Page 14 of Break Out

“You’re welcome. Are we good?”

She takes a deep breath and fiddles with the pillow that’s back in her lap. “I think so.”

“Good.” I tip my head toward the TV. “Want to order takeout and watch a movie?”

“Okay.”

“What do you feel like?” I ask, grabbing my phone from the coffee table.

“Sushi?”

“You don’t even have to ask.” I pull up the menu for my favorite place. Once our delivery order is placed, we settle on a movie.

For the first time since I got the Storm eliminated from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I feel like I can breathe.

Like I can relax.

And it’s all because of the woman sitting next to me.

My best friend.

Who just became my fake girlfriend.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Chapter seven

Aubrey

A few weeks later, I’m back on the road to Orlando, this time to spend the weekend at Brody’s. The first real test of our fake relationship. Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach with his teammates. I haven’t slept well the past few nights because every night I lay in bed until the wee hours of the morning, my mind racing with all the what-ifs surrounding this weekend.

The thing is, I’ve met his teammates. They’re nice. It’s not them I’m worried about. It’s me.

Will I give up our ruse?

Will everyone see right through us?

It’s probably good we’re doing this test run first. If we can’t even sell our relationship to Brody’s friends, his teammates, how the hell are we going to sell it to my family? But if it does become a problem, that’s something future Aubrey will have to deal with.

For now, I’ll focus on the task ahead—getting to Orlando in one piece and making it through tomorrow. Brody decided I should stay with him this weekend to make it appear that we are dating. His argument was that it would be suspicious if someone saw the girlfriend of Brody Thompson, forward for the Storm, staying at a hotel. I reluctantly agreed.

That’s where I’m headed now.

If I ever get there.

I groan at the hardly moving traffic. Finally, after another fifteen minutes of barely going twenty miles an hour, the highway opens back up.

“There was no reason for that,” I grumble, stepping on the accelerator and bringing my Civic back up to the speed limit.

Thankfully the rest of the trip goes smoothly, and before I know it, I’m pulling into the parking garage for Brody’s building. The doorman knows me, so I wave and head to the elevators. I use my key to let myself in, and yell toward Brody’s room that I’m here. He shouts back something, but the shower muffles his voice.

I drop my bags in the entrance way and slip my shoes off before I pad into the kitchen. I stress ate my emergency stash of gummy bears on the drive over here, and now I’m craving something sweet.

I pull open the cabinets one by one. I’ve been here numerous times and should have known to stop somewhere for some more sweet snacks. Guess I’m running over to Publix unless I’m happy eating an apple or a banana for my sweet fix. Newsflash, I’m not. I make my way to the walk-in pantry and pull the door open, but what meets my eye shocks me.

“What are you doing?” Brody’s voice comes from behind me.

I whirl around, my eyes going wide at the sight of my best friend shirtless in a pair of athletic shorts, a towel in his hand. I can’t help but stare at him, my gaze flirting over the tattoo of the Stanley Cup on his right pec, the years he’s won the Cup around it, and across his chest to two crossed hockey sticks with his number above them and a puck below them.