Lake: As long as it doesn’t involve me doing a promo video about the plants.
Remy: What do you have against plants?
Lake: Nothing. It’s the videos I don’t like.
I bound up the stairwell to the concourse level, where vendors and concession stand staff are prepping for the game.
Maybe I’ll tell her we can meet up later to work on her dating profile. That’d buy some time, right? Or, hell, I could even volunteer for some promo thing after all. That would distract her.
But maybe not. She’s smarter than that.
The plant wall is on the other side of the arena, so I don’t have to pass Jameson’s beer stand on the way. That’s probably for the best for him, since I’m clenching and unclenching my fists right now. My dress shoes echo on the concrete as I pass monster-sized posters of me and my teammates. Finally, I spot the chestnut-haired beauty standing by some dark green ferns and evergreens.
My pulse spikes.
Remy is stunning, dressed like she usually is on a game day. She wears trim pants that make her legs look impossibly long, and shoes with some kind of strappy little—I don’t know—strapacross the top of her foot. She’s holding a pink box, and I think it’s from the bakery that my teammate Corbin opened with our general manager’s sister.
My mouth waters at the sight of it. And at the sight of her, since Remy’s got on some kind of sweater that shows just the tiniest bit of shoulder—she wears that style a lot, and if I kepta gratitude journal, that sweater type would be listed every day.
A rumble works its way up my chest. The things I want to do to her shoulder with my mouth. The ways I want to run my tongue across her pale skin, bite down on her collarbone.
But I try to clear the haze of want from my head. I should not be thinking of her that way. The woman just had her heart broken. She doesn’t need a hockey player with a black heart wanting to do bad things to her.
Or any other guy, for that matter.
Like a lane opening up on the ice, the confusion clears, and I’ve got my strategy. If she asks, I’ll tell her it’ll take a few weeks. Insist on a bunch of meetings to discuss dating profiles.
Stall.
I’m fucking brilliant.
I fight off a grin when I reach her, cutting to the chase. “What’s your proposition? Is it about writing that dating profile?”
“Actually, no.”
Hallelujah. “Good,” I say before thinking the better of it.
She tilts her head. “Is it? Good?”
“Yup. Studies say it’s best not to get back on the apps right away,” I say shamelessly. I’m an athlete—we have to improvise.
She arches a pretty brow as her lips curve up. “I had no idea you were so familiar with research on dating apps.”
I double down. “All the experts say it’s best to avoid them for a good, long while.”
“And to avoid dating in general for a good, long while?”
I carefully hedge my bets. “Just apps. On account of their being soul-sucking, mind-numbing and demoralizing.”
“Oh. Wow. All three?” she asks, clearly amused, a little challenging.
With good reason. But I’m all in so I cross my arms. “Yep. Experts even suggest going cold turkey on the apps forever.”
A small laugh gusts across her lips. “That’s really good to know. And for the record, I’m totally not crying in my cereal over him. I’m moving on,” she says, bright and upbeat. Don’t know if she’s just trying to sell it, but either way, that’s good news.
“Good. He’s not worth your tears or cereal.”
“Words to live by,” she says, then goes quiet for a beat when her gorgeous chocolate eyes stray to my chest.
