Business is not picking up. Business is barely limping along.
But the contract money is keeping me afloat.
Which makes me feel simultaneously relieved and completely gross.
I watched his game last night. Staying up late with the excuse that I was going to multitask and work on last-minute shower details. And then I sat on my couch in my pajamas with a bowl of popcorn and my laptop open to the livestream, my last-minute shower details in a forgotten pile on the floor.
And maybe—maybe—I was wearing the jersey I bought.
Number 7. Kane.
It was a splurge, ordering the official Blue Ox merch, but I told myself it was a business expense. I had to look the part. Show off a little for social media, right? How could I play the part of devoted girlfriend of Minnesota’s favorite defensive player without wearing his number?
So I took a picture.
Me in the jersey. Hair down. Smiling at the camera with my best “celebrity girlfriend” smile. I took thirteen selfies before settling on one that didn’t make me look completely deranged and posted it to Instagram with the caption:
@BleedingBlue: Cheering on my favorite player tonight! Let’s go Blue Ox!
The likes came pouring in. Comments from people I barely know.
@Sherriontheshore: So cute!
@LuvCats39: You guys are perfect together!
@Momsquad: Relationship goals!
But Brody didn’t like it.
Didn’t comment.
Didn’t acknowledge it at all.
And I told myself it was fine. He was probably focused on the game. He probably didn’t even see it.
Except I know he saw it. Because his agent commented.
@RCastellano: Great support, Chloe! Keep it up!
They lost, by the way. 3–2 in overtime. Brody was on the ice for the winning goal against them. Not his fault—the forward blew past their left wing, and Brody was caught out of position trying to cover. (Someone please be impressed that I know this about hockey.)
But I saw his face after. That careful, blank expression that means he’s beating himself up inside.
And I wanted to text him. Tell him it wasn’t his fault. Tell him one game doesn’t define him.
But I didn’t.
The last thing he needs is a pep talk from his fake girlfriend.
“Chloe?” Maya’s voice pulls me back to reality. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that cupcake for, like, two minutes.”
“What?” I blink. Look down. I’m holding a cupcake with pink frosting, frozen mid-placement on the tower. “Oh—yes. I’mgood. Just doing the final touches. Making sure everything’s perfect.”
“All right, stop. It’s perfect. You’re a miracle worker.” She’s leaning against the doorframe, wearing a white dress that probably cost more than my three months of rent combined. “Seriously. This is exactly what I wanted.”
“Good. That’s good.”
She quirks a brow, pinning me down with that big-sister look that tells me she’s about to ask invasive questions.
