seven
brody
The question hangsin the air like a puck suspended mid-flight, and I’ve got maybe two seconds to decide if I’m going to catch it cleanly or let it drop and shatter everything.
How exactly did you two meet?
Maya’s looking at us with genuine curiosity—the kind that comes from sisterly love, not suspicion. But Derek is right beside her, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’s not curious. He’s testing.
Chloe’s body goes rigid under my hand. I can feel her heart racing through the thin fabric of her dress.
This is it. First real test. Don’t screw it up.
I smile—easy, charming, the one that’s gotten me out of trouble since I learned to talk. “Funny story, actually.”
Maya leans in, already invested.
Chloe leans into me. “You remember Barcelona guy?”
Maya’s eyes go wide. “Wait—that was you? The mystery guy?”
Chloe nods and I chime in. “Hold on, you know this story?”
Maya turns her gaze on me. “Of course I do!”
And I prepare myself for the obligatory you-hurt-my-sisterlook, but it doesn’t come. Huh. Maybe Chloe never told her about the ghosting part.
“So, you know how we decided not to exchange information,” I continue. “The evening felt like this perfect thing we didn’t want to ruin by dragging into reality. So we just”—I shrug—“let Barcelona stay in Barcelona.”
Chloe and I share a look before going on. “So, two weeks ago, we ran into each other in a coffee shop. Literally. I crashed into him, spilled coffee all over him.” She turns those gorgeous brown eyes on me. “Completely ruined that suit you were wearing.”
“Worth it,” I say, my hand instinctively tightening against her waist, and I feel her relaxing slightly against my side. We’re in this together. A team. And for a second, I almost forget we’re lying. Because the way she’s looking up at me, the small smile playing at her lips—it feels real.
Maya clasps her hands together like we just performed a Broadway musical. “That’s so romantic! It’s serendipity!”
Derek says nothing. Just watches us with those calculating eyes.
“Something like that,” Chloe says.
Maya’s buying it completely—she’s already tearing up, which seems excessive for a two-week relationship, but I’m not complaining.
Derek’s still not convinced. But he’s not calling us liars either.
So, small victories.
The next hour is a blur of handshakes, small talk, and me pretending I’m not cataloging every threat in the room like I’m preparing for a playoff game.
Chloe’s parents arrive—James and Patricia Dawson, normal people from a small town. Her dad’s wearing a casual polo, and her mom, a sweater over slacks.
“Brody Kane!” James pumps my hand enthusiastically, grinning like he just won the lottery. “This is incredible. My wife and I have been following your career for years. That defensive play you made in Game Six against Chicago last season? Unbelievable.”
He remembers a specific play from last year’s playoffs?
I relax slightly. “Thank you, sir. That was a good game.”
“Good game? You shut down their entire power play in the third period!” He turns to his wife. “Patty, remember? We were screaming at the TV.”
Patty laughs, squeezing Chloe’s shoulder affectionately. “James wouldn’t stop replaying it on his phone for a week. Our son Devon played hockey in high school—left wing.” She gestures across the room toward a man with dark curly hair and the petite blonde tucked under his arm. Devon and the wife, presumably. “Not professionally, of course, but we’ve been hockey people forever. Small-town Minnesota, you know. Friday nights at the rink.”
