Page 62 of Put a Rink on It

“Good to know.”

The coach nods his head in appreciation and enters the ice, taking off for the opposite side.

“I love how you’re the best kind of humble and so grounded. Even after eight years in the pros, you haven’t let the fame get to you.”

“Not who I am, Ships. You of all people should know that.” A flash of panic infiltrates his handsome features. He rushes out, “I’m sorry I didn’t run this by you first. Are you okay with us staying? If not, we can go in five minutes.”

I lay a hand on his thigh, the touch warm after skating for an hour. Or maybe it’s an electric current of chemistry between us. “I’ve got nothing better to do or anywhere else to be. Besides, I want to be where you are.”

His lips split into a smile. “I got lucky with you.”

“You did,” I agree, attempting to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

He wraps an arm around my shoulder, pressing me into his side. “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. You’re one of the best people in my life, even if you hadn’t gone along with my crazy scheme. I’m not sure I tell you enough.”

“You don’t have to tell me. You show me every day.”

A soft kiss lands on my temple, evoking emotions that coax my eyes closed.

It’s getting hard to pretend it’s for show.

We stay for about half of the practice. We’re unsuccessful in our attempt to quietly leave when a chorus of “Thank you, Mr. Champion” reverberates through the rink as we near the door.

Nero cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Skate hard, play well, and always listen to your coaches. See you soon.” The kids furiously wave their hands in the air, and we sneak out through the door and into the lobby, met by three of the moms.

Only one seems to recognize him, and she rushes up to Nero, flashes me a side-eye, and enthuses, “Nero Champion. What do we owe the pleasure tonight?” Her fake Southern drawl is quite obnoxious. Bet she’s born and bred in New England. Based on my instincts and her hero worship of Nero—at least she has the decency to keep her hands off him—she gives puck bunny vibes, or she’s one of those moms who latches onto professional players because her kid is a hockey player. I’m not sure which one is worse.

“My fiancée and I were skating before the team’s practice, and we stayed to observe for a little while. Now, we’re off to dinner.” His delivery is polite, but his message is clear.

My heart flips at his use of fiancée. The only thing that would make it better is if it were real.

Hmm. That’s a weird thought. I shove it out of my head to deal with at another time. Preferably when there’s not a hockey mom trying to maul my fiancé.

“Ah, it’s too bad you have to leave. A few of the moms and I were gonna go to the restaurant upstairs to watch practice and have a drink or two.” Her eyes slide to me before she adds, “But if you’re too busy, we understand.”

I bite my tongue not to say anything. This is about him, not me, and I won’t make it any other way. Nero’s perfectly capable of standing his ground. He’s done it for so many years on his own. He doesn’t need my help.

He hooks his arm through mine and sidesteps out of her reach, my body moving with his. “Thanks for the offer. Have a great night.” Without another word, he leads us through the sliding glass doors and into the chilly evening air. Nero wraps his arms around me tighter, warmth infusing me. “That’s gonna get old quick.”

“Which part?” I ask for clarification, my heart in my chest, waiting for his answer.

My body keeps missing the memo this is fake between us, instead acting as if his answer matters, as if it means something.

“Women thinking I’m on the market when I’m clearly with someone and very taken.” He holds up my left hand to emphasize his point.

His words further set my heart aflame. They don’t sound fake. There’s no one around to hear him utter it, to make it mean something real.

“Do you want me to put on a better show? Drape myself across your arm? Flash my diamond in their faces?” The ideas are absurd, and I can’t contain my amusement.

“If that’s what it takes, yep, absolutely.”

Again, his words are serious, and my feet stop moving when we get to his car. With the precision of a professional hockey player, he compensates and pivots his body without toppling over.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. You’re wearing my ring, Marina. That should mean something to them.”

Something in his tone clicks in my brain. It’s not about me, per se. It’s about his image.