Finally, she nods. “Okay. I’ll do it. Five events. Fake girlfriend. Professional arrangement.” She stands up, extends her hand across the coffee table. “It’s a deal.”
I stand too.
I take her hand. Her fingers wrap around mine, and there it is again—that electric shock from earlier when I handed her the coffee. The one that reminds me this is a terrible idea for about seventeen different reasons.
Her eyes meet mine.
We shake. Professional. Clean. Businesslike.
Except her hand is warm and fits perfectly in mine, and I remember how it felt to dance with her under those lights in Barcelona, and this is absolutely not going to be as simple as a business transaction.
Not even close.
I release her hand. Step back. Try my best to look normal.
“I should go, but I’ll text you the contract when my agent sends it,” I say. And I can’t help it…I need her to look at me. So I duck my head into her line of sight. Her eyes lift, those deep, beautiful brown eyes find mine. Worth it. “I’ll see you Saturday morning.”
Jessa stands. “I’ll walk you out.”
Oh, this will be fun.
She opens the door and steps into the hallway with me, pulling it mostly closed behind her.
“If you hurt her again,” she says quietly, “I will personally destroy your career and your reputation so thoroughly you’ll never play hockey in this country again. Are we clear?”
One way or another, this arrangement is going to ruin me. It’s either going to end my career or destroy what’s left of my heart.
I nod to Jessa and turn away toward the elevator.
I’m not going to break Chloe’s heart.
She’s going to break mine.
And I’m going to let her.
Because five weeks with her—even fake, even ending badly—is better than the rest of my life without her.
six
brody
The Xcel Energy Centerlocker room smells like sweat, wintergreen balm, and desperation—and tonight I’m contributing to all three.
Around me, guys are going through their own routines: Tyler’s got his headphones in, nodding to whatever pump-up playlist he’s running. Wyatt’s methodically taping his goalie stick, the rip of athletic tape punctuating the low hum of conversation.
I’m lacing up my skates for the third time because my hands won’t stop shaking and I keep getting the tension wrong. The familiar ritual—cross the laces, pull tight, double knot—feels foreign tonight.
Professional. Controlled. Candy Kane doing his pregame routine.
Except my phone keeps buzzing in my equipment bag, the vibration rattling against my helmet, and I can’t stop checking it.
Three days since she agreed to the deal. Two days until I have to show up at her sister’s party and convince an entire room full of people that I’m the devoted boyfriend, while Derek—her sister’s fiancé, my teammate—watches every move I make, as iflooking for cracks in the performance. He’s got a burr under his jersey, and for some reason, it’s me.
“Kane.” Coach Jacobsen’s voice cuts through my spiral like a blade on ice.
I look up. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his Blue Ox–branded quarter-zip, already disappointed. He’s got that look—Jacobsen’s been coaching for twenty years, has a Stanley Cup ring from his playing days, and can smell weakness from across the rink.
“Yes, sir.” I flash the smile. The one that’s gotten me out of trouble since junior hockey. “Ready to go.”
