Fighting a smile, I nod. “You’re right. From now on, we should only have cold, scheduled, mind-torturing sex.”
She huffs out a laugh.
I wink.
She rolls her eyes.
I shoot her my best “you know you want to fuck me again” grin.
“Impossible! You’re impossible.” She sticks her tongue out, a childish response I find ridiculously cute, before pointing a finger toward the Range Rover. “Go. In the vehicle. Now. I have to get home and eat leftover salmon quinoa and consider the consequences of my actions.”
“Sounds exciting,” I say, leading the way across the lot. “Way better than orgasms and pizza from Gianna’s in my bed.”
She moans, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Oh my God, Gianna’s. I haven’t had their pizza in years. Is it still slap-your-grandma good?”
“It’s slap-your-grandma-and-two-rescue-puppies good. They added new sauces for the breadsticks.”
She curses colorfully, making me grin as I climb into the passenger’s side.
She’s weakening.
No, she’sawakening, and it’s only a matter of time before she admits she doesn’t want to fake this, either.
Forty-five minutes later, I stand in the empty stadium lot, hands shoved in my pockets as I watch her taillights disappear, refusing to take this as anything but a win. We had an amazing time together today, and she wanted to say yes.
Shewillsay yes.
I’m sure of it.
I remain sure until Thursday night, when the universe decides to do its fucking best to ensure my fake girlfriend never wants to see my face again.
Eight
CHARLOTTE
I’ve been to exactly one hockey game in my entire life.
My dad thought it would be fun to take Mom and me to a minor league game while we were in Boston visiting family for Christmas break when I was a kid.
Spoiler alert: it wasnotfun.
I can’t even remember watching the players slap the puck around. We were all too distracted by how freezing cold it was in the arena. We spent the first period shivering in our too-thin-for-a-New-England-winter coats before dashing for the exit at the first break in play.
This is different.
For one, the Voodoo arena isn’t nearly as chilly as that tiny rink in a run-down corner of Massachusetts. There are twenty thousand people here tonight, warming things up. I doubt I’ll need the jacket slung over my purse. I’m perfectly comfortable in my white silk blouse, jeans, and a purple-and-green silk scarf tied at my neck in a nod to the team’s colors.
Secondly, I’m not some random Southerner adrift in a sea of New Englanders with accents so thick, I can barely understand them. This is my hometown. I belong in this crowd. And now, I’m a WAG (Wife or Girlfriend of a player), for goodness’ sake.
Except I’m not. Not really.
I’m a liar, liar with my pants on fire, and that feels scarier now than it did in that field Monday night. I was in my element there. Here, I am…
Well, I’m mostly trying not to throw up.
I’m not a sports girl. Never have been. Proximity to profuse sweating and organized aggression makes me twitchy.
I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse as I make my way down the concourse. My outfit is stuffier than the other fans, but that’s okay. Team jerseys and T-shirts with pictures of menacing-looking Voodoo dolls on skates aren’t my style. But the scarf and my gold Mardi Gras earrings are a strong nod to team solidarity, and I bought a pendant at the merch stand on the way in to hold up when Nix is on the ice.
