“You’re investing in my dream, so…” I shrug, going for light. “Fair trade.”
But as I walk to my car, I can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this arrangement is going to be fair. Or simple.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
kennedy
Love or hate Cameron Davies,there’s no denying he’s one of the best goalies in the NHL. He’s got that effortless athletic grace that comes from years of throwing his body in front of hundred-mile-per-hour pucks. It’s unfair how good he looks even when he’s contorting his body into yoga-type positions to make a save.
The arena is electric tonight, with fans wearing Bobcats blue filling every seat. Maya bounces beside me like she’s had three espressos—knowing her, she probably has—while Sophie watches with quiet intensity, her body wound tight with tension as the game unfolds.
I clap and cheer alongside them as the Bobcats score, but I’m not watching the scoreboard.
I’m watching Cameron.
He’s in his element down there, crouched in front of the net like a warrior guarding a castle. The game is nonstop movement, players crashing into the boards, sticks clashing, and the puck flying around the ice like it has a mind of its own, but Cameron is perfectly still in the center of it all, coiled and ready.
A player from the opposing team breaks free, racing down the ice, Cam the only obstacle between him and the goal. The air crackles with tension as thousands of us wait with bated breath for the next move. Sophie grips my thigh hard enough to leave a bruise, wincing.
Below us, Cameron drops into his stance, every muscle in his body focused on that one moment, that one shot. The Stallions’ player winds up, and I swear I can hear the crack of his stick over the sudden roar of the crowd.
The puck flies toward the net like a bullet.
Cameron’s every move is so quick and smooth that even Edward Cullen would be impressed by his speed and dexterity. It’s not human, what he does. It’s pure instinct and years of training compressed into a single, fluid motion. He slides across the crease, his glove hand shooting out, and somehow, impossibly, he blocks the puck from entering the net. Instead, it smacks into his glove like a clap of thunder, yet another sound loud enough to hear over the fans screaming and Maya repeatedly shouting, “Holy shit! Did you see that?” But just barely.
“Obviously.” I nudge her with my elbow. “Kind of hard to miss, My.”
Cameron casually drops the puck and skates it behind the net like he didn’t just perform actual magic. It’s impressive, to say the least.
While he and I may both be fortunate enough to call our work our passion—though I suppose someone out there must genuinelyloveworking with spreadsheets all day—there’s one crucial difference between what he does and what I do: he performs under the bright lights of public scrutiny, while I create in the sanctuary of my kitchen. Millions witness his every triumph and stumble through their screens and newsfeeds, dissecting each moment. I’m fine with attention (I am theyoungest of three girls, after all), but there’s no way I could bake a three-tier wedding cake in two hours while cameras capture every cracked fondant detail and collapsed layer for the world to critique.No, thank you.
So while Cameron may be rough around the edges, while he may barely tolerate small talk and act like most conversations are an inconvenience, there’s no denying he’s fierce, protective, and unshakable on the ice.
As far as fake boyfriends go, I could’ve done a lot worse.
Tonight is the official start of Operation Fake Girlfriend. It won’t be hard for Cameron to keep the nitty-gritty details of our arrangement a secret. The man is a vault. When he texted me, insisting I explain why my list included a question about his preferred butter brand, one would think I was asking him to explain the Pythagorean theorem in Chinese. Me? Icankeep a secret, I’m just not very good at it. Especially with Maya. She’s been my best friend since pigtails were cute instead of kinky. The urge to spill every detail is harder to resist than the urge to buyHamiltontickets for the sixth time.
Though a small part of me is glad she won’t know it’s fake. Because how embarrassing is it that a man I invited up for sexy times turned me down, only to ask me out days later because he needs someone to run interference and keep his ex away?
As the first period ends and the players file off the ice, I take a deep breath, ignore the knot of nerves in my stomach, and turn to my friends. “I have good news.”
“Let us guess.” Maya holds up a finger and brings her beer-filled Bobcats souvenir cup to her lips. “You’re finally ready to admit that Boston Beanisthe best coffee in town?”
I roll my eyes. While I do like Boston Bean’s coffee, they’re not the best that the city has to offer. I once made the mistake of admitting this to Maya, and she made me do a tasting ofalltheir bean varieties. There were eleven, and I spent the rest of the weekend bouncing off the walls.
“That’d be good news for you, not me,” I point out.
“You have a secret double life as a Broadway dancer?” Sophie asks, resting her elbows on her thighs.
“Tuesday nights and matinees,” I reply without missing a beat. “But also not my good news. We all know I’d be the star and not part of the ensemble.”
Maya taps her nails against her chin. “Hmm… you finally bit the bullet and applied toSurvivor, even though you can’t go without a fresh manicure every three weeks?”
“I would beexcellentatSurvivor,” I argue, momentarily derailed. “I’m scrappy, I can start a fire, and I’d dominate the social game. They wouldn’t know what hit them. Jeff Probst would love me.”
“Kenn… you cried when you broke a nail opening a jar of pasta sauce last month.”
“One, it hurt, and two, do you know how much they charge for gel manicures nowadays? I’m all about knowing one’s worth and respecting it, but goddamn. You’re painting two layers of O.P.I Funny Bunny onto my nails, not adding details to the Sistine Chapel.” I huff, shaking my head. “But no, that’s not it either.”
