Chapter 17 April
APRIL
My phone is having a tiny electronic tantrum and refuses to be ignored. Rude.
I’m trying to focus on balancing the budget projections spreadsheet for The Barkery—exciting Saturday night activities—but the girls are relentless.
Ella: Just saw the Spaglietti’s photos. Girl. GIRL.
Jess: You two almost kissed over a plate of PASTA. This is life goals gold.
Whit: That was not fake. That was REAL. Prove me wrong.
Me: So many all-caps! Why are you shouting?
Ella: It’s emphasis, friend! EMPHASIS!
Margo: My wedding planning services are available when you need them. I’m already picturing silver and lavender with dog-themed centerpieces.
I turn my phone face down on the couch, but it immediately buzzes again.
Heidi: Also, Sophia already posted in the Corn Husker group. You’re officially Cobbiton’s hottest couple.
Me: Fake couple.
Heidi: Keep telling yourself that.
I groan and pull a throw pillow over my face. This is my life now. Fake dating my best friend while the entire town watches and my friends plan my fictional wedding.
The dogs—all five of them, because I’ve been house sitting while Clark is on the road for three days—sense my distress and converge on the couch.
Moose tries to climb into my lap despite being the size of a small horse.
Lulu, the newest addition, curls up next to me with her head on my leg.
Scout and Buster flank either side, and Purdy somehow manages to get on the back cushion and perches on my shoulder like a parrot.
“You guys are the only uncomplicated relationships in my life,” I tell them, letting the enormous amount of floof absorb my frustration and confusion.
Moose licks my face, which I choose to interpret as agreement and not him finding crumbs from my Goldfish cracker binge—the parmesan flavor is underrated.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not the group chat.
Clark: Landed. Be home in an hour.
Me: Miss the dogs?
Clark: Desperately.
Me: They’ve been terrible. Absolute monsters.
Clark: Liar. I could see the tops of Moose’s ears in your last Instagram story. He’s literally sleeping on your lap.
Me: He’s plotting. I’m very suspicious. I think he’s on the FBI watchlist.
Clark: For being so massively cute. See you soon.
My stomach flutters as the buffalo wake up, preparing to stampede. I want to think he’s coming home to me and not his house sitter. Not only the dogs, either. But I can’t let those feelings out of the barn.
The truth is, despite this whole charade, Clark and I are friends. Best friends who are fake dating and almost kiss over Italian food, but still. Just friends.
My thoughts pop like a soap bubble when I hear a key in the lock.
The dogs explode off the couch like they’ve been shot from cannons, and I barely have time to stand before Clark steps through the door, drops his bag, and crouches down to greet the rush of fur and enthusiasm.
“Hey, guys! Yes, I missed you too. Moose, you’re such a gentle giant. Lulu, hi sweet girl. Scout, I know, I know. Buster—” He laughs as Buster does his signature shimmy-wiggle. “You’re still my very good chonky boy. Oh, and Purdy, my sweetness.”
And then his gaze finds mine over the sea of dogs, and he grins, eyes twinkling. “Hey, you.”
Those buffalo sprout wings like flying pigs. “How was the trip?”
“Long. We won all three just barely, so Coach is only moderately homicidal.” He stands, and the dogs finally calm down enough that he can actually move into the apartment. “Thanks for staying with them.”
“Where else would I be?”
His eyes turn slightly unfocused, dreamy.
The words about belonging are a familiar refrain that’s starting to feel loaded with meaning I can’t quite name.
He goes to the fridge and gets something to drink, then flops down next to me on the couch like I’m not supposed to be gathering my things to go home.
I’m not sure whether to go or stay or what’s up. What’s down? I’m inside out.
Clark kicks his feet onto the coffee table. “Whitaker resent the schedule for this week.”
“Let me guess. More public appearances?”
“Just one. But it’s a big one.” He pulls out his phone and shows me. “Wednesday night, the Knights are doing a Teddy Bear Toss game for Love at First Wag. We’re the special guests.”
I scan the details. “Fans throw stuffed animals on the ice after the first goal? This is a thing?”
“Yep. A whole thing. Typically, the AHL teams do it around the holidays, but we’re doing a spring version for the dog adoption campaign. All the stuffed animals get donated, plus there’s a live adoption event in the concourse.”
“That’s actually really sweet.”
“And we have to do an interview. There might be another photographer situation.” He winces.
“What kind of photographer situation?”
“Whitaker wants ‘candid couple content.’ His words, not mine.”
“Candid couple content,” I repeat slowly. “Meaning ...”
“Meaning we should look like we’re affectionate. Like we’re in love. Same as, uh, we practiced.” He’s not quite meeting my eyes as if testing the waters. “Finch specifically mentioned wanting a ‘candid kiss.’”
The room suddenly feels very small.
“A kiss,” I echo, but sound more like a mouse in a dog house. A cubby. Shoebox-sized.
He clears his throat, suddenly twitchy. “For the campaign. For the photos. Totally fake, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The dogs have plopped themselves around us as if they never intend to let us leave this couch. It’s very cozy, but I’m feeling claustrophobic because, despite what Clark told Sophia about us not being siblings, he wouldn’t want to kiss a girl he thinks of as his sister.
I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s no big deal. Movie stars fake-kiss all the time.”
“No big deal,” Clark agrees, but his voice strains.
“I should go. Let you settle in.” I’m already gathering my things—my overnight bag, my laptop, the dog training memoir I’ve been reading.
“April—” He hesitates.
“I’ll see you Wednesday!” I’m at the door now, fumbling with my purse. “Text me what time!”
I flee before he can say whatever he was about to say. Before I can do something stupid like ask if he’s as terrified and excited and confused as I am or suggest that we practice kissing some more. I mean, practice makes champions, right?
On Wednesday, I change my outfit four times before settling on dark jeans, a light but fuzzy sweater in honor of the stuffed animal toss theme in the arena, and my paw print sneakers, of course.
The Ice Palace is already packed when I arrive. The energy is an electrical storm—a regular season game as we near the playoffs, but with the added excitement of the charity event.
The concourse is transformed with eye-catching displays of adoptable pets, colorful paw print decals leading visitors from station to station, and massive photo backdrops featuring oversized dog bones and hockey sticks.
Surely, Margo had a hand in it as the official Knights event planner.
In addition to the usual concession stands, there are adoption stations set up with volunteers from Love at First Wag.
Dogs and cats peer out of kennels, families already excitedly browsing, and cameras flashing everywhere.
“Clark! April!” Sandra, our campaign coordinator, materializes with a walkie-talkie in hand.
“Perfect timing. We want you to stroll through the adoption area, interact with some animals, and maybe pose for some photos. When the game starts, April, you’ll watch from the VIP suite, of course, and during the break, we’ll do a quick interview on the ice. ”
“Sounds good,” Clark says, his hand still on my back.
I lean into it, not wanting to leave his side, which is also the problem.
We spend the next hour meeting dogs—a three-legged shepherd mix named Chaser, an elderly cat named Duchess, a bonded pair of terriers that make me want to introduce them to the Bacon Boys (and now two girls).
We need a new name for our pack—family, fur-mily?
I’ll have to workshop it. The photographer follows us, snapping pictures, and I almost forget it’s staged.
Almost.
Because every time Clark’s hand brushes mine, or he leans close to whisper something funny about a particularly vocal Chihuahua, or he absentmindedly tucks a curl behind my ear—I remember that people are watching. That this is a performance.
It’s not real.
When the game starts, I go to the VIP suite where the other WAGs are already gathered.
“April!” Jess pulls me into a hug. “You look so cute! Very ‘supportive hockey girlfriend.’”
“That’s what I was going for,” I say with a little curtsy and quickly fill them in on today’s spectacle of epically fake proportions.
Ella appears at my elbow. “Let’s talk about the kiss. Are we talking quick peck or full rom-com moment?”
“I don’t know! Whitaker just said ‘candid.’”
“Candid could mean anything,” Margo muses. “A forehead kiss. A cheek kiss. A—”
“Let’s maybe not plan the kiss like it’s a movie,” I interrupt, my face flaming.
The girls exchange knowing looks but mercifully drop it.
The game is intense. The Knights are playing the Wisconsin Warriors, and both teams are fighting for playoff positioning. Clark is in the net, and watching him is always mesmerizing—the way he reads the play, his lightning-fast reflexes, and how he makes impossible saves look routine.
“He’s playing really well tonight,” Jess observes.
“He always plays well,” I say automatically, a bit dreamily.
“Yeah, but tonight he’s playing like he’s showing off.” Cara grins at me. “Wonder why that is.”
They have the nerve to giggle.
I refuse to take the bait.
Midway through the first period, Mikey scores. The goal horn blares, the crowd erupts, and then—hundreds? Thousands?—of stuffed animals rain down onto the ice.