He stares at my hand like it might explode. "Now?"
"We're in public. Perfect practice opportunity." I wiggle my fingers. "Come on, Lockwood. Pretend you like me."
"I do like you," he mutters, but he takes my hand.
And okay, that's—that's not fair. His palm is warm and slightly rough, calluses from hockey sticks and fire equipment, and his fingers curl around mine with surprising gentleness. My brain immediately starts cataloging details I have no business noticing: the way his thumb brushes across my knuckles, how his hand completely engulfs mine, the fact that this simple contact is making my pulse do complicated things.
"See?" I say, and my voice comes out slightly breathless. "Not so hard."
"It's just holding hands."
"Right. Just holding hands. Very professional hand-holding." I'm babbling now, which is what I do when I'm nervous. "Although you might want to look less like you're performing a hostage negotiation and more like you actually want to touch me."
His eyes meet mine. "I do want to touch you."
Oh.
Oh no.
That tone. That look. The way his thumb is still moving across my knuckles like he doesn't realize he's doing it.
I pull my hand back, probably too quickly. "Good. Great. That's—we'll work on it. What else?" I'm scrolling through mynotes with shaky fingers. "Oh! Sports knowledge. I need to understand hockey."
"You came to a game."
"I came to a game and understood approximately none of it. There was a lot of yelling and skating and you did some kind of choreographed dance to Footloose that I'm still processing."
Now he's definitely smiling. "The pre-game ritual."
"The pre-game humiliation, you mean. Although I have to admit, your sprinkler technique was impressive." I lean forward, grateful for safer ground. "But seriously, if I'm going to be your fake girlfriend, I need to know the basics. What's a hockey ball?"
He blinks. "A what?"
"A hockey ball. You know, the thing you hit with the sticks."
He blinks. Then understanding dawns, followed by the start of a grin. "Piper. It's a puck."
"A puck?"
"A hockey puck. Not a ball. A puck."
My face burns. "Oh my God. I've been calling it a hockey ball in my head this entire time."
"That's—" He's laughing now, actual laughing, and the sound transforms his whole face. "That's the most city girl thing you've ever said."
"Shut up. Sports have balls. Basketball, football, soccer?—"
"Hockey has pucks. Small, black, rubber pucks that we hit with sticks on ice."
"This is mortifying."
"This is hilarious." He's still grinning, and I want to be annoyed but he looks so genuinely happy I can't manage it. "Okay, new rule: I teach you hockey basics. You can't be my girlfriend if you call it a hockey ball."
"Fake girlfriend."
"Right. Fake girlfriend who needs to know the difference between a puck and a ball."
We spend the next twenty minutes with him explaining hockey in terms I can understand—which mostly involves him comparing plays to things from reality TV because apparently that's my frame of reference for strategy and drama. By the time Lily brings over fresh coffee and a plate of muffins "on the house for the cute couple," I can identify a slapshot versus a wrist shot and understand what icing means.
