Seventeen texts from Jax, mostly memes about the post. Three from Sage demanding details. One from Preston with a link to some sports blog that's analyzing my "improved marketability" since going public with Piper. And one from Mom that just says:She seems lovely. Invite her to dinner.
No pressure.
The last text is from Piper, sent twenty minutes ago:
Piper: We need to practice.
I stare at those four words, trying not to think about what practicing might entail. We already did the hand-holding thing at the café. What else does she think we need to rehearse?
Me: Practice what?
Piper: Being a couple. In public. Friday's game is in two days and we're going to look like awkward strangers if we don't get comfortable with basic PDA.
PDA. Public displays of affection.
Right.
Me: What did you have in mind?
Piper: Come over. I have a plan.
Of course she has a plan. Piper probably made another list.
I finish up at the station, shower off the grease and sweat, and find myself standing on her crooked porch fifteen minutes later. Through the window, I can see her pacing, phone in hand, talking to herself. Or maybe filming content. With Piper, it's hard to tell the difference.
I knock.
She opens the door, and my brain takes a second to reboot. She's wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head, face scrubbed clean of makeup. This is Piper without the influencer polish, and she's somehow more beautiful for it.
"Hey," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Thanks for coming over."
"You said we need to practice." I step inside, and the cabin's warm, smelling like whatever candle she's burning and something sweet I can't identify. "What's the plan?"
She closes the door, and suddenly the space feels smaller. More intimate. "Okay, so I've been thinking about Friday. You'll be playing, I'll be in the stands wearing your jersey, and people are going to be watching. Not just the scouts—the whole town. Your team. My followers if I post stories."
"And?"
"And we need to look like a real couple. Which means comfortable physical contact. Natural affection." She pulls up something on her phone, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like a bulleted list. "I researched typical couple behavior?—"
"You researched couple behavior?"
"I research everything. It's my process." She's scrolling now, determined and slightly flustered. "Anyway, typical couples have patterns. Inside jokes, casual touches, the ability to exist in each other's space without awkwardness."
"We can exist in each other's space."
"Ryder. Yesterday at the café, you shook my hand like we were closing a business deal."
"We were closing a business deal."
"A fake dating business deal that requires physical chemistry people will believe." She sets her phone down, and her voice softens. "I don't want to mess this up for you. The scouts, the team, everything riding on these next games. If we look fake, if people don't buy it?—"
"Piper." I step closer, and she looks up, hazel eyes wide. "We won't mess it up."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because we've got chemistry. The snowball fight video proved that. We just need to—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence without admitting things I'm not ready to say out loud.
"Get comfortable," she finishes. "Which is why I made a list."
