Ryder: Running 5 min late. Coach wanted to discuss last night's "performance issues."
I wince. His terrible game is at least partially my fault. The viral video, the distraction, all of it.
Me: Take your time. I'll be here overthinking everything.
Ryder: That's very on-brand for you.
Me: Rude but accurate.
I order my usual mocha from the counter where a woman around my age is working. She's got dark hair in a messy bun, flour dusting her black apron, and the kind of focused efficiency that says she's been slammed since opening.
"Mocha, extra shot?" she asks, already reaching for the espresso.
"Yeah, how did you?—"
"You came in yesterday. Same order." She's pulling shots without looking up. "I'm Lily. Dotty's got the day off, so you're stuck with me."
"Where's Dotty?"
"Doctor's appointment in Anchorage. She'll be back tomorrow, probably with three new stories and a bag of fancy coffee she'll never actually use." Lily slides my mocha across the counter in a hand-painted mug—this one featuring what might be the northern lights or possibly just abstract swooshes. "Muffin?"
"Blueberry?"
She plates one without comment, already turning to help the next customer.
Efficient. Professional. The complete opposite of Dotty's warm chattiness, but the café runs just as smoothly.
I'm halfway through my mocha when Ryder walks in, and my brain short-circuits. He's wearing dark jeans and a flannel over a thermal that somehow makes him look like a lumberjack model despite the exhaustion evident in his posture. His hair's still damp from a shower.
Our eyes meet across the café—acknowledgment, maybe, that we're actually doing this ridiculous thing.
He orders coffee—black, because of course he takes it black—and joins me at the corner table, sliding into the chair across from me with the careful movements of someone whose muscles hate him.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Took a hit into the boards last night. I'll live." He wraps his hands around his coffee mug like he's trying to absorb warmth through osmosis. "Coach spent twenty minutes dissecting everything I did wrong, which was apparently everything."
"I'm sorry. About the video, about?—"
"Don't." He cuts me off gently. "We already established this isn't your fault. Besides, we're fixing it. Strategically."
"Right. Strategically." I pull out my phone and open a fresh note. "So. Fake dating. I've researched this extensively."
His eyebrow lifts. "You researched fake dating?"
"I research everything. It's kind of my thing." I angle my phone so he can see the absolutely unhinged notes I compiled at 2 AM. "There are rules. Protocols. Common pitfalls to avoid."
"You made a presentation."
"I made bullet points. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
I ignore him, scrolling through my notes. "Okay, so. First thing: we need a story. How we got together. People will ask, and we need to be consistent."
"Can't we just say we're neighbors who started dating?"
"Too boring. Nobody believes neighbors just casually start dating without a catalyst." I tap my pen against my mug. "We need a moment. Something people can latch onto."
