Yep.
Every.
Night.
She wasn’t sure how she went from playing it safe with the man and keeping their relationship professional to throwing caution to the wind, but here she was. Sexually satisfied for the first time in her life and dating—shit, fake dating—the hottest, sweetest guy she’d ever known.
So yeah, she should be covered with bruises from pinching herself.
Mainly, because the man was a goddamn artist when it came to bedroom play, and while her sensible, boring side continued insisting she needed to put the brakes on, she refused to listen.
Probably because it wasn’t just the sex confusing her and causing her to forget this wasn’t real. It was all the rest, as well.
It was the romantic dinner dates, which weren’t always in public places and just for the press. The way Tank had started making her those yummy scrambled eggs every morning after she slept over. The way he spent the better part of a Sunday playing Mr. Fix-it Man around her townhouse, strapping on a tool belt to repair a wobbly stool in her kitchen, hang the heavy-ass mirror she’d found at a flea market, and help her paint her bathroom—with the permission of her landlord—because she literally couldn’t stand the disgusting lime-green walls the previous tenant had preferred.
It was the way he’d joined her for her rewatch of Bridgerton, grumbling throughout, even though she could tell he was really into it. How he’d started dragging her to the gym, because apparently climbing the stairs to her bedroom every night didn’t count as cardio, and he insisted it was important for her to exercise. Not because he gave a damn what she looked like but because he seemed to genuinely care about her physical health.
And it was in the way he made of point of finding her in the arena right before a game, grinning like a madman when he saw her sitting there in his jersey, looking at her like it truly mattered that she was watching him.
Three weeks in, and her fake relationship with Tank was turning out to be the best relationship of her life.
Which was a big fucking problem.
Because it wasn’t a relationship at all. Something she kept forgetting when she really—REALLY—shouldn’t.
McKenna glanced at her phone for the hundredth time in half an hour. The text she’d sent Tank earlier was still marked unread.
Blake said he’d thought Tank would be right behind them when they showered and changed after their post-game workout.
“He’ll be here,” Blake murmured, when he caught her looking at her phone.
“You and Tank are so cute,” Erika said to her. “I swear you’re both the same, always looking around for the other whenever you’re apart for three minutes.”
That was the other part of this situation making it hard for her to remember what she and Tank shared wasn’t real.
Their friends.
Tank continued to insist that they keep up pretenses for everyone, not letting anyone in on the “fake nature” of their relationship. Honestly, she thought he would have caved on that by now, because his teammates were constantly giving him good-natured shit for falling hard and fast, despite swearing off committed relationships for years. McKenna figured he would have slipped at some point and told them the truth, if only to get them off his back.
“Like you and Blake are any different,” Ainsley chimed in. “Codependent much, Erika?”
“Pot meet kettle,” Chelsea tossed at Ainsley, at which point they all cracked up laughing because all three women—and their Stingrays men—were definitely still in the honeymoon phases of their relationships.
And the other women assumed she and Tank were the same. Which made McKenna wish for the millionth time that they were.
When Erika poured the last of the pitcher of beer in her glass, McKenna hopped up, grabbing the two empties. “My turn to buy a round.”
She laughed as everyone at the table cheered. There were going to be a lot of folks catching rideshares home tonight.
McKenna walked to the end of the bar, nodding when Padraig held up one finger, letting her know he’d seen her. A lot of the locals knew that the Stingrays occasionally celebrated wins here, so the place was hopping, which was impressive considering it was a Monday night.
“Hey, Mac. Two more pitchers of the same?”
“Yep. It’s a Natty Boh night.” She handed Padraig the pitchers, then waited as he carried them to the tap.
Glancing out the window, she smiled when she caught sight of Tank parking his Audi across the street, relieved he’d finally made it.
Her happiness faded considerably when Lara climbed out of the passenger seat.
