Chapter Thirty-One Could’ve Fooled Me
Chapter Thirty-One
Could’ve Fooled Me
Chase
It’s already loud when we walk into the restaurant—one of those places with exposed brick walls, moody lighting, and way too many flat screens playing highlight reels none of us are actually watching.
We’ve got a big corner table, and most of the team is already there, shouting over each other and giving our poor waitress the runaround.
Scarlett pauses just inside the door, scanning the chaos like she’s evaluating whether or not this was a colossal mistake. I nudge her with my elbow.
“You can still run,” I murmur. “Fake an emergency. Say you left your straightener on.”
She tilts her head at me. “You’d just chase me down.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile.
As we walk toward the table, Rip’s name is the first thing I hear—Tyler is midway through a dramatic reenactment of the time Rip stole a hot dog straight out of his hand during a team barbecue.
“He didn’t even hesitate,” Tyler says, eyes wide. “Just walked up like he owned my ass and took it. I’m still not over it.”
Scarlett laughs, and suddenly I’m not the only one watching her. Heads turn. Smirks form.
Bennett lifts a brow as we approach. “Well, well. If it isn’t the actual queen of heartbreak.”
I groan. “We said we weren’t calling her that anymore.”
“She literally writes books telling women to leave us,” Tyler says. “And somehow you’re the one she shows up with?”
Scarlett shrugs as she takes the open seat next to me. “Chase is good for research.”
The whole table howls. Even I have to give her that one.
“Scarlett, this is everyone,” I say, motioning around the table. “Everyone, this is—”
“We know,” Will cuts in. “We’ve seen the clips.”
“And read the social media comments,” adds Nolan.
“And watched the fan cam on YouTube,” Bennett says with a completely straight face.
Scarlett sips her water like she’s unfazed. “Glad to know I’m making an impression.”
“You’ve got the team’s stamp of approval,” Bennett says, tossing me a look. “She’s good for you, man.”
Scarlett blinks. I feel her shift slightly beside me.
It wasn’t said loudly. Wasn’t some grand pronouncement.
Just a simple comment, tossed into the noise of team banter and bottomless fries.
But she heard it.
I did too.
The conversation moves on—back to hockey, and someone’s fantasy football disaster, and who clogged the hotel bathroom on our last road trip (Tyler, obviously). But my attention keeps drifting back to her.
She’s relaxed, laughing easily, holding her own like she’s been doing this forever. No pretense. No snarky armor.
Just her.
I don’t know when it happened. When this stopped being a PR stunt or a challenge or a bet and started feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
But watching her now—shoulder brushing mine, eyes lit with laughter—I know one thing for sure.
She belongs here.
And I’m not just talking about tonight.
We linger longer than we meant to—Scarlett and Lucy are deep in a conversation about a viral video from book club, and somehow Will’s now trying to convince me Rip could be a professional dog model.
By the time we finally say our goodbyes and step outside, the air’s cooled down just enough to be pleasant. The restaurant’s twinkly patio lights stretch above us, and the soft hum of traffic fills the quiet.
I open the passenger door of my Jeep for her, but she doesn’t climb in yet.
Instead, she leans against the frame, looking at me with that unreadable expression she wears way too well.
“What?” I ask.
Scarlett shrugs. “Just… I didn’t hate that.”
I smirk. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” She crosses her arms. “I expected to be overwhelmed by testosterone and locker room jokes.”
“Oh, there were definitely locker room jokes. You just missed ‘em while Lucy was asking about your latest literary masterpiece.”
Scarlett rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now.
We stand there for a second longer, neither of us in a rush. Her arms are still crossed, her hair a little messy from the wind, and her eyes softer than usual.
“You’re good at this,” she says quietly.
I blink. “Good at what?”
“This. The team. The whole… people thing. You’ll make a good captain. They look up to you. They listen when you talk.”
My brows lift. “You thought I was just a dumb jock.”
“I still think that,” she deadpans.
But her tone is light, and I see it—the shift. The careful unraveling of her guard.
“I like seeing you like this,” she adds, a little more seriously. “Not flirting. Not performing. Just… you.”
It hits me right in the chest. The way she says it. The way she sees me.
Not for who I pretend to be.
But for who I am.
I step closer, sliding my hands into my pockets to keep from touching her. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” I say, but my voice is rougher now. Lower. “But for the record… you fit in with them.”
Scarlett shakes her head. “I’m not a hockey girlfriend.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
She looks up at me, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.
“I just meant,” I say, softer this time, “you belong. Wherever you want to be.”
Her breath catches slightly, and for a split second, I wonder if I went too far.
But then she says, “You better take me home before I do something crazy.”
My brows lift. “Define crazy.”
“Like kiss you again.”
My brain short-circuits.
“I mean, it wasn’t terrible,” she says with a shrug, stepping around me to climb into the passenger seat. “For a first date.”
I laugh, full and low, and close her door behind her.
As I walk around to the driver’s side, I swear—I’ve never wanted someone more.