Chapter 10
Lainey
“Zach, focus!” I hiss into my headset, scanning the arena from the upper concourse.
He’s in the middle of a photo op with a group of teenagers, all grinning and clutching foam hockey sticks like trophies. Instead of looking at the camera, though, Zach Darling—the man who seems determined to drive me insane—turns his head and locks eyes with me.
And winks.
I groan, pulling the clipboard closer to my chest. For two hours, I’ve been juggling autograph schedules, activity stations, and crowd control, and he’s been…
well, Zach. Charming, unpredictable, and as subtle as a wrecking ball.
He’s supposed to be making this event about his day with the Stanley Cup and his fans, not about distracting me.
“Darling,” I mutter into the mic. “That’s strike two.”
“Strike two?” his voice crackles through my earpiece. “You’re killing my vibe, Carrey.”
“You’re killing the schedule, Darling,” I snap, emphasizing his name.
“What happens at strike three? You bench me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I fire back, moving toward the next station where a line of kids waits for their turn at the slapshot challenge. The event is going smoothly despite his antics. Still, every time he glances my way, my focus wavers just enough to make me want to scream—or maybe swoon.
And I can’t swoon. I have a job to do.
By the time I reach the slapshot station, the line has doubled, and a frazzled volunteer looks ready to quit.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s get this moving.”
The kids perk up as I grab a foam puck and take a mock slapshot into the net. Cheers erupt, and the tension breaks.
“Nice form, Carrey,” Zach calls from somewhere behind me.
I turn to find him standing a few feet away, his hockey stick slung over his shoulder, a grin that could disarm a missile plastered on his face. He’s supposed to be at the photo station.
“Don’t you have fans waiting?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“I just wanted to check in on the slapshot action.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to that low, teasing register that makes my stomach flutter. “I couldn’t miss the chance to see you in action. You’re pretty good with a stick, you know.”
“Zach.” I glance around, aware of the kids and parents nearby. “Behave.”
“I am behaving,” he says, looking anything but innocent. “Mostly.”
He picks up a foam hockey stick, spinning it in his hands like it’s a prized weapon. “Alright, who’s next? Let me show you how it’s done,” he says, crouching like a goalie.
The kids cheer as a boy winds up for his shot, the puck bouncing off Zach’s stick and ricocheting into the net. Zach dramatically falls backward, clutching his chest. “He got me! Rookie of the Year, right here!” he calls, making the kids laugh.
“Zach,” I say, exasperated, crossing my arms. “You’re supposed to be at the photo station.”
He straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” He hands the foam hockey stick to a grinning kid before giving me one last smirk. “But you have to admit, that was worth it.”
Before I can respond, he jogs off, leaving behind a chorus of giggles and cheers from the kids.
I watch him rejoin the photo line, sliding effortlessly back into his role as the star attraction. Within minutes, he’s back to signing pucks and posing with fans like he never left.
During his photo session, I catch him leaning in to whisper something to a teenage fan. The girl giggles and glances in my direction, blushing furiously.
“What did you say?” I demand over the headset.
“Relax,” he drawls, his tone pure mischief. “Just telling her my girlfriend runs a tight ship.”
I freeze. He did not just say that.
“Zach, we agreed—”
“You agreed to be my fake girlfriend,” he cuts in smoothly. “So technically, I’m just sticking to the script.”
I clench my clipboard tighter, my pulse ticking up. He’s too smooth for his own good, and he knows exactly how to get under my skin.
From across the room, he throws me a quick grin, as if he can feel my frustration even through the distance. I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to the clipboard in my hands.
For the next twenty minutes, I keep half an eye on him as he works through the photo line, chatting easily with fans and signing autographs.
When his next break finally comes, I catch him at the refreshment table, sipping water and watching me with that infuriating smirk.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I approach.
He caps the bottle and leans against the table. “Refueling. Gotta keep the energy up for my people out there.” He gestures toward the autograph station. “They deserve me at my best.”
I blink at the genuine warmth in his tone before schooling my expression. “And what about keeping me at my best? You’re wreaking havoc on my schedule.”
“I’m multitasking,” he says, his grin shifting into something teasing. “Recharging and annoying you—it’s a win-win.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I prefer ‘dedicated.’”
“Dedicated to what?”
“Making you smile.”
I roll my eyes.
He studies me, tilting his head like he’s assessing something. “You know, you’re pretty when you’re annoyed.”
My lips betray me, curving into a reluctant grin. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you keep me around.” His tone is light, but there’s something in his eyes—something unspoken that makes me hold my breath.
Before I can respond, a volunteer waves him over, gesturing toward the growing crowd near the photo station.
Zach pushes off the table, grabbing a fresh water bottle. “Back to work,” he says with a grin, throwing me one last look before heading back toward the photo op area.
As he crouches down to sign a puck for a fan, I hear a boy’s excited voice cut through the hum of the crowd.
“Can I hold it?” a boy asks, eyes wide as he looks up at Zach.
The Keeper of the Cup—a stern-looking man in a suit—steps forward, his hands folded. “Nobody holds the Cup except authorized personnel,” he says firmly.
The boy’s face falls, and my heart aches a little at his disappointment.
Zach crouches down, his grin softening. “Tell you what, bud. How about you and I take a picture together with the Cup?”
The boy brightens instantly, nodding enthusiastically.
Zach glances at the Keeper, who gives a small, reluctant nod and carefully positions the boy’s hands near the base without actually touching it.
“Now smile big,” Zach says, crouching beside him. As the cameras flash, Zach glances up at me, his grin turning into a wink.
“Making dreams come true,” he mouths.
By the time the last fan leaves, my legs ache, and my voice is hoarse from giving directions all day. I’m packing up the clipboard when Zach appears beside me, startling me enough that I nearly drop it.
“Jumpy much?” he teases, his grin softening when he sees my exhaustion.
“You’re still here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He holds out his hand, his grin laced with mischief. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Just trust me.”
I hesitate, but something in his eyes makes me follow. He leads me down to the rink, where the lights have dimmed. Then, with a flick of a switch, the arena transforms.
Fairy lights strung along the boards cast a soft glow over the ice, the reflection shimmering like a dream.
“What is this?” I breathe.
“Your break,” he says simply, holding out a pair of skates.
At first, I refuse. “Zach, I’m terrible at skating.”
“Perfect,” he says, grinning. “I like a challenge.”
Reluctantly, I lace up the skates and step onto the ice, wobbling immediately. Zach catches me, his hands firm on my waist.
“Relax,” he says, his voice warm and close. “I’ve got you.”
We move slowly at first, Zach skating backward as he guides me around the rink. I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact between us—his hands on mine, the brush of his arm against my shoulder.
“You’re doing great,” he says, his voice low.
“I’m clinging to you like a lifeline.”
He grins. “I don’t mind.”
As I start to loosen up, he lets go, skating circles around me with obnoxious ease.
“Show-off,” I call, wobbling as I try to keep up.
He stops in front of me, skating backward just out of reach. “Catch me, Carrey.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” he says, his grin softening as he reaches out, pulling me closer.
We stop in the center of the rink, the glow of the lights casting a warm halo around us.
“Having fun yet?” he asks, his voice low.
I smile despite myself. “Maybe.”
He grins, leaning in just enough that I feel the heat of his breath. “See? Told you I could be romantic if I wanted to.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse kicks up. “Romantic? This is skating.”
He smirks, his tone turning teasing again. “I can check every box on that checklist of yours.”
I freeze, my breath catching. He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Told you I could be your guy. If I wanted to.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable.
I snap out of it and snort, shaking my head. “You’re funny.”
“Funny,” he repeats, his voice laced with mock indignation. “Not charming? Not irresistible? Just funny?”
“Definitely just funny,” I say, biting back a grin.
“Liar,” he says, giving me a wink before skating backward, leaving me standing in the middle of the rink, shaking my head and trying not to smile too much.