I put the cupcake back in the box, close it, and step closer to her. “I don’t want to be your plus-one, sweetheart. I want your ex, and everyone else, to think I’m your real date.”
She’s quiet for a long beat. Eyes flickering. Brow furrowing. “You do?”
That might sound fuck-all pushy, so I amend it. “Fake date.”
She tilts her head, a small, curious smile forming. “You’re saying you want to fake date me forallthe wedding events?”
This makes perfect sense to me. A plus-one can beanyone—a friend, a rando, some guy who lives across the country and happens to be in town. But a date? That signals something important.
“What I’m saying is a plus-one is a cop-out. But being your new guy? That says your ex is a dumbass for losing you, and you’re moving the hell on like the fucking goddess you are.”
Maybe I’ve said too much withgoddess, but the way her smile spreads is divine.
“Looks like you just got yourself a fake date then, mister.”
I inch closer, tuck my thumb under her chin, like I did the night I walked her to her door. Her breath catches. I slide my thumb gently along her jaw. “See you soon.”
“See you,” she says, all breathy.
I don’t leave yet though. When I let go, I ask, “Do you have a hummingbird feeder?”
She laughs, crinkling her nose. “No. Why?”
“You seem like someone who’d like hummingbirds.”
“What gives you that impression?”
I shrug. “Just a feeling,” I say, then turn around and take off since I need to hit the ice.
* * *
I finish the last of the pink confetti cupcake as I head into the locker room, like I’m walking on air. I ball up the wrapper, toss it into the trash can, then wing the cardboard box into a recycling bin.
“He shoots, he scores,” I brag as I swagger over to my stall.
From in front of his stall, Corbin, our center, gives me the strangest look as he tugs on shoulder pads. “You were at my bakery today?”
“Maybe I was,” I say, keeping the cupcake secret as I ripoff my tie. The cupcake she got me. Because she fucking asked me to be her plus-one.
“Is that part of your pregame ritual now?” Riggs posits, always inquisitive, always poking holes as he laces up his skates.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I guess we’ll see if it becomes one when I get a hat trick tonight,” I say. Then I line up my equipment on the bench in the order I’ll put it on. It’s the arrangement I’ve been using lately, and it’s working this season, since we’ve been playing well. “Anyone wanna bet against me?”
“I don’t know—is that even allowed, dude? Hate to break it to you, but we’re on the same team,” Miller says, tugging on his leg pads.
“Everyone owes me dinner if I get a hat trick,” I say to the guys.
“How about you just get the fucking hat trick,” Corbin says.
“I would hope a hat trick is incentive enough,” comes the cool, even-keeled voice of our coach as he strides through the locker room.
I cut the trash talk as Coach Ahmed chats about strategy and how to beat the Boston Blizzards. I listen to every word with the thrill of a secret in my chest.
But soon, it won’t be a secret, once we’re pretending to be together. Yep, I’ll get to spend time with the woman I’ve had a seriously inconvenient crush on for a while.
I hit the ice for warmups, feeling like I’m flying, stopping only to tap my shoulder for my dad.
Then, it’s time to focus solely on the game.
