Being in the WAGs suite with all the other family members? It feels like there is a neon sign above my head saying “FAKE GIRLFRIEND COMING THROUGH.”
This thing isn’t real, so couldn’t I have sat in the stands with the other fans?
Taking a deep breath, I smooth out the front of my jersey—Cash’s jersey—and head inside.
Gotta sell this thing, right?
The suite is massive. Pictures line the wall from the team’s Stanley Cup victory a few years ago. A well-stocked bar sits directly to my right and platters of food are laid out to my left. A small grouping of chairs sits in front of TVs that show the players warming up. And just beyond them is the glassed-in area with our seats for the game.
Only a few people are here, but I notice Angie right away. She’s hard to miss.
“Piper. What are you doing here?”
The second her eyes lock on to mine, she looks confused.
I guess now is as good of a time as any to rip the Band-Aid off.
“I’m here for the game.” I try to inflect some levity into my voice that I don’t feel. Maybe it will stop the torrent of questions that I know will come.
“I know that, but…” Her brown eyes glance down, noticing my jersey. “Whose jersey is that?”
“Cash’s.”
“Cash? Are you with Cash?”
I nod, shoving my hands into my jean jacket pockets. Otherwise, I’ll turn into a fidgeting mess.
“Wait, like dating him?” Angie pulls me to the side.
“Like dating him,” I confirm.
She’s wearing her husband, Troy’s jersey. Number twenty-two with a newly emblazoned captain’s logo.
“Since when?”
Angie sounds as confused as I feel.
“A few weeks,” I blurt out.
I really should have thought more about this before Igot here. If anyone had asked, it was easy enough to tell them how we met.
Like Cassie said—a fairy tale of two people falling in love at work.
“How did I not know this?”
I shrug a shoulder. “We’ve been keeping it under wraps.”
“I’ll say.” She nods behind her. “Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“We had the team cookout a few weeks ago and I didn’t see you there.” Angie casts a wandering eye at me as I order an old fashioned from the bartender. It’s about the only thing I like and will help calm my nerves.
“Oh, that.” I stall, sipping on the sweet and smoky drink, a favorite of mine that I picked up from my dad. “I had class.”
That seems to satisfy her. “I don’t miss those days.”
“You’re telling me. I’ll be done with my master’s in the spring and then get the fun task of job hunting.”
