Chapter 4 Brody
four
brody
I probably should have listened to the voice in my head telling me this was a bad idea. Because if there’s anything that says “I want nothing to do with you, dirtbag,” it’s having the girl of your dreams literally flee at the sight of you.
“Chloe!”
It’s too late. She’s already out the door. The wind sweeps through the restaurant as she vanishes into the street.
Stupid. Stupid. What did I think? That I’d just show up, buy her a cookie, and we’d, what? Pick up where we left off? I scoop up the remainder of her things, stuff them in the satchel she left behind Cinderella-style, and debate going after her. Of all the idiotic ideas—
The door swings open again, and my head snaps up.
Chloe stands just inside. Her hair, now wind-tossed, hangs over her shoulders. She looks…just as gorgeous as I remember. Those freckles across her nose. Flushed cheeks, nose pink from the cold. And those big brown eyes…which I realize are staring at me like she’s seen a ghost.
That’s fair.
She draws in a breath, waits for a waiter to pass, and then marches back through the café, her gaze turned anywhere but me.
She comes to a stop in front of me, the top of her head barely reaching my chin, but she doesn’t lift her head. “I need my things.”
I hand over the disheveled bag, trying to duck into her line of vision. My voice comes out rough. “Chloe, please. Could we just talk?”
She reaches for the satchel, but I don’t let go just yet. Our fingers brush.
“Please,” I add softly.
Chloe finally meets my gaze, and something in her eyes makes my heart stutter.
“Wow! It’s Candy Kane!”
The voice comes from behind me—young, female, way too enthusiastic for the havoc it’s about to wreak on my life.
No.
No.
Not now. Not here. Not when I finally—
I turn slightly and pull Chloe a little closer to me—it’s a reflex, really—but it manages to tuck her next to me as I face a girl in her early twenties, who is standing there, phone already out, eyes wide with that particular brand of fan excitement that means this is about to become a whole thing.
She’s wearing a Blue Ox hoodie. Great. One of mine.
“I can’t believe it’s really you!” She’s bouncing slightly. “Can I get a photo? Please? My friends are never going to believe this!”
I feel Chloe stiffen beside me.
My brain does that thing it does under pressure—rapid calculation, risk assessment, exit strategy formation. In about two seconds, I catalog:
We’re in Ironclad (cozy, local, witnesses)
This fan has her phone out (already filming? Taking pics?)
Other people are starting to notice (three customers turning to look)
Marcie behind the counter is watching (concerned expression)
Chloe is about to bolt, again (I can feel it in her posture)
If I say no to the photo, fan gets pushy, scene escalates
If I say yes, one photo, done, we can leave
Simple math.
Except nothing about this is simple.
I take a breath. Feel my shoulders roll back—automatic, years of training. The mask slides into place like a second skin I hate but can’t take off.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. Smooth. Easy. Candy Kane, reporting for duty. “Always happy to meet fans.”
Liar.
The girl beams. Looks at Chloe. “Is this your girlfriend? Can she be in it too?”
And here’s where I make the decision that’s going to haunt me.
Here’s where I choose performance over truth.
Here’s where I become exactly what Chloe’s going to think I am.
I don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Just react—the same instinct that made me chase down that purse thief in Barcelona, the same protective reflex that got me into this mess in the first place.
“Yeah,” I say. “She is.”
Chloe makes a sound. Like a gasp, or maybe she’s taking a breath before she bolts.
So I slide my arm around her back—gentle, not possessive, just there—and she doesn’t pull away.
All right, she’s not exactly leaning in either. But it’s something.
“Smile,” I murmur. Not for the photo. For her. Apologizing without apologizing, because I don’t have time to explain and I don’t know how to anyway.
This is why I ran in Barcelona. The photographer, taking our picture après kiss. And, as it turned out, during said kiss. Admittedly, I panicked.
But now, I’m in the game and smiling with that signature Candy Kane smile, because that’s what I do.
The fan is grinning, phone up. “You guys are SO cute together! Okay, ready?”
I pull Chloe a little closer—it feels too good, feels too much like Barcelona, feels like everything I’ve been missing—and she’s looking up at me with wide eyes and that expression, that trust she had six months ago before I destroyed it, and I hate myself a little more.
No flash. Just the soft click of a phone camera that’s going to blow up my life in about thirty seconds.
“Thank you SO much!” The fan is already looking at her screen, probably already posting. “You two are perfect!”
Perfect.
In my wildest dreams.
“We need to go,” I say, hand still on Chloe’s back, already steering her toward the door. My voice has dropped back to normal—clipped, urgent, real Brody instead of Candy. “Now.”
Chloe’s moving on autopilot, still too shocked to argue.
The air hits like a slap. Single digits, clear sky, that Minnesota cold that makes your lungs hurt. Our breath comes out in clouds between us.
I get her around the corner, away from the windows, away from witnesses. My Mustang is parked down the block, black against the dirty snow.
Finally, some privacy.
Except now I have to explain, and I don’t know where to start.
Chloe pulls away from my touch. Steps back. She’s breathing hard—cold air, shock, anger starting to break through the surface.
“What—” She stops. Starts again. Her voice is sharp, cutting. “What the…what was that? Did you just tell a stranger I’m your girlfriend?”
“I panicked.”
She stares at me. “Panic? That was not a panic response. No, panic is telling them I’m your cousin, or better yet, a stranger you’ve never met in your life.
Panic is telling them I’m another one of your fans—a fan of what, I’m not super sure, but we can get back to that after you explain why exactly your brand of panic turned us Instagram official when I don’t even know your last name! ”
“There were people watching, and I didn’t want to make a scene—”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Because body-slamming me didn’t draw any attention.” Then her expression changes and…oh no—“Did she call you Candy Kane?”
The way she says my nickname, like it’s something distasteful, hits harder than it should.
“Chloe—”
“Brody…Kane.” I watch in horror at the exact moment it clicks into place. “You’re Brody Kane. Derek’s teammate. The guy he complains about literally every time my sister mentions hockey, which is constantly.”
She didn’t know.
She really didn’t know who I was.
And somehow that makes everything worse and better and more complicated all at once.
“You’re Maya’s sister,” I say.
She shrugs. “Mystery solved.” She turns, hiking the satchel on her shoulder.
“Wait—”
She glances back. “Why? So you can ghost me again?”
Ouch. “I can explain—”
“Can you?” She crosses her arms. “Because I’ve spent six months trying to figure out what I did wrong. What I said. What was so terrible about me that you had to literally vanish without a word.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong—”
“So why, then? Why bother spending the whole evening making me fall for you, only to change your mind?”
A thousand explanations run through my mind. My dad. My image. My disastrous…everything. My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Really, Brody? Even now?” She gapes at me for a moment and then, eyes rolling to the sky, flops her arms dramatically. “Unbelievable.”
My phone starts ringing in my pocket.
Ignore it. Ignore it.
It keeps ringing.
Chloe’s lips press together. “You should get that. Sounds important.”
“Chloe, wait—”
I pull out my phone. Rick’s name is flashing. I hit Ignore and look up, but she’s already walking away.
“Wait—” I start after her, catching her elbow.
She stops. Turns. And the look in her eyes makes me let go.
“Don’t,” she says. Not angry. Just tired. “Don’t call me. Don’t follow me. Don’t show up with some charming excuse and expect me to smile for another photo.”
She turns and walks away.
This time, I let her.
I answer on the third ring.
“What.” Not a question. A warning.
“Who is she?”
“Who is—”
“Your photo is trending!” Rick sounds like he just won the lottery. “Brody, this is—where are you? Who is she?”
I frown. “Who?”
“Hang on.” A moment later, an image flashes through my text messages. I pull the phone away to look at it, and my heart plummets. It’s Chloe. And me. From five minutes ago.
The cold wind bites at my neck, and I lift the phone back to my ear.
“This is exactly what we needed, Brody! ‘Hockey’s Candy Kane spotted with mystery girlfriend’—it’s everywhere! The comments are overwhelmingly positive. This could save everything!”
Could save everything.
Could.
I look in the direction Chloe went. She’s long gone, disappeared into the darkness like she was never there at all.
But I know she was, because in my heart is a gaping wound again.
“I have to go,” I tell Rick.
“Wait, don’t hang up. We need to strategize. Can you get her to come to your next game? If we can get another photo, maybe something more couple-y—”
“Rick.”
“What? I’m trying to help you here!”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hang up. Stare at my phone.
Three notifications already. How can the photo be everywhere? It’s been, like, a minute and a half? X, Instagram, fan accounts I didn’t know existed.
The image loads.
There we are. Me looking down at her. Her looking up at me with those wide eyes, surprised, but with something else—I can’t unpack it. But my arm around her back, the warm glow of Ironclad behind us…
We look like a real couple.
And the comments are rolling in:
@renodaisy: Oh my word, they’re so cute!
@Letsgoblue: Candy finally found someone!
@LuvCats39: She’s gorgeous! Who is she?
@NHLOnline: Hockey’s heartbreaker is off the market!
My phone buzzes. Text from Tyler.