Chapter 11
CLARK
I’m up half the night replaying the kiss with April.
Not the game-winning save. Not that the playoff spot is getting so close I can practically taste it. Not even the moment we lifted Howie the gnome above our heads like he was the Stanley Cup itself.
No, my brain has decided that the only thing worth analyzing at this hour is the seconds my lips were on April Hansen’s.
The way she tilted her face up to mine. The soft intake of breath right before our mouths met. How her hand rested on my chest, right over my heart that was beating so hard I was sure she could feel it through my metric ton of goalie padding.
It was brief. All too brief. Appropriate for the kiss cam. The kind of thing that happens at hockey games all the time.
Except it felt like everything.
I roll over, fluff my pillow, and try to convince myself that this doesn’t change things.
We’re just friends. Friends who are about to fake date.
Possibly. Which, according to the guys and Whitaker, is totally normal for public figures and a not-at-all-complicated situation that definitely won’t make things weird.
The dogs are snoring. Even Purdy, who’s made herself at home, curled up between Moose and Buster. Only Scout is awake, watching me from his spot on the window seat as if asking, “Why are you still up, boss?”
“You know why,” I mutter.
He huffs as if I’m a hopeless case and rests his head on his paw.
By five a.m. I’ve had a fitful few hours of sleep and have given up on getting any more shut-eye. After hauling my butt out of bed, I grab a notepad. April will be here in a couple of hours to walk the dogs. I need to leave her a message before I head to practice.
April, Please come back at six. I owe you dinner. - Clark
I stare at it. Too formal? Not formal enough? Should I add a smiley face? No, that’s weird. An X and an O? I puff a breath from my cheeks and remind myself that I’m overthinking. It’s best to keep things simple.
Leaving the note on the counter, weighed down by Purdy’s food bowl, I head out.
Practice is my mind versus muscle memory. The two are on opposite teams. Not because my performance is bad—I’m still riding the high from last night’s win. But because I can’t focus on anything Coach Badaszek is saying. My brain is too busy planning dinner.
Creamy pasta primavera with chicken. It’s seasonal and April loves that dish. I made it for her once when she was stressed about a work presentation. She said it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. Then she immediately followed up with, “But don’t let it go to your head, Culpepper.”
Oh, she’s gone to my head. Taken up residence. Rearranged the furniture. And that’s April. Always keeping my ego in check. Keeping me at a brotherly distance.
“Culpepper!” Coach’s whistle is a javelin through my thoughts. “Are you planning to participate, or are you having a private daydream session in my goal?”
“Sorry, Coach!”
He skates over to me. “Let me guess. Still thinking about that kiss?”
My face heats. “What? No. I was—How did you—?” He can’t know it meant something to me, can he?
The entire team bursts out laughing.
“The whole arena saw it, genius,” Mikey calls out.
Jack adds, “It’s all over social media.”
“Plus,” Pierre adds, “you’re practically glowing.”
“I am not.” I’m about to tell them that I’m tired, but then they’ll wonder if it was because I was up thinking about April, which won’t help my case.
“You are,” Liam confirms. “It’s unsettling.”
Coach crosses his arms. “Look, I don’t care if you’re on the kiss cam or performing modern dance. What I care about is whether you can keep your head in the game.”
“I can, Coach. I promise.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Don’t let anything become a distraction—”
“I won’t.”
“Better not.” He blows his whistle. “Everyone in position.” But he leans in and, in a low voice, says, “And Culpepper?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“Always go with pasta. Women love pasta. Just take it easy on the garlic.”
My eyes go cartoon wide and it’s not only because the puck is sailing in my direction. How does he know everything?
By the time practice ends, my phone pulses with red notification bubbles. They’re mostly texts from Whitaker. I wait to read them until after I shower and get ready to go. He knows I’m at practice.
While walking to my Jeep, I find exactly what I expect from one of my oldest friends and a guy who has expensive taste that I help fund through endorsements, sponsorships, merch, and other deals.
Whitaker: I sent the contracts.
Whitaker: Did she back out?
Whitaker: Why haven’t you signed?
Whitaker: I need confirmation by EOD.
Whitaker: The charity wants to move forward ASAP.
Whitaker: Clark. RESPOND.
Whitaker: I’m re-sending the contracts. Review them tonight.
Whitaker: Also, if this falls through, I have someone else you can work with. Remember Lyric? You took her to dinner at the steakhouse in Omaha. She’s allergic to dogs, but we’ll figure it out.
I stop walking. Because that’s a non-starter.
He knows I don’t go on second dates and the first one with her was a masterclass in how to send your life off the rails with the wrong woman.
Insufferable, demanding, entitled, and whiny doesn’t even begin to cover it.
As far as I’m concerned, Lyric never happened.
It’s been wiped from memory. Though the internet is forever, as they say. I answer simply.
Me: No.
Whitaker: Come on. One more dinner. Her followers doubled after you guys went out.
Me: Who do you represent? Her or me?
Whitaker: I’m your brother from another mother.
Me: Also, I’m fake-dating April for the campaign. Remember?
Whitaker: That doesn’t start until the contracts are signed.
Me: STOP.
While Lyric was social-media-girl-groomed and knew exactly how to angle herself for the camera, that was the extent of it. I could never go through life just “mogging” and “looksmaxxing” for the fans, as she said.
When I tried to talk about hockey, she asked if I could introduce her to “the really famous players.”
I am a really famous player.
When I mentioned my dogs, she wrinkled her nose and said, “I like kitty cats. They’re quieter.”
The date ended with an awkward hug and a boop to my nose. I may love dogs, but I’m not one. Hard pass.
Whitaker is a bro, but he can’t just go and squeeze every last penny from my soul. I’m happy to be a field mouse playing hockey; meanwhile, he’s trying to turn me into a rat—but in his eyes, he’s creating a lion. I shove my phone in my pocket before he can argue further.
But I’ll have to talk to him soon because I’m done dating random women. Give me April, or give me a dateless life!
Later that evening, I’m setting the table when her key slides into the lock. The dogs respond with their usual symphony of excitement. I’m pretty sure if I had a tail, I’d be wagging it too.
“Clark?” Her voice echoes through the apartment. “I got your note. What’s—?”
She rounds the corner and takes in the scene with lemur eyes, wide and glassy.
Candles are lit and I set the table with placemats and matching tableware like an adult. The pasta is warm on the stovetop. A salad and freshly baked bread wait for us.
“I misunderstood your note. I didn’t realize you had a date. I’m so sorry. I’ll just take the dogs out really quick and be out of your hair,” she says, rapid fire.
“Dinner is for us. I said I owed you dinner.”
She tips her head to the side in question. “But this looks ...” She trails off and something crosses her face. Worry? Sadness?
“This is for you.”
“For me?”
“I wanted to thank you for agreeing to the campaign. For always being there. For—” I run a hand through my shaggy hair. “I can’t have you subsisting on cans of food made for children.”
“But the SpaghettiOs with meatballs are yummy.”
“I made your favorite.”
Her expression softens as she peers at the stovetop. “Creamy pasta primavera?”
“With chicken.”
“Clark Culpepper, are you trying to butter me up?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She grins, and the knot in my stomach loosens.
We settle at the table and the dogs immediately post up at our feet in hopes of dropped food. After saying grace, April takes her first bite and practically moans.
“Clark, this is so good.”
“But you don’t want me to let it go to my head?” I supply, using our typical banter.
“Exactly.” She points her fork at me. “But seriously, thank you. I figured you’d be pasta-ed out after dinner at Amore with Posh.”
I snort. “Whitaker set that up. He insists that bolstering my dating life is ‘good for my image’ or whatever. They’re basically fake.
Something I do to pay his bills. But the one with Posh was especially—” I squint, trying to come up with a nice but honest way to describe her. “She didn’t even like dogs.”
“She didn’t like dogs?” April sounds personally offended.
“Said they were too much maintenance.”
“Red flag. Giant, waving red flag.” She mocks lifting it up the flagpole.
“Right?” I lean forward. “That’s what I said! Well, not out loud. But I thought it very loudly.”
April laughs with what almost sounds like relief, but that can’t be right. After taking another forkful of food, she hesitates. “So are all the dates Whitaker sets you up on ...”
“Disasters. Dumpster fires. Every single one. He keeps trying to find me someone ‘media-friendly’ who ‘complements my brand.’ Just today, he suggested I go out with Lyric again. That was a ‘hashtag fail.’ I just want—” I falter.
I want to say, You. But I can’t play that card either.
“I want someone who likes me for me. Who doesn’t care about followers or endorsements or whether I can introduce them to ‘famous players.’ That’s a Lyric direct quote. ”
“You are a famous player.”
I snap my fingers and point. “I did voice that one out loud.”