“Pretending to date someone?” I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half scoff.
His gaze goes unfocused again before he mutters, “Hiding.”
Just as quickly, he blinks, and his happy mask slips back into place. “Anyway. Tell me more about this competition for some kind of cup.”
I get the sense he doesn’t want to say more, so I don’t push. Instead, I grin. “The Stanley Cup.”
“Yeah. That.”
“They’re killing it. They won Round 2 in five games.”
“That’s good, right?” He crushes the water bottle and tosses it at the trash can. He misses.
“Yeah. Really good.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Tonight. First one of the Western Conference Finals.” I check the time on my phone, hoping I’ll make it back to my hotel before it starts. “I wish I could be there for it.”
For Miles.
Cash watches me for a beat, then his eyes sharpen. “I have an idea.”
“Oh, God. I’m scared to ask.”
“No, it’s good.” He grins, too wide. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”
FORTY-ONE
Fuck.I miss her.
FORTY-TWO
I don’t findout what Cash’s surprise is until ten days later, when we land in Edmonton, and our car pulls up outside Rogers Place.
Tonight, the Saints are playing Game 5. They split the first four games, two apiece. I thought the surprise was seeing Miles. But, apparently, we’re singing the anthems, too.
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, can you say that again?”
“We’re singing the national anthem,” Cash repeats.
I wipe my hands on my skirt. Seeing Miles is one thing. Singing in front of him at a playoff game is another… Was not prepared for that. Not to mention?—
“Don’t you think that would’ve been nice to know ahead of time?” My voice rises. “So I could practice before performing a song I don’t know in front of an arena full of people—plus everyone watching on TV?”
Cash smirks. “Are you saying you don’t know the national anthem?”
“I sure as heck don’t know the Canadian one?—”
His eyes go wide. “Shit.”
“Didn’t think of that, did you?” I pace the length of the small talent lounge.
“We’ve got time.” He checks the time on his watch. “It’ll be fine.”
I drop onto the leather couch along the wall and send my usual good-luck text without mentioning I’m here. If I’m going to do this, I might as well commit to the surprise.
Miles and I have managed five-minute calls for the last three nights. It’s practically a record. Each one ends the same way, with us both pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
