Page 15 of Put a Rink on It

“So she’d be in on the lie, too? Nope. The less people who know it’s fake, the better.”

I like how she’s talking as if there’s a possibility this could happen. She hasn’t dismissed the idea altogether.

She pulls out of my grasp, stepping out of reach. “I need more coffee for this.” She shakes her head. “You have me so flustered, I haven’t had any yet.”

As if on cue, the coffeemaker beeps, alerting her it’s ready. I push to my feet, watching as she grabs mugs from the cupboard, nearly slamming them down on the counter.

“This is crazy,” she reiterates, as if she hadn’t mentioned it. “Absurd. Lunacy.” The coffee sloshes into two huge cups, but she doesn’t care about the spill.

“What I did, or the fact you’re considering it?” I try for levity, not sure if it hits the mark.

She whirls toward me. “I am not considering it.”

Her tone holds little conviction. Maybe if I didn’t know her as well as I do, I could be convinced there’s some truth to it. However, I’m well acquainted with her, inside and out.

She’s considering it. But I won’t rush her into a decision.

“You wouldn’t have to work. I can more than afford to support you.”

“What the hell would I do with my time?” she spits, though there’s not much venom in it. She pushes a mug my way and blows on hers, taking a small sip. “Now I’m drinking black coffee. This is so messed up.” She pads over to the fridge, nearly ripping the door from the hinges. Grabbing a creamer, she tops her mug off before mine. Does she not ask if I want any because she’s punishing me, or does she not care what I want? Either way, I’m not bringing it up.

“I didn’t say you can’t work. I said you wouldn’t have to. Like if you’re worried about giving up your job if you move.” I nearly say “when,” but catch myself at the last minute. Until I hear a yes from her, I can’t assume anything. I set my mug down, afraid I’ll spill it.

She downs another sip, her eyes falling closed as she lets the liquid slide down. “You make it sound so simple. Are you forgetting we’d have to pretend to be married? In love. With each other.”

Not a problem on my end, I don’t voice. Surely confessing my feelings for her would send her over the cliff she teeters on.

“It can be as simple or difficult as we want it to be.”

She stalks back toward the living room, and I grab my mug and follow her. She folds her feet under her on the couch, her head falling back, exposing her neck.

Tentatively, I perch on the edge of the cushion next to her.

“I need time to wrap my head around this. This isn’t a decision to make lightly, despite the way we got into it.”

“Take all the time you need. I’m sure I can hold the guys off for a few days at least.”

“How about the rest of the season?” she mocks, her eyes narrowing in my direction. “Better yet, how about you own up to your mistake and confess you’re not married?”

“I’m not doing that.” I don’t think before the words barrel out of my mouth. I will beg her, give her the world, before I admit to my new team I lied. Like she said before, I can’t blame the alcohol. Because if three beers have me manufacturing lies, I’m in worse shape than I thought. “Five minutes. Talk it out with me. Hypothetically what it would be like. Forgetting about having to tell people for the moment, what might our life look like?”

She expels a resigned breath. “I’d have to quit my job and move to Connecticut, possibly find a new job or find something else to occupy my time,” she spitballs.

“Okay, what else?”

“We’d need to come up with an elaborate yet believable story of why we never told people we were even seeing each other, let alone got married. The details of said marriage. We’d need rings. Two for me, one for you.” I chuckle, the detail from a little while ago not escaping her attention. “We’d have to cohabitate, sleep in the same bed, impersonate people who love each other.”

“Would any of those things be a hardship for you?” I wait with bated breath for her answer.

“Depends on how long we’d need to keep up the charade.”

“Forever.” Again, the word leaves my mouth with no prior thinking. Though Marina’s reaction is less drastic. Small progress.

“Let’s not go insane. Until you retire from the league. Or we could get ‘divorced’ and go our separate ways. Amicably, of course.”

What’s most crazy about all of this is when she said the word “divorced,” something tightened in my gut. We’re not talking about reality, and yet, I don’t want to consider what getting divorced entails.

“We’ll come back to how long. Would any of this be hard for you to do? To live together. To be a couple in public, in the public’s eyes, especially. To do life together. Could you do it? Hypothetically,” I tack on, having to remind myself it’s not real.