"Then what is it?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to voice. What is it? What are we?
"I don't know," I admit. "But I know I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting to make sure your fire's still going.Can't stop looking for excuses to see you." I drag my hand through my hair. "And I know that I choked tonight because I was too busy thinking about a damn viral video instead of playing hockey."
"So you want to fix your distraction problem by making the distraction official?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."
"It is stupid." But her mouth twitches slightly. "It's also kind of genius."
"Yeah?"
"If we're doing this—" She holds up a finger. "And I mean if—we do it my way. With rules. Clear boundaries."
"I can do rules."
"Rule one: no lying to family. If your sister asks, if my mother calls, we tell them the truth. This is an arrangement."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: we're friends first. Whatever happens for the cameras, in private we're honest with each other. No games."
"Also agreed."
"Rule three: either of us can end this at any time, for any reason. No questions, no drama."
That one stings more than it should, but I nod. "Fair."
"And rule four—" She pauses, biting her lip. "We don't—we keep things professional. No repeating what almost happened in that driveway. Because if we cross that line, this whole thing gets complicated."
The rule I hate most. The one that makes the most sense. Because she's right—if we start actually dating while pretending to fake date, the lines blur beyond recognition.
"Okay," I say, even though every fiber of my being wants to argue.
"Okay?" She sounds surprised.
"You're right. Clear boundaries keep things simple. This is business. Mutually beneficial."
The words taste like ash, but they're what she needs to hear.
She studies me for a long moment, and I can't read her expression. Then she extends her hand across the console. "Partners?"
I take her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm against mine even through her glove. "Partners."
We shake hands on it—formal, professional, exactly the opposite of what I want. When she pulls her hand back, I feel the loss like a physical ache.
"So," she says, adjusting her parka. "How do we do this? Do I post something? Do you?"
"Preston will probably have ideas about the rollout. Make it look natural."
"Because nothing says natural like a choreographed social media strategy."
A smile breaks through before I can stop it. "We'll figure it out."
"Four more games," she says quietly. "After that, when you know about the NHL, we can?—"
"Reevaluate," I finish.
