tanner blinked. “When is this dinner happening?”
“Tuesday.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s in six days.”
“You can count. Great. Maybe you can explain to Dean that dinner guests don’t usually bring magic tricks to the table.”
Tanner shoves my stick into my hand, panic sliding onto his face. “So we’ll be hosting your boss, who will be deciding your job, and your coworker, who is actively trying to expose us.”
“Party time. Excellent,” I deadpan.
“Well, today my postman congratulated me on my marriage. Apparently, he’s friends with Cal and Russ, who’ve been letting it slip about us. And I can’t tell them to keep quiet because then they’ll ask why, which will just lead to more lying. I don’t even know how many people know at this point.”
We both stare at each other for a second, then simultaneously groan.
“Want to work out our rage by destroying some hockey pucks?” Tanner offers.
“God, yes.”
We join our teammates on the ice and immediately swoop up the puck.
“Hey, we’re about to do some drills,” Bill says.
“We gotta work out some life rage for a few minutes,” I tell him.
Tanner and I pass the puck between us for a while, no real form or finesse. Just fast motion and clean slaps of rubber on ice.
“You know,” Tanner said between breaths, “if you’d told me a month ago I’d be fake-married and doing line drills with you to cope with anxiety…”
“You would’ve what?”
He laughs. Even when upset, his laughter is pure and clean. “I probably would’ve believed you. But I wouldn’t have believed I was enjoying it.”
I send the puck flying into the net with a satisfying thwack.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Same.”
We pass the puck a few more times, our movements syncing up almost unconsciously. It reminds me of high school—those post-practice moments when it was just the two of us on the ice, sending the puck back and forth until the janitor kicked us out.
“Hey, save some for the rest of us,” Griffin says. He and Hank join us on the ice.
“Are you guys ready to drill?” Bill asks. As the captain, he runs a tight ship.
“Sorry. We had to get out some bullshit coursing through our systems.” I pass the puck to Bill.
“We may be in too deep with our lie,” Tanner says. “Maybe it’s time to come clean. I hate lying.”
I can’t let that happen. I’d lose my promotion, probably my job, too. My career would be over. But the fear that bubbles up more than those is somehow losing Tanner in all this. Like if this ruse collapsed, would our friendship recover?
“We’re not confessing,” I say with renewed dedication. “Look, we just have to get through one dinner. Stan will make his decision by December, and you should have a new job by then. We’ll be in the clear before we know it.”
“But what about if you do get this promotion? You’re going to have to pretend we’re married for a long time.”
Why don’t I hate the sound of that?
“We’ll figure it out.” I hit his helmet, reminding him to keep his head in the game.
“We’ll help you, too,” Hank says. “Wherever you need. We got your backs.”
“Hank’s right,” says Griffin. “You’ve already started this crazy idea. You have to keep going.”
“I will tell my brother and brother-in-law to shut up,” Derek says. “Lovingly. I’ll tell them that you guys want to share the news on your own timeline, for the sake of the kids.”
“Thank you.” Tanner makes prayer hands and aims them at Derek.
“Okay. Enough with the spiraling. Let’s play some hockey,” Bill says.
The instant we cross the blue line, I can feel Tanner in my periphery, like a magnetic pull.
He doesn’t call for the puck; he doesn’t need to.
I know exactly where he’ll be, and when I thread the pass through, he’s there like he was waiting just for me.
He flicks it back without even looking, trusting I’ll be where he wants me, and damn if I’m not.
Out here, it’s more than hockey—it’s the way we move together, like my body already knows his rhythm, like we’ve been practicing for something bigger than the game.
“You’re good at this,” Tanner says.
“I grew up with nothing but this.”
He nods.
I’m not sure what makes me say it then, but the words come anyway.
“I’m glad it’s you.”
He looks over, eyes dark and serious. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…this whole mess. If I had to do it with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Then he passes the puck back to me, smooth as glass.
“Me too,” he says.