I’m laughing now and have to wonder how many he hid? He must’ve done this the other day and I hadn’t noticed.
After grabbing the mail—I’m still waiting for some documents from the bank—I head to the bathroom to get ready and brush my hair before Heidi picks me up for the game. When I yank open the drawer to grab my curling iron—some of my ringlets are being rather rambunctious—a chorus of squeaks erupts like a tiny rubber orchestra.
There are three more squeaky toys buried under my hairbrush, lotion, and makeup bag.
I pull them out one by one and find a tiny pizza slice, a miniature taco, a rubber donut, and a squeaky pickle.
My phone buzzes.
Clark: Hey. How’s it going? Haven’t heard from you today. Are you coming to the game?
Me: Oh, I’m coming to the game, alright.
I belatedly realize that sounded aggressive. I hope he doesn’t think I’m mad about all of the photos of him and Posh splashed around online. It’s not that I’m upset. Much. More like the achy little part of my heart needs some soothing.
Me: By the way, Happy April Fool’s Day to you too!
I send photographic evidence of his squeaky toy spree.
He replies with a trio of laughing emoji heads.
Clark: Did you find them all? There might be more. Consider it a treasure hunt.
Me: I’m going to hide dog toys in your goalie equipment. See how you like it when your glove squeaks during a game.
Clark: That would actually be pretty funny. The opposing team would be so confused.
Me: You’re impossible.
Clark: You love it.
I stare at the three words and wonder what it would be like if I changed just one. You loveme.If only he knew.
The doorbell rings, saving me from sitting with feelings I can’t afford to have.
“Coming!” I grab my purse and leave the squeaky toys in a basket—I’ll deal with finding the rest later.
Heidi stands on my doorstep, effortlessly put together in her Knights merch and her caramel-colored hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. “Ready for the game?” she asks, thennotices my expression. “What happened? You look flustered.”
“Clark happened. April Fool’s pranks. There are squeaky toys hidden all over my apartment.”
She laughs as we head to her car. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”
“It’s annoying,” I repeat because I can’t for a minute let myself think Clark is adorable. Not when I’ll likely attend the post-game party and have to watch him be mauled by Posh or whoever Whitaker set him up with today.
I’ve gleaned that it’s not enough to just play hockey. Whitaker wants to make him into a media magnet. Says it’s good press. I don’t want him to be a brand or a commodity. I want him to be Clark.
“It’s adorable,” she insists, starting the engine. “He literally spent time planning and executing a prank just for you. Do you know how much effort that takes?”
I buckle my seatbelt and try not to think about the fact that yes, Clark spent time thinking about me. Planning something to make me laugh. That’s just friend stuff, right? Friends do that.
“Speaking of Clark,” Heidi says in a tone that means she has a shovel and is ready to dig, “did you see the photos?”
My stomach drops. “Yeah,” I mumble.
The images were of Clark and Posh at a fancy restaurant with her practically in his lap—who sits on the same side of the table as their dinner date? But Posh is gorgeous—tall, airbrushed, and wearing a fitted red dress that accentuated her assets. Her smile is perfect. Her hair is perfect. It’s like she came off the “NHL girlfriend” factory line just for him.
But Clark looked uncomfortable. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was sitting stiffly, like he’d rather have beenanywhere else.
