Griz: A Fake Relationship College Hockey Romance

by E. Cleveland

  Hattie

  I’m tucked away from the rowdy audience, behind the curtain on the campus theatre stage.

  In this sparkling, black dress, I’m all dolled up. Not that anyone is going to notice. Tonight isn’t about me. Tonight is about the fine selection of eligible bachelors being auctioned off. These are some of Westbury’s premier men.

  Being in charge of making this event happen was stressful, to say the least. Luckily, I rise under pressure. Besides, planning the biggest fundraising event of the year for the university newspaper is important to me. Not just because I’m one of the head editors, but, well, yeah, mostly for that reason.

  It also gave me a welcome distraction when I went home to visit my family at Christmas. You would think one teeny-tiny part of the Christmas break would be about, you know, Christmas. Not so much. Instead, it was all about Clementine’s wedding.

  So. Much. Wedding.

  The stagehand, Kylie, nods as she’s given directions through her headset. She points at me, wordlessly but intensely, and there’s no missing my signal to go. At the same time, “It’s Raining Men” blasts over the sound system, and the audience cheers. I walk out onto the stage, over to my podium and hit my mark just as they’re turning down the theme song, just like we practiced a hundred times now.

  The lights are bright, but I can make out some familiar faces in the crowd. I look for someone in particular. I wouldn’t say I’m a full-blown bundle of nerves or anything, but a friendly face can make all the difference for public speaking. Etta is in the front row with her new man, who everyone except Etta calls Gucci.

  She looks happy and in love, and it’s exactly the calming, positive energy I need to brush off my nerves and get started.

  “Thank you for coming to the annual Westbury Tribune Bachelor Auction.” I speak the words I memorized long ago out to the audience.

  I’ve got cue cards on the podium, but I don’t even glance at them as I go through all the opening stuff. I relax a bit more when people laugh at the right spots.

  “So, let’s get into it, shall we?” I speak into the microphone and cheers fill the auditorium. “Please welcome our first eligible bachelor to the stage. Put your hands together, and please bid generously, for Westbury’s infamous Canadian: Liam ‘Canuck’ Frazer!”

  “The Hockey Song”, by Stompin’ Connors, plays as he struts out in a red-checkered, lumberjack shirt, tight jeans, big boots and a fleece-lined hat with ear flaps on his head. He came with a prop, apparently. He’s got a hockey stick slung over his shoulder casually, but, from the way he’s dressed, you’d almost expect it to be an axe instead.

  “Canuck is a goalie for the Westbury Warriors hockey team.” I read from the cards. Each bachelor was asked to give us a few facts about themselves to help encourage better bids. You’d think he would list his top talent as something hockey related, but no.

  “Canuck’s biggest talent is,” – I clear my throat – “being able to hum a perfect rendition of ‘O Canada’ when he’s getting friendly with beavers.” I can’t help but smile as I read his words.

  The auctioneer goes through the bidding process, and it’s a riot watching Canuck amp up the crowd, encouraging them to bid each other up by flirting with as many of them as possible. Canuck gets just as many laughs as he does bids, but he’s in on the joke and playing it up.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket because, yes, this dress has pockets! I pull it out and put it on the podium, watching as my sister’s texts come in.

  Bridezilla: will you need a shawl?

  I blink down at the screen. Now is not the time for this. I’m tired of having these subtle body-shaming conversations with her. I look down at my exposed arms. I don’t care if they aren’t tight and toned. I’m not hiding them.

  I know this isn’t the time, and it definitely isn’t the place, but I can’t stop myself from sighing at her suggestion. And that’s what it really is, a suggestion. “Will you need a shawl?” really means, “I think you should cover your arms.” Suddenly, all the dread that I’ve been putting off feeling about Clementine’s big day hits me in a nauseating wave. I should be looking forward to her beautiful, spring wedding. I should feel lucky that she booked it during my spring break so I can be there the entire week with her. That’s how a maid of honor is supposed to feel, right? Not sick to her stomach.

  Nope. I’m not doing this. Not tonight. At least, not right now. I stop looking at my phone and pay attention to Canuck’s triumphant exit from the stage. I blink, looking over at the auctioneer, realizing, I don’t know how much he fetched for his highest bid. Luckily, he sees my deer-in-the-headlights look and holds up his fingers.

  “Thank you, Canuck! And thank you to bidder number…” I look to the auctioneer for guidance and he points out to the audience. A college girl holds up her number paddle, waving it over her head like she’s stranded on an island, trying to flag down a plane. “To number thirty-four.” I read off the paddle. “Canuck started our fundraiser off with a bang, bringing in…” – I look at the auctioneer again and he holds up his fingers, signaling how much money – “…five-hundred dollars. Wow! Thank you,” I genuinely gush.

  I’ve run this auction for the last two years now, and the most I’ve ever seen any guy get before was about half that much. I don’t know why I never approached the hockey guys before. They’re going to make a killing. I look back out to the front row, smiling at Etta. That girl did me a huge favor by setting me up with her brother and the other Warriors.

  Another Warrior is exactly who walks on stage. The song “Born to be Wild” fills the air. I start reading off his introduction. “It’s no secret how Dylan ‘Blaze’ Kingsley got his nickname. He’s the fastest left-winger in the state,” I quip.

  Blaze makes it to the middle of the stage with no gimmicks or dances or hockey sticks. But then, he crosses the spot marked off on the floor for the bachelor’s to stop. He keeps walking toward me, and the closer he gets the more I start to wonder if there’s another reason they call him Blaze.

  “What the…?” I shake my head when he reaches across the podium and grabs my microphone.

  I don’t get a chance to check his card for special talents because he stares out into the audience and growls, “Your dinner is served.” He drops the mic on the podium and stands where he’s supposed to.

  I can’t believe that little display brings in three hundred fifty dollars. It’s crazy. I go to call out the bidder’s number, but she races across the floor and jumps up on stage. She starts making out with Blaze in front of everyone, shamelessly. And he just kisses her right back, without missing a beat, like he predicted that was going to happen the whole time.

  The crowd is whooping and hollering, and Blaze lifts her up. The enthusiastic winner wraps her legs around his waist, and he walks her off the stage while the clapping and whistling intensifies.

  The auction keeps rolling along, and even the non-Warrior bachelors do well. They don’t have the same level of showmanship, but everyone is in such a great mood. They still bring in higher bids than we got last year.

  All of a sudden, “Hotline Bling” by Drake starts playing, and I wonder if the microphone picks up the little gasp I let out. While all the bachelors tonight are handsome guys, none of them do it for me. I like a guy who makes me feel protected, a man who is taller than me, even in heels… someone who looks like they could take someone out if they had to, but is truly a big teddy bear inside.

  Finding a guy with even one of those qualities is almost impossible. All of them? No way. Not that I’ve been on a really good streak with dates lately.

  Etta’s brother, Griz, walks out to the mark, and my heart flutters. He looks thigh-clenching and try-not-to-stare hot. His big beard is neatly styled. The dress pants and button up shirt were already all kinds of sexy, but the pinstripe vest just makes the whole look pop. He is over six feet of burly, sexy, feral manliness, and I have to remind myself to introduce him. I read off the card, the bidding gets started, and t
he whole time I’m just in a daze. Weirdly, the thing that snaps me out of it is another text from my sister.

  Bridezilla: no plus-one for you, right?

  Me: what do you mean?

  I know what she means. Our whole lives, Clementine has been the bombshell. If there’s one thing, anything, that people know about my big sister, it’s that she is undeniably, jaw-droppingly, do-a-double-take gorgeous. Growing up, my red hair and chubby face were rarely even looked at. Most people gravitated to her blonde hair and high cheek-bones.

  You’d think that I would hate her, but it’s impossible. My sister wasn’t intentionally mean to me about my weight. In fact, I truly believe the comments she’s made over the years have been from her beauty-privilege.

  Not that people like my sister know there’s such thing as beauty-privilege. They don’t know that the world isn’t as friendly, smiley and oh-so-helpful for everyone else. Clementine has often given me reassurance, which I never wanted or needed, about my looks. She doesn’t do it to be an asshole. She honestly believes that she’s helping when she interrupts yet another story to tell me about her amazing and love-obsessed fiancé.

  Her blue eyes would flicker over to mine, full of guilt, and she’d tell me again that I’ll find someone eventually. Saying a guy will see my “real beauty” on the inside one day is how someone like her shows kindness to a less-privileged girl like me. Being plus-sized must mean I’m a hopeless case. Even at the thought, I can’t stop my eyes from rolling.

  I guess to her, it does mean that.

  Not to me. I’m not ashamed of my curves. I love the skin I’m in. The fashion advice my sister would give me about “dressing ten pounds lighter” or about how to hide a double chin in photos never got to me. I don’t know if it’s confidence or genetics or what, but I’ve never flinched when I’ve looked in the mirror. I am proud of the cool, smart and pretty chick I see in there.

  So, I know exactly what Clementine means. Ever since her wedding countdown has gone from months to days, she’s gotten worse with her comments and suggestions. I know it’s just stress that’s got her texting me all hours of the day and night with helpful articles about how you can style your hair to look slimmer and reminding me to bring shape wear to smooth out my tummy under the bridesmaid’s dress. I love her. It hasn’t ruined my self-esteem or anything, but it’s getting annoying. I guess that’s why I changed her name to Bridezilla on my phone. I’ll change it back to Clementine after the wedding, assuming I get my sweet sister back after the wedding too.

  She doesn’t think there’s any way I could have a date to bring. No plus-one. No guy who sees my “inner beauty” on my arm. I’m playing dumb. I guess because I want to make her stop and think. I guess because I want to make her pause and question her assumptions about me.

  Nope.

  My phone dings with a new text and my screen lights up in my hand.

  Bridezilla: you’ve got no one to bring, right?

  I blink under the bright lights. Normally it doesn’t bother me, but I’ve had enough. I don’t know why I do it, but I pick up my phone, hands trembling, and I text her back.

  Me: Need a plus one. Bringing my boyfriend.

  The auctioneer is calling out, “Four hundred dollars. Going once. Going twice…”

  “I bid one thousand dollars!” My voice is too loud as I lean into the microphone. People actually gasp. Griz looks across the stage at me, and, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  “One thousand dollars,” he calls out. “Going once…”

  No one in the audience says anything, but I’m getting a lot of strange looks. I would normally look at Etta to feel a bit better, but I don’t think that will work right now.

  “Going twice…”

  I swallow. My sister sends back a text.

  Bridezilla: boyfriend! Wow!!!

  “Sold…for one thousand dollars.”

  Yep. Wow.

  3

  Big, Tall & Smug-exy

  Hattie

  What the fuck have I done? My phone is in my dress pocket, vibrating against my thigh. My sister started blowing it up almost immediately after I told her I was bringing my non-existent boyfriend to her wedding.

  That was about twenty seconds before I bid almost double the asking rate on Griz. I’m not sure where my mind went for those twenty seconds. It was a helium balloon floating across a cloudless sky, completely untethered from a pesky little thing called reality.

  I’m trying to act casual as I track down the bachelors backstage, but my stomach is an Olympic gymnast. Churning and flipping, it feels like she’s going for gold on her floor routine. My brain has convinced me that if I don’t look at Griz, or in his direction, or just generally acknowledge that he exists…somehow this will all blow over and be fine.

  Totally fine.

  Backstage is chaos. Guys are jumping, chest-bumping and high-fiving. One of the hockey guys, Blaze, is making out with the girl who bid the highest on him tonight. All the volunteers, the stage hands, the technical crew, and even our usher, have flopped down on the couches, celebrating tonight’s success with bottles of beer.

  I don’t need to look over to feel Griz’s presence. He’s kind of larger than life. His thick shoulders and towering stature blur in my periphery. Don’t look. My heart is hitting the inside of my rib cage so hard, it’s making my bra jump. Why did I bid on him?

  I know why. The reason hasn’t stopped buzzing in my pocket. Fumbling for it, I pull it out and quickly see that it’s no longer just my sister texting. Apparently my mom and dad have gotten in on this too. Sure, why not? It’s already so bad, why not make it worse? I sigh, pushing down the button until my phone shivers one last vibration and then dies as it turns off.

  The real question is, why did I feel like I had to lie about having a boyfriend? Lying about having a boyfriend and bidding money I barely have on Griz…these are bad decisions. These are the kind of decisions I should probably speak to a therapist about. They are not the kind of decisions that normal people make and they never, in a million years, could work out in real life. Right? I tilt my head to the side and try to let the scene play out in my mind...

  Want to be my fake-boyfriend at my sister’s out-of-town wedding?

  See? That’s the kind of thing a crazy person would ask someone. Not the cute kind of crazy that some guys are into. Not the normal, hey-we’re-all-kind-of-crazy sort of way either. It’s probably a lot closer to that “don’t stick your dick in crazy” thing that guys say.

  I pretend to look down at my clipboard, but I sneak a glance at Griz. A rush of warmth travels my body as I take a look at his. Sexy doesn’t start to cover it. Everything on him looks thick and gruff. He looks like he could make me feel safe if we were walking home in the dark through the sketchy part of town, but then like he could toss me around like a rag doll when we got home.

  Snap out of it, Hattie. I force my vision to refocus on the page attached to my clipboard. I go back to looking around the room. Well, not at Griz’s corner, but around the other three. There is no way I’m going to ask him to go with me. The entire idea is crazy…restraining-order level of crazy.

  I’ve got to give all the bachelors their date information. It’s the event rules that the guys have twenty-four hours to contact the winners and arrange dates. I’m going through the names with each guy, trying not to notice Griz lingering around the edges. I can feel his eyes on me. He’s watching me. I won’t lift mine to him.

  Etta is over with the other hockey guys. She always looks comfortable around them. I mean, she grew up around hockey. With Griz as her older brother, I’m guessing she lived in the arena. Still, ever since she and Gucci got together, she’s a whole new level of confident. It works for her. She looks so happy that it almost sucks me in and makes me forget everything else. Like that her brother, Griz, aka The Thousand Dollar Date, is still watching me from across the room.

  He probably already thinks I’m unhinged. It wasn’t exactly his idea to
volunteer to be one of the bachelors tonight. I kind of ran into him in a bar and talked him into it. I mean, it wasn’t just me. His sister helped. Still, I talked him into volunteering and then just bid a historic amount on him. While I was MC-ing. On the same stage.

  It’s already weird. I’m not about to drag this whole situation down the rabbit hole into crazy town. I’m not going to ask him to be my fake boyfriend, or to go to my sister’s wedding. I’ll have to text my sister back and tell her my boyfriend can’t make it after all.

  The idea of her reading that text makes me cringe. It’s not just in my squinted eyes and hunched shoulders. It’s a full-body cringe, one that makes my actual soul shrivel. I can just picture her reading my “boyfriend” excuse. It irritates me how I know the exact amount of pity that would wander over her features. There’s always pity, but there’s something else too. A little glint of superiority. Just one more confirmation in my long list of supposed failures to show her that she’s been right all along: she is better than me.

  I blink hard, trying not to feel the sting from my thoughts. I’ll deal with Bridezilla later. Right now, I’ve got bachelors to bag and tag.

  My eyes flit back to his face, and my heartbeat picks up.

  One. Thousand. Dollars.

  No other bid tonight came close to touching mine. The closest was that apple-cheeked professor who bid on Player. She shelled out six hundred dollars for him. Player is standing near the wall with his girlfriend.

  “Hey, I’ve got your date information.” I shake the clipboard and walk over to them.

  He pulls out his phone and opens an app. “Ready.”

  I drag my finger down the sheet to the name. “Player. Let’s see… Your date is Professor Lisa Grenshaw.” He starts keying the name into his phone when Griz joins us. I breathe in sharply and try to hyper focus on Player, but it doesn’t make Griz disappear. I’m blinking quicker than normal.

  Between this clipboard shielding my chest and my rapidly blinking eyes, I’m trying to not notice Griz by hiding myself from him. Obviously, it’s not working. It doesn’t even make sense. It’s about as sophisticated as a three-year-old playing hide and seek by putting a sock on their head and closing their eyes.