“I know,” I lie.
Jordan must catch my lie, because his face falls, but he covers it with a forced smile like it never happened. “Try some,” he says brightly, using a spatula to lift a piece of pizza onto a plate and then push it toward me. “There’s a kalua pork barbecue pizza in the oven right now. Fair warning, I did not smoke the pork myself.”
“Noted.” I offer him a conciliatory smile. Jordancouldbe everything he says he is. I just don’t know how to believe it.
One bite of the pizza tells me that he is an excellent chef. “Jordan,” I say around a mouthful of the delicious crisp veggies and fresh mozzarella, “this is so good.”
He beams. “Thanks.”
I swallow my first bite but keep the slice lifted for another. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask.
“In college. I was on scholarship at Arizona State?—”
“Arizona State?” I interrupt in disbelief. “You went to Arizona State and ended up playing prohockey?”
He chuckles. “They’re one of the few D1 schools in the south that have a good hockey program. I wasn’t a superstar. I probably wouldn’t have gotten noticed by the Outlaws and signed without the proximity factor.”
I nod in understanding. Makes sense. Lots of pro athletes are the guys you hear about all the time on TV. Guys who go unnoticed in college, like Jordan did, don’t make big splashes. They send out tapes and make calls and hustle for their spots. We’ll see plenty of guys like that in Denver—guys looking for a shot attheir dream. That’s another reason Jordan’s perfect for this. He gets it.
“Go on,” I say, gesturing for him to finish the story I interrupted.
“So anyway,” he says. “I wanted to fuel myself right so I could be at the top of my game. I learned how to make cheap proteins into really good food.” He grins at me and leans his hip against the island. “Then, when I made it pro, I started experimenting with more expensive stuff. But…” He leans over the island toward me and lowers his voice like he’s imparting a secret. “The pizza crust recipe is my mom’s. I’ve never found one better.”
I’ve never tasted one better. It’s perfectly chewy like it should be but still light. The outside is crisp and buttery. I’ve eaten a lot of good food in my life, and this pizza ranks right up there with food from some of the best restaurants in the country.
I cover my mouth, still half full of food. “It’s amazing.”
The timer goes off on the oven, and Jordan turns to take the second pizza out. He sets it next to the other one and then dishes himself one of the veggie slices while the second cools. It smells just as fantastic, especially the sweet tang of the barbecue sauce.
“Let’s get ourselves fed and call our families?” he suggests as he sits down next to me.
I nod. “Sounds like a plan.” Maybe when I’m stuffed, I’ll worry less about what my family’s going to say. They’ll all be supportive, of course; they always are. But how many worried looks will I get for making a decision like this?
Buying the hockey team and being in control of the narrative of the new show was supposed to show them how capable I am, but running off somewhere with a guy on a whim? It’s similar enough to my past experience to makemeshiver. Mom is probably going to ask if I’m still going to therapy.
After dinner, we call Jordan’s parents first. They’re shocked, of course, but upbeat. His mom is clearly disappointed, and Jordan promises to send lots of pictures. I squeeze his hand as hetalks to her, feeling terrible that she missed her son’s wedding. I should have thought of that when I planned this, but we both agreed that saying those vows and not meaning it would be worse in front of our parents and siblings.
Right now, I’m not so sure.
“Come by for dinner when you get back,” his mom says when we’re getting ready to hang up the video call.
“We will,” Jordan promises. He blows her a kiss, tells her he loves her, and then hangs up.
“Oooof.” I fall back against the couch. Jordan lets go of my hand, which he held during the whole call, and then he stands to give me space.
That’s … really nice.
He runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the big couch and turning to face him. “That was rough. She was so sad about missing the wedding.”
Jordan takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “It’s fine, Libby.”
“Do you want to … tell her the truth?” I ask quietly. The more people who know, the more it terrifies me that it will get out. The number of people I thought were my friends who have sold me out to the media is enough that I want to keep a very tight lid on this. Everything would blow up in my face if the league board found out I lied to them about me and Jordan. The network and the producers forBeing Libby Bennetwould have a heyday with it, but the whole world would see, once again, that I do crazy things.
Except this isn’t crazy. Not exactly. It’s a unique business move, sure. And yes, I came up with it on an impulse. But it’s just as crazy as the league thinking that me being married solves the whole thing. That having Jordan as my husband versus being my consultant makes it all better. That the fact that I grew up in a family that’s a football ownership dynasty doesn’t mean anything because I’m twenty-seven and single.
Jordan is shaking his head. “No. I don’t want to tell them. It’s another burden on them. I promise, I’m okay. She’ll be okay. There will be another wedding, a real one, and I’ll make sure she gets to see that one. I still think it’s better that we didn’t have our family witness our wedding.”
