I wonder for the first time how he feels about this whole thing. Is he nervous? He has way more to lose than I do. If we’re found out, I just lose money I’ve already mentally spent on rent and pretzel M&M’s. He loses his entire career.
No pressure or anything.
“Did you watch the games?” he asks suddenly. “Thursday and Friday?”
I freeze.
Okay, so here’s the thing. I wasn’t going to watch. Because watching him play hockey felt weird and invasive, like reading his diary or stalking his Instagram at two a.m., which I definitely haven’t done. But then Jessa came home Thursday night with Thai food and turned on the game, and I was going to say no, but there he was on the screen—all intensity and focus and athletic grace that made my stomach do this swoopy thing—and I was riveted. Like, couldn’t look away, forgot to eat my Pad Thai, accidentally elbowed Jessa in the face when he got slammed into the boards.
And then he got benched. Just sat there on that bench looking like a kicked puppy, trying to maintain his dignity, and my heart sort of…broke?
But I’m not telling him any of that.
“A little,” I say.
He waits for me to expand. I don’t.
“And?” he prompts.
“And…you’re very good at hockey.” It was that or You look great in hockey pads, and that didn’t seem like the right direction for my first date with my fake boyfriend.
His shoulders tense. “Not lately.”
“So you got benched. It’s not like that happens all the time. Well, actually, I have no idea if that happens to you all the time?—”
“It doesn’t.”
“Right. It doesn’t.” I continue with my weird and probably very unhelpful pep talk. “So, it was just a bad game. You’ll…knock ’em dead next time. Is that a phrase? For hockey?”
Brody glances at me, the tense lines of his face melting away. He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “No, it’s not…but thanks.”
I try my best for a reassuring smile, and thankfully, his eyes are back on the road.
The rest of the drive is quiet. But it’s nice. Comfortable.
He parks on the street, gets out, opens my door before I can beat him to it.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Open my door. Be”—I wave vaguely—“all chivalrous and stuff. I mean, it’s just us. No one’s watching. You can save the Prince Charming routine for when we have an audience.”
“Maybe I want to.” He grins, and it transforms his entire face, his blue eyes warm, his smile white and what looks genuine, and bam, it’s like a bomb of confetti goes off in my chest. Oh, no wonder they call him Candy. “Practice, right? Devoted boyfriend behavior.”
Right.
Practice.
This is practice. He’s practicing. You’re a practice dummy. A very well-compensated practice dummy who needs to stop reading subtext into every little thing he does.
I follow him down the unmarked stairs to Brew & Rumor’s basement entrance. The small brass plaque reading “B&R” is the only hint this place exists.
Inside, it’s like walking into a 1920s speakeasy, if speakeasies served oat milk lattes and had decent Wi-Fi. Exposed brick, Edison bulbs, the rich mahogany bar that now serves coffee instead of bootleg whiskey. Mismatched vintage leather armchairs sit alongside velvet sofas in deep jewel tones. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with mystery novels and yellowed newspapers.
The rumor wall—covered in typewritten anonymous tips and conspiracy theories—takes up the entire back wall. Someone’s added a new one since last week:
The truth about the Blue Ox losing streak: cursed hockey sticks or poor conditioning?
