Chapter 5 Chloe
Five
Chloe
“Chloe! You’re all over the internet!”
Jessa’s voice carries from her bedroom down the short hallway, loud enough to jolt me out of the half-sleep state I’ve been in since approximately three a.m., when my brain decided to replay every mortifying moment from yesterday on an endless loop.
I pull my pillow over my head. The morning light seeps through my curtains—that pale January sunlight that’s bright but offers no warmth. My room smells like the lavender candle I forgot to blow out last night and the faint mustiness of the radiator that clanks but doesn’t quite heat properly.
“Go away. The internet can wait.”
“No, seriously, you need to see this!”
My door flies open. Jessa stands there in her pajama pants covered in little hockey pucks and her oversized University of Minnesota hockey sweatshirt, phone in hand, eyes wide, long blonde hair in a sleep-mussed bun.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I sit up, my own Golden Gophers sweatshirt—the soft gray one I’ve had since freshman year—twisted around my torso. My mouth tastes like stale late-night coffee and regret. “On a scale of ‘mildly embarrassing’ to ‘pack your bags, you’re moving to Canada,’ how bad?”
“Actually?” Jessa’s mouth quirks into a smile. She crosses my room, socks padding on the hardwood floor, and hops onto my bed. The whole frame shakes. “It’s sort of amazing.”
I squint at her suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just—look.” She thrusts her phone at me.
The screen is too bright for my barely awake eyes.
I squint at it, and there we are. Me and Brody at Ironclad Desserts.
Him, looking amazing and handsome. His arm around my shoulders.
My eyes doing that deer-in-headlights thing.
The photo is everywhere—X, Instagram, hockey forums, Reddit.
I wouldn’t be surprised to find it on the Maple Falls Facebook page.
My heart sinks as Jessa reads out the headlines. “‘Candy’s Mystery Girlfriend,’” Jessa points out over my shoulder. “And this one: ‘Hockey’s Heartbreaker Finally Has a Heart.’ Oh, here’s a good one: ‘Blue Ox Defenseman Spotted with Adorable Girlfriend—Fans Approve.’”
“They called me adorable?” My voice comes out as a pitiful squeak.
“Of course they did.” Jessa waves a hand as though that point should have been obvious. “They love you. They’re trying to figure out who you are. Someone thinks you’re a Vikings cheerleader. Another person swears you’re a grad student at the U.”
I take her phone, scrolling through the comments.
The radiator clanks loudly, hissing steam that smells faintly metallic.
Outside my window, I hear the muffled sounds of the city waking up—car doors, distant traffic, someone scraping ice off a windshield.
But none of that compares to the sound of my thundering heart or the blood now rushing through my ears.
This can’t be real.
“This picture was taken last night. How are you seeing this now?” I check my own phone on the nightstand. “It’s nine thirty in the morning.”
“I set a Google alert for Blue Ox news.” Jessa shrugs at my raised eyebrow. “What? I write about hockey. I need to stay informed.”
Right. Jessa’s hockey blog. Because I’m apparently the only person in the world whose life doesn’t revolve around sports, who wouldn’t have recognized Candy Kane back in Barcelona if he’d been wearing a name tag and a hockey jersey. I let out a groan and toss the phone away.
“Nope.” I fling myself back down and toss the blankets back over my head.
Jessa leans in, her voice muffled on the other side of the covers. “What do you mean, nope?”
I peek back out. “I mean, NOPE. This isn’t happening. It’s a bad dream.”
Jessa laughs, completely oblivious to my torment. “You’re ridiculous. I would have loved to meet one of the Blue Ox players. Even Brody Kane.”
I close my eyes again. Coffee. I’m gonna need coffee before I tell her the rest of the story from last night.
I toss back the blankets, and my feet hit the cold hardwood. I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, Jessa following.
The living room opens up, pale morning light through the window showing off my attempts at making this place homey: throw pillows on the secondhand couch, string lights along the bookshelf, my event planning vision board, covered with swatches, sample invitations, and venue photos, leaning against the wall.
I cross into the kitchen—galley-style with white cabinets, gray countertops.
Dishes (mine) litter the sink. A small window looks out onto bare tree branches and the brick wall of the building next door.
A great view if you’re into the whole starving artist (or in my case, event planner) aesthetic.
I reach for the coffee maker, then remember with a sinking feeling.
“We’re out of coffee.” I stare at the empty machine.
“Tragic.” Jessa leans against the counter. “But also? Not the biggest problem. You’re viral, Chloe. Thousands of comments. And they’re mostly positive.”
“Fantastic,” I say, opening the cabinet to confirm: no coffee. Just empty space where coffee should be.
“You’re being…very weird about this.” She sets her phone down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I close the cabinet and lean back against the counter, the gray surface cool through my sweatshirt.
“Remember Barcelona guy?”
Jessa’s eyes go wide. “Mystery man who disappeared? That Barcelona guy?”
“That would be the one.” I wrap my arms around myself. The apartment is cold, the radiator doing its best but not quite keeping up with the single-digit temperatures outside. “Turns out Barcelona guy is Brody Kane.”
The silence that follows is so complete, I can hear the building pipes creaking.
“Brody Kane,” Jessa says slowly. “Brody ‘Candy’ Kane. Number seven. Defenseman for the Blue Ox. That’s your Barcelona guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“How did you not know who he was back in Barcelona?”
“I don’t follow hockey! I didn’t recognize him.
He was just this guy. This normal, sweet—very handsome—guy, who chased down a purse thief and then spent the evening with me.
We talked about everything except hockey.
He never mentioned it…well, actually…” The memories I’ve been trying (not trying) to get out of my head come crashing back.
“He talked about playing hockey in high school. And I talked about hockey players…and how much I can’t stand them…
” My words trail off as the horror sets in.
“And then he disappeared,” she says.
“And then he disappeared.” The words still sting.
Jessa crosses to where I’m standing and pulls me into a hug. She smells like sleep and her coconut shampoo and that particular Jessa scent that means safety and home. “I’m sorry, babe. I wished I’d known.” She pulls back. “So what happened last night?”
“I was ambushed. We just ran into each other, and someone took our picture. They assumed we were an actual couple.” I drag a hand over my face. “Which we’re not. Obviously. Because he ghosted me six months ago, and I’ve spent all that time convinced there was something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Jessa’s voice is firm. “If he disappeared, that’s on him. Not you.”
“I know that. Logically. But”—I gesture at my phone—“feelings aren’t logical.”
My phone buzzes.
We both look at it.
Brody
I’m outside. Can I come up? I want to talk about the deal.
Jessa’s eyebrows shoot up. “How does he know where you live? And more importantly…what deal?”
My face heats. Here it comes. “I gave him my address so we could talk. It’s not a big deal.
It’s just, last night he mentioned an arrangement.
Something about the photo. Helping each other out with—” I stop, suddenly mortified.
Because how do you say He wants to fake date me for PR purposes without sounding completely pathetic?
You don’t.
“An arrangement?” Jessa looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What kind of arrangement?”
“I don’t know!” I shrug dramatically. “That’s why he’s here. To explain.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.” She heads toward the door.
“What are you doing?”
Jessa glances back at me. “I’m letting him in so he can explain.”
What?—No. I grab her by the elbow. “You can’t be here. You have to go.”
Jessa gapes at me. “You can’t be serious. I’m not letting Brody Kane in here so he can sweet-talk you into forgiving him.”
I give her a wide-eyed look. “Please, Jessa. I’ll fill you in on everything afterward. Please just…”
Jessa lets out an exasperated breath. “Fine.” She’s already heading toward her room. “But I’m listening. To everything. Just so you know.” She pauses at her bedroom door. “But seriously, Chloe? Whatever he’s proposing? Ask the hard questions. Don’t let his charm get to you.”
A knock at the door.
Jessa disappears into her room, and I’m alone in my Golden Gophers pajama pants and coffee-stained sweatshirt. I catch my reflection in the microwave. Hair in a disaster bun. No makeup. A faint pillow crease still visible on my cheek.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Another knock.
“Coming!” My voice comes out higher than normal.
I cross the living room and put my hand on the doorknob. Take a breath.
You can do this.
I open the door.
Brody Kane stands in my hallway in dark jeans and a gray Henley under a black wool coat, beanie in one hand, two to-go cups in the other.
His dark hair is slightly messed where the hat was, and his blue-gray eyes meet mine with an expression that’s equal parts nervous and sheepish.
There’s a faint flush on his cheeks—from the cold, probably, but maybe also from embarrassment.