Chapter 19 #3
I can only shrug, rolling my lips inward to buy myself time to think of an answer that doesn't make me sound completely insane.
"Honestly, I have no idea what came over me.
I just marched into the inn where he was staying and demanded that he honor his commitment.
He tried to cancel his book signing at my store, and I told him absolutely not. "
"A woman who doesn't take no for an answer," one of them says approvingly. "I like that quality."
"So what exactly are the terms of your bet?" another asks, and I feel my stomach drop toward my shoes.
This is the question I've been dreading.
While scrolling through social media and overhearing conversations around town, I've realized that although everyone knows about the bet's existence, no one outside of Maya has clearly heard us discuss the specific terms of what we each get when we win.
The lack of concrete details has created this air of mystery around the whole situation, allowing people to speculate and create their own theories about what we're really competing for.
Maya has been purposefully tight-lipped about the details, treating the eventual revelation like a dramatic plot twist that will be unveiled at the perfect moment for maximum impact.
I haven't had a chance to ask Mac what he thinks about her publicity strategy, but he doesn't seem bothered by the speculation one way or another.
I'm not entirely sure if I can trust these women not to run straight to the nearest gossip blog with whatever I tell them, but refusing to answer feels like it would create an even more awkward conversation that I'm definitely not prepared to navigate.
Besides, I'm honestly not even sure where Mac and I stand with the original bet anymore, now that we've crossed so far into actual relationship territory that the line between performance and reality has completely blurred.
Maybe it's actually okay if a few people know the truth before Maya's big reveal.
"Nothing too dramatic," I say carefully, accepting another glass of wine from a passing waiter with grateful hands.
"I told him that if I win, he has to publicly apologize for the cruel things he said about Lily's beliefs and about love in general.
Admit that he was wrong, that love isn't just a fantasy.
He said if he wins, I'd have to attend every Howlers game next season wearing his jersey number.
It seemed harmless enough at the time, so I agreed. "
The five women exchange meaningful looks that I can't decipher, and Simone's expression shifts into something that looks suspiciously like barely contained amusement.
"Oh, honey," she says with a conspiratorial smile playing at her lips. "So he never actually planned on losing this bet, did he?"
I take a large sip of wine, hoping the alcohol will help me process whatever subtext I'm clearly missing.
"I mean, he definitely thought he had it in the bag at the beginning, but I think we've both learned that falling for someone based on romance novel tropes is more complicated than either of us originally expected.
It's been an interesting social experiment, to say the least."
"When a hockey player asks a woman to wear his jersey number to games," Simone explains quietly, glancing around to make sure we won't be overheard, "he's essentially staking his claim on her.
It's a public declaration of ownership, of serious relationship status.
If Mac made that his prize for winning, he never had any intention of not falling for you. "
The quiet one—I think her name is Rachel—leans in closer and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Thank God for that. Maybe now we'll finally be rid of Stephanie hanging around the edges of every team event."
The others murmur their agreements, but I can barely hear what they're saying over the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.
My attention shifts involuntarily to Mac, who has positioned himself at what he clearly considers a safe distance—close enough to step in if I need rescuing, but far enough away that he can't be accused of eavesdropping on girl talk.
Could what Simone said possibly be true? Did Mac structure the bet so that even if he won, he'd still get what he actually wanted—a legitimate reason to claim me publicly?
If that's the case, then why bother with all the elaborate theatrical pretense? Why go through with the romance novel charade if he was interested in dating me from the very beginning?
I want to be furious with him for the deception, for making me jump through hoops when he could have just asked me out like a normal person.
But mostly I'm angry at myself for not seeing through his strategy sooner, for not recognizing the signs of a man who was playing a much deeper game than I realized.
Is Mac Sullivan secretly a closet romantic who was just too proud or too scared to admit it?
As if he can sense the weight of my gaze, he glances over his shoulder and flashes me that crooked smile that makes my knees weak. But when I don't immediately return the gesture, his brows pull together in concern and his expression shifts into something more serious.
"Everything okay?" he mouths across the space between us, his eyes flicking between me and the group of women surrounding me.
All I can manage is a stiff nod before pulling my wine glass up to my lips, using the movement to hide whatever expression might be giving away my churning thoughts.
I'll definitely be confronting him about what Simone told me, but it sure as hell won't be in public with an audience of his teammate's wives watching every micro-expression.
I turn my attention back to the group conversation, grateful that they've moved on to gossiping about other team drama, and try to listen while my mind races through every interaction Mac and I have had since that first disastrous coffee shop confrontation.
Later in the afternoon, when Mac gets pulled into an intense discussion with his teammates about training schedules and the upcoming season, Stephanie materializes beside me at the dessert table like a perfectly groomed shark sensing blood in the water.
"You seem like a genuinely sweet person," she says with practiced casualness, selecting a small tiramisu cup with the surgical precision of someone who's calculated the exact caloric content.
She's got one of those overly-sweet smiles painted across her lips—the kind that women only wear when they're about to deliver devastating news wrapped in false kindness.
"Thank you?" I reply uncertainly, not sure if I'm being complimented or insulted.
"But I don't think you have any real idea what you're getting yourself into here," she continues, taking a delicate bite of her carefully chosen dessert.
"This version of Mac… small-town mode, playing house, reading love stories and pretending to believe in happily ever after… that's not who he really is deep down."
"Excuse me?" The words come out sharper than I intended, but I'm too off-balance to moderate my tone.
"Mac is a professional athlete, Delaney," she explains with the patient condescension of someone speaking to a particularly slow child.
"His entire life revolves around travel schedules and training regimens and media obligations and the kind of pressure most people can't even imagine.
Just like Lily could never have been satisfied with a quiet suburban life in the long run, Mac isn't built for small-town domesticity either.
When he's ready to come back to his real world, to his actual life, where exactly do you picture yourself fitting into that equation? "
Her words hit like a perfectly aimed slap because they're poking directly at the open wound of every insecurity I've been trying to ignore since the moment I walked into his penthouse and saw how completely different his real world is from mine.
"Maybe I don't fit," I admit, hating how small my voice sounds, but unable to stop myself from being honest. "But that's something for Mac and me to figure out between ourselves."
"Is it really, though?" Stephanie asks with mock concern, tilting her head like she's genuinely puzzled by my response.
"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're serving as a very convenient distraction from his grief process.
And when he's finally finished working through his trauma and ready to rejoin reality, you'll be the sweet small-town memory he visits occasionally between seasons while he and I rebuild the real life we started before everything went wrong. "
Her words land with the precision of someone who's identified every one of my deepest fears and decided to weaponize them.
Because she's right, isn't she? I am just a small-town bookshop owner who inherited her grandmother's failing business.
Mac is an international celebrity who makes more money in a single season than my store sees in five years combined.
What could someone like him possibly want with someone like me beyond a temporary escape from his complicated real life?
Except… I have to remember that he rigged the bet. That has to mean something, right?
"While you rebuild your life? That's presumptuous. Mac hasn't mentioned your name since we met. And I'm sure you're aware that Lily believed in love stories," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the chaos in my chest. "Maybe Mac is learning to honor that part of her memory."
Stephanie's expression softens slightly, though whether it's genuine sympathy or calculated manipulation, I can't tell. "Lily believed in a lot of things that ended up getting her hurt, Delaney. Mac has learned some hard lessons from watching her mistakes."