Chapter 10
APRIL
As the surrounding pandemonium continues post-win against the Empire State Kings, I wonder where Posh is. Clark’s parents? Whitaker? Surely, they’re here somewhere. Posh has to be his biggest fan, right?
“April!” Clark reaches me and before I can say Congratulations or Good game or anything coherent, he sweeps me into a hug and lifts me off my feet.
I’m spinning. We’re spinning. He’s laughing and I’m laughing. For this one perfect moment, everything else falls away as his arms wrap snuggly around me.
When he sets me down, I’m dizzy—from the spinning or from being in his arms, I’m not sure which.
“You were amazing,” I manage to say.
“I had good luck,” he says, not letting go of me completely. His hands rest on my waist, steadying me on the ice. “You were here.”
The buffalo flutters stampede through my stomach, practically trampling me with their excitement.
Amidst all the cheering, the distinct sound of the kiss cam music plays over the arena speakers. Strangely, everyone gathers near us.
I’m probably not supposed to be down here—NHL regulations or something, but Clark hasn’t let me go.
I have a slow-motion moment when everything is out of focus—somehow blurry and sharp at the same time.
A chant starts up around us and if I’m not mistaken, they’re saying, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.” Or maybe Miss? Hiss? Sis? Is Elise here? Oh, wait. Everyone knows Clark thinks of me as a sister. That must be it.
He wears an uncertain smile, yet his gaze is locked in again, but … on me.
This can’t be what I think it is.
I glance up at the Jumbotron and sure enough, there we are. A big red heart with Kiss Cam flashes around the live image of us.
This confirms that the crowd is chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Clark looks at me, eyebrows raised. “We don’t have to—”
Oh, but I want to. I’ve been waiting ten years for this.
The buffalo are in a standoff. Half of them are like, Let’s ride! The other half seek shelter as if the tornado this could unleash bears down on them.
“What will happen if we don’t?” I blurt, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain.
His eyes spark. “I don’t want to find out.”
He doesn’t want to find out what will happen if he kisses me—it’s not like I have bad breath! Or he doesn’t want to find out if we don’t? I’m confused. My brain is foggy. My heart is at risk of being trampled and I …
But Clark leans down.
I tilt my face up.
And then his lips are on mine.
It’s brief. Appropriate. The kind of kiss he’d give for a kiss cam in front of thousands of people.
But it’s also more than I ever dreamed of.
His lips are softer than I imagined (not that I’ve imagined, except I have on repeat). He smells like evergreen and home. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, gentle and sure, and for several perfect seconds, I let myself believe this isn’t for the cameras.
Time turns elastic. Three seconds stretches into forever and also not nearly long enough.
My skin tingles everywhere Clark touches me. The buffalo have gone completely still, like they’re holding their breath too. This is what coming home feels like, I think hazily.
It’s somehow better and worse than I imagined. Better because it’s real—his lips, his hand, his warmth. Worse, because in approximately five seconds, it’ll be over and we’ll go back to pretending this didn’t shatter something fundamental inside me.
Before the moment breaks, I have one daring, dismal thought. This is what I’ve been missing my whole life without knowing it. And then reality crashes back—the noise, the cameras, the fact that this is a kiss cam performance, not a promise.
When we break apart, the crowd has gone wild.
Clark smiles, waves to the fans, and plays up the moment as if Whitaker is whispering in his ear, reminding him that he can’t be a hockey recluse in a woodland cabin with just his dogs.
I mean, I wouldn’t object, especially if a warm fireplace was involved. But the flames in my imagination, coupled with the buffalo, have collapsed my lungs. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
For the briefest moment, Clark’s brow is heavy, but then his smile returns—bright and camera-ready and just slightly off. Like he’s remembering his lines in a play. For half a heartbeat, his eyes held something raw and unguarded, but now they’re twinkling for the crowd.
I wish they were just twinkling for me.
“Good save,” I joke weakly, because what would happen if a couple declined the supreme order of the kiss cam?
“Best one all night,” he says.
I’ll analyze that comment like game tape later when I’m alone because that’s my station in life—best friend. Not girlfriend material.
The celebration moves to the after-party in the large club room.
Margo outdid herself—everything is draped in Knights colors, silver, black, and red.
A massive ice sculpture of the team logo features prominently, along with themed drinks and a food spread that could feed both hockey teams and their entourages.
I drift toward a group of players gathered near the big bank of windows, hoping for a private moment to make sure Clark doesn’t think the kiss was meant to interfere with his dating life.
I’m afraid of how this might play out now that Posh is in the picture.
Then again, it was a different girl last month and I didn’t see an uproar about that.
“If we win the Cup,” Mikey says, “I’m taking it to get a spa day. Full treatment—lord Stanley deserves it.”
“You’re going to take the Stanley Cup to a spa?” Clark, standing on the opposite side of the circle, looks incredulous. His gaze drifts to me, but the guys are in full repartee mode and it would take a tank to interrupt or get a word in.
“It’s been through a lot! It needs pampering!”
“I’m taking it fishing,” Hayden announces. “Gonna let it catch the big one.”
“You’re going to let a trophy fish?” Grady shakes his head. “That’s not how fishing works.”
“I’ll make it work.”
Redd grins. “It’ll be the special guest at my little sister’s birthday party.”
“Wouldn’t she rather have a pony?” Clark asks, breaking from his spot in the circle.
“She has three.”
“Bold of you all to assume we’re winning,” Liam says, ever the pragmatist.
“Captain Seriously Superstitious strikes again,” Pierre teases.
“I’m not superstitious, I’m—”
“Superstitious,” Beau finishes.
I’m smiling at their banter when I feel someone approach. I turn, expecting Clark, but instead find Whitaker Finch—wearing an expensive suit because the guy’s aim is high.
“April,” he says smoothly. “We need to talk.”
My stomach tightens. “About what?”
“About you and Clark.” He gestures to a quieter corner, and I follow reluctantly. Clark joins us, looking confused.
“What’s going on?” Clark asks.
“There has been a development.” Whitaker pulls out his phone and opens a social media app. I’m afraid he’s going to show Posh having a meltdown about the kiss cam. I’m not sure of their status because I know better than to ask and subject myself to the heartbreak, but they did go on a date.
Instead, Whitaker reveals photos of us from tonight.
On the ice.
Spinning in celebration.
The kiss cam.
The way Clark held me.
How I looked at him.
Whitaker says, “They’ve gone viral.”
“Viral?” Clark and I say in unison.
“The Love at First Wag charity saw these,” Whitaker says. “Along with your general social media presence together. They and the general public think April is your girlfriend.”
My face heats. “That’s not—we’re not—”
“She’s just always with the dogs and—”
Whitaker interrupts. “They want you both to be the faces of their spring adoption campaign.”
Clark and I exchange glances.
“Both of us?” I squeak.
“The campaign runs until May,” Whitaker continues, like he’s presenting a business deal.
“Photoshoots, public appearances, and social media content. You’d be the official couple representing the charity.
They have huge donors, but even with funding, they can’t convince people to give the animals good homes. But you can.”
“But we’re not a couple,” Clark says firmly.
That’s right. Little sister over here!
“They don’t know that.” Whitaker leans forward. “Look, this wasn’t the direction I’d planned to go, but it’s actually perfect timing. Clark, your image needs work after that Denver loss and the ... other matters.” He doesn’t mention Posh by name, but I’m assuming that’s who he means.
Apparently, Clark doesn’t because his tone is a crowbar when he asks, “What other matters?”
“She married some music mogul in Vegas last night.”
“Posh did?”
Whitaker rolls his eyes and nods.
I squawk a laugh of shock and then place my hand in front of my mouth. “Sorry. That was, um, fast.”
Clark grunts.
Whitaker continues, “April, this would be massive publicity for your Barkery dream.”
My head snaps up. “How do you know about that?”
“Because Clark told me about it.” He names a figure—the amount the charity is offering for our participation. It’s not life-changing money. But it’s enough to cover the equipment and maybe even the first month’s rent on a storefront. It would help.
“This isn’t an April Fool’s joke,” I say slowly, looking between them.
“Definitely not,” Whitaker confirms. “This is a legitimate offer. Not my top choice, since it’s so wholesome, but I won’t say no to the cheddar. Speaking of, the snack table awaits.”
Clark gives Whitaker the side eye. “You concern me.”
Sidestepping toward the spread, Whitaker says, “They want an answer by Monday.”
I look at Clark. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.
“I ...” My voice sounds faint yet tinged with hope. “I’ll do it.”
“April—” Clark starts.
“It’s good publicity for both of us, right? For the charity. For the dogs.” I’m talking too fast. “It’s just pretend. Only temporary. We’re together all the time, anyway.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I force conviction into my voice even though the buffalo inside are causing a ruckus.
Am I so unappealing to Clark that he wouldn’t even want to fake date me? Then another thought lands in my mind. What if he’s pining over someone? Could we be in a love triangle and I don’t even realize it?
I quickly add, “Unless you don’t want to. Unless you don’t think I’m ... girlfriend material. Or if—?” But I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
Something flashes across his face. Hurt? Confusion?
“That’s not—April, that’s not what I—”
“So we’re agreed?” Whitaker interrupts, looking pleased. “You’ll fake date for the campaign?”
Fake date.
Pretend to be together.
Act like we’re in love when I’m already completely, hopelessly gone for him.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
“Clark?” Whitaker prompts.
Clark looks at me for a long moment. “If April’s in, I’m in.”
“Excellent!” Whitaker rubs his hands together. “I’ll let Love at First Wag know and have the contracts emailed to you tomorrow. This is going to be great for both of you.”
He walks away, leaving Clark and me standing in the corner of the party, the noise and celebration muted, far away.
“April—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off, unable to handle whatever he’s about to say. “It’s just business, right? Help some dogs find homes. You get some good PR. I receive funding. Easy.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Easy.”
But it’s not going to be easy.
Because now I have to pretend to date my best friend.
The man I’m already in love with.
The man who sees me as just a friend.
I excuse myself to find the bathroom, needing a moment to process what just happened. What I agreed to.
In the mirror, my reflection looks stunned. My lips are still tingling from the kiss cam. My heart hasn’t stopped racing since Clark spun me on the ice.
And now I’ve agreed to fake date him for a month.
“This is fine,” I tell my reflection. “I can do this. I’ve been hiding your feelings for ten years. What’s four more weeks?”
But even as I say it, I know the truth.
This isn’t an April Fool’s joke.
This is going to break my heart.
And the worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself.