“Just one. But it’s a big one.” He pulls out his phone and shows me. “Wednesday night, the Knights are doing a Teddy Bear Toss game for Love at First Wag. We’re the special guests.”
I scan the details. “Fans throw stuffed animals on the ice after the first goal? This is a thing?”
“Yep. A whole thing. Typically, the AHL teams do it around the holidays, but we’re doing a spring version for the dog adoption campaign. All the stuffed animals get donated, plus there’s a live adoption event in the concourse.”
“That’s actually really sweet.”
“And we have to do an interview. There might be another photographer situation.” He winces.
“What kind of photographer situation?”
“Whitaker wants ‘candid couple content.’ His words, not mine.”
“Candid couple content,” I repeat slowly. “Meaning ...”
“Meaning we should look like we’re affectionate. Like we’re in love. Same as, uh, we practiced.” He’s not quite meeting my eyes as if testing the waters. “Finch specifically mentioned wanting a ‘candid kiss.’”
The room suddenly feels very small.
“A kiss,” I echo, but sound more like a mouse in a dog house. A cubby. Shoebox-sized.
He clears his throat, suddenly twitchy. “For the campaign. For the photos. Totally fake, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The dogs have plopped themselves around us as if they never intend to let us leave this couch. It’s very cozy, but I’m feeling claustrophobic because, despite what Clark told Sophia about us not being siblings, he wouldn’t want to kiss a girl he thinks of as his sister.
I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s no big deal. Movie stars fake-kiss all the time.”
“No big deal,” Clark agrees, but his voice strains.
“I should go. Let you settle in.” I’m already gathering my things—my overnight bag, my laptop, the dog training memoir I’ve been reading.
“April—” He hesitates.
“I’ll see you Wednesday!” I’m at the door now, fumbling with my purse. “Text me what time!”
I flee before he can say whatever he was about to say. Before I can do something stupid like ask if he’s as terrified and excited and confused as I am or suggest that we practice kissing some more. I mean, practice makes champions, right?
On Wednesday,I change my outfit four times before settling on dark jeans, a light but fuzzy sweater in honor of the stuffed animal toss theme in the arena, and my paw print sneakers, of course.
The Ice Palace is already packed when I arrive. The energy is an electrical storm—a regular season game as we near the playoffs, but with the added excitement of the charity event.
The concourse is transformed with eye-catching displays of adoptable pets, colorful paw print decals leading visitors from station to station, and massive photo backdrops featuring oversized dog bones and hockey sticks. Surely, Margo had a hand in it as the official Knights event planner. In addition to the usual concession stands, there are adoption stations set up with volunteers from Love at First Wag. Dogs and cats peer out of kennels, families already excitedly browsing, and cameras flashing everywhere.
“Clark! April!” Sandra, our campaign coordinator, materializes with a walkie-talkie in hand. “Perfect timing. We want you to stroll through the adoption area, interact with some animals, and maybe pose for some photos. When the game starts, April, you’ll watch from the VIP suite, of course, and during the break, we’ll do a quick interview on the ice.”
“Sounds good,” Clark says, his hand still on my back.
I lean into it, not wanting to leave his side, which is also the problem.
We spend the next hour meeting dogs—a three-legged shepherd mix named Chaser, an elderly cat named Duchess, a bonded pair of terriers that make me want to introduce them to the Bacon Boys (and now two girls). We need a new name for our pack—family, fur-mily? I’ll have to workshop it. Thephotographer follows us, snapping pictures, and I almost forget it’s staged.
Almost.
Because every time Clark’s hand brushes mine, or he leans close to whisper something funny about a particularly vocal Chihuahua, or he absentmindedly tucks a curl behind my ear—I remember that people are watching. That this is a performance.
It’s not real.
