Griz: A Fake Relationship College Hockey Romance

by E. Cleveland

  Hattie must see the anger flashing over me because she reaches across the table and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. The waitress takes the menus and leaves us in peace, and I can’t stay upset. Not when she looks at me like that.

  “If you don’t want to answer this, feel free to tell me to mind my own business.” I study her face.

  “Uh-oh, I don’t know if I like how this is starting.” She laughs.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not dredging up any deep, dark secrets, not until you’ve had a few more of those anyway.” I nod to her glass, and she laughs.

  “Fair enough.” She takes a drink. “What’s up?”

  “I’m just not understanding why this role isn’t already taken?” I point at myself and then take a swig of my beer.

  “Like, the boyfriend role?”

  “That’s the one,” I answer.

  “I thought you didn’t want any deep, dark secrets.” She arches an eyebrow.

  “Is there one? You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business anyway.”

  “No, I’ll tell you.” She leans in, so I do too. “The secret is,” her voice is hushed, “when you’re not some big-shot jock on campus that girls throw themselves at, it’s rough out there.” She laughs that she got me.

  “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.” I shake my head. Hattie drinks some more of her margarita, and the way she sucks it up the straw, in past her pouty lips, it’s fucking distracting. I drink more of my beer just to force myself to stop watching her.

  “It is that bad. Tinder is pretty much the worst thing that ever happened to dating.” She says the opposite of everything I’ve ever heard to be true.

  I’m not about to admit I’ve never used it, not after the big-shot comment. “How so?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugs. There go those lips on that straw again. Fuck. “I’m just an average girl, and it’s a swipe-left world out there. Everyone always thinks someone prettier or funnier or more impressive is only another page away. When there are so many possibilities available, you lose sight of the individuals, I guess.”

  “Trust me, you’re better off.” Hattie’s right, I’ve never needed to use a dating app. I’ve managed to share my bed with plenty of girls who were happy to be there because of hockey. I can’t think of a single one who gave a shit about me as a person though. Once the haze wears off, the same feeling always hits…loneliness. Funny how post-nut clarity works.

  “Says the guy who can’t even sit down at a Chili’s without girls throwing themselves at him.” She raises her eyebrow at me. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. Maybe it’s the challenge more than the face she’s making. I like that Hattie isn’t afraid to push back. That’s the thing with puck bunnies, there’s no personality. No depth. Just an exchange of bodily fluids and meaningless sex.

  The only girls who talk to me like this are Kaylee and my sister, and they don’t count as girls. Well, Kaylee does, I guess. She’s Player’s girl. In my eyes, she’s on the exact same level as Etta.

  “Hey, I have some bad news.” The waitress comes over to our table and continues acting like I’m sitting here alone.

  “Oh, no. What?” Hattie doesn’t appear to give a shit about this girl’s game.

  “The fryer is broken,” she tells me, like I’m the one who asked. “So, we can’t do any of the appetizers right now.”

  “Seriously?” My inner grizzly bear isn’t impressed.

  “That’s fine.” Hattie smooths the whole thing over. “Could we get a couple more drinks then, please.” She has way too much class to be dealing with someone like her.

  “Coming up,” the waitress answers. Again, to me.

  It pisses me off. Probably even more than it normally would because I’m hungry. I was looking forward to that platter. It doesn’t take long before a couple more drinks make their way to our table.

  “On the house,” – the server smiles at me – “since we couldn’t honor the vouchers.”

  “Thanks,” Hattie answers her, just as I open my mouth to give this girl a piece of my mind. Her voice dubs over my unspoken words, like she’s my ventriloquist, and I’m her doll.

  Our living, breathing poor customer experience leaves the table, and as soon as she’s out of sight, she’s completely off my mind.

  “You must spend a lot of time at this airport.” Hattie tilts her head. “With all your away games and everything. Do you and her know each other or something?”

  “What? No, of course not.” I glance over my shoulder. At least I don’t think I know her…

  I clear my throat and turn back to Hattie. “What about you?”

  “Did I sleep with our waitress? I mean, I’ve experimented from time to time. It is college, right?” She smirks. “But, no. I can’t say I’ve made her acquaintance.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I answer wryly. “I meant do you fly a lot. On second thought, my thing is boring. Let’s talk about your thing.”

  Hattie laughs and twists her straw around in her new margarita before taking a drink. “Maybe another time.” She shakes her head. “I’ve flown quite a bit. Nothing compared to you, obviously, but I like to get out there and travel whenever I can. It’s a big world, you know? It just seems silly not to go explore it. I think that’s why I want to be a reporter.” She locks her eyes on mine, and there’s no looking away. There’s nothing outside of them for me out there anyway.

  “Why, to explore the world?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little.” She shrugs just one shoulder. “I think it’s because I want to experience everything life has to offer. The dangerous stuff, the glamorous stuff, even the political stuff. I like being there, right in the middle of the chaos as it’s unfolding, you know? To me, that’s exciting.”

  The way her face lights up as she talks about it, the passion in her eyes, that’s exciting. I’ve lost count of how many women I’ve shared my bed with. Their faces and bodies and our nights together, they all blur together like a sex montage in a movie. The conversations were usually kept short and specific. Like, about what we’d be doing once we got naked kind of specific.

  I’d almost forgotten what it’s like, getting to know a girl. I’m not proud when I realize that’s on me. It’s not like I made an effort to find out. It’s not like I ever cared. Not that they did either. Bunnies can be ruthless once they’ve ticked your name off their score card. How many times has a girl just rolled out of bed and started dressing as soon as we were done fucking? Like, thanks for the dick! I’ll be on my way now…

  The crinkle between Hattie’s eyebrows snaps my attention back to her face. “Are you nervous? Not about flying, I mean, like about all this.” I point my finger back and forth between us. “About the wedding?”

  Hattie takes a big gulp of her margarita and stares down at the table for a second. Her cheeks are beginning to get glowy from the alcohol. “A bit,” she admits. “I’ll be happy when this whole thing is over, I guess. I’m ready for life to stop revolving around my sister’s wedding.”

  “Clementine.” I snap my fingers, remembering her name from my study notes. “Marrying Julian Stiles.”

  “That’s the one.” Her eyes sparkle, but they dull out quickly. “I just hope that we pull this off.”

  “We will,” I assure her.

  “Yeah.” She sounds uncertain. “I mean, my questionnaire is pretty much bullet proof, right. I think I know as much as a real girlfriend would know about you.” She searches my face for reassurance.

  “Sure. Pretty much, yeah.” So reassuring.

  “What do you mean, pretty much?” The worry on her face intensifies. Hattie polishes off her second drink but keeps her eyes on me the entire time, like she’s afraid of what might come out of my mouth.

  “It’s no biggie. Don’t stress. I just noticed that your pop-quiz was missing questions about probably the biggest thing a real couple shares. Sex.”

  Relief floods her face, and Hattie’s shoulders relax. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. Well, it
matters, but not for us. This isn’t about that.” Her pink cheeks flush deeper.

  “I know. It’s just that most couples know a bit about the milestones, like losing their virginity and that kind of stuff. It’s not like your family will be quizzing us on it though, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “No, that’s true.” She looks me dead in the eyes. “Tell me then. When did you lose yours?”

  “Me? I gave a high school senior the best thirty seconds of her life when I was sixteen.” I smirk. Hattie laughs. “What about you?”

  “I think the guy I lost it with must have taken his play from the same book,” – she giggles and tucks her hair behind her ear – “because I experienced about thirty seconds of confusion when I was seventeen.”

  “I think every guy takes his first play from that book,” I agree.

  Our waitress returns to collect our empties, and we order one more. It doesn’t take long to get to the table. “You know what?” Hattie’s eyes glint, and her lips crook up into a sultry smile.

  “What?”

  “You’re right. I didn’t ask any sex questions. I mean, I know so much about you, but our waitress probably has me beat when it comes to that,” she teases me.

  “I don’t think I slept with her,” I answer.

  “Don’t think?” she scoffs.

  “Look, I’m an open book. If you want to know anything, ask away.”

  “Okay.” She stretches out the word, then takes a long drink. “Are you circumcised?” She giggles.

  “Wow, just cut to the chase, why don’t ya?” Yeah, I think it’s safe to say she’s feeling those drinks. “No, I’m not.”

  “What’s your favorite position?” All modesty seems to have disappeared.

  “I’m a big fan of them all.”

  Hattie laughs. “How about this one…do you have sex with socks on or off?”

  “I usually kick mine off, but I don’t care if a girl is wearing combat boots to bed. Once we’re naked, I’m not paying attention to her feet.” I shrug.

  “Fair enough.” She nods like I just said something wise.

  “What about you?” I turn the tables.

  “What about me?” Her eyes widen. I don’t think she realized these questions go both ways.

  “What’s your favorite position?”

  “On my back, with my vibrator, alone,” she snorts. “I don’t think it’s just first-timers who got their hands on that playbook you mentioned.” She sounds disappointed.

  “You haven’t been with the right guy then.”

  “You’re probably right,” she sighs.

  “This is the last boarding call for flight A-six-nine-one-zero to New York.” Our names are called out over the speakers. It sounds like we’re being called down the principal’s office.

  “Shit.” Hattie jumps up. “We lost track of time.”

  “We’ll make it. Don’t worry.” I slap some money down on the table and grab Hattie by the hand. We both run out of the Chili’s, past the rude waitress and down the hall. There’s no time for yoga-pant distractions. It’s sprinting time.

  We make it to the gate, and a very annoyed-looking attendant guides us onto the plane. Of course, everyone on the flight stares at us as we make our way down the aisle. It probably doesn’t help that I smell like beer and Hattie’s got that alcohol flush. Still, there’s no harm done. The plane still taxis down the runway and lifts up into the sky. It might be five minutes later than everyone wanted to get going, but it all worked out. Once our ears have popped and the plane reaches altitude, the flight attendant makes her way down the aisle with her cart of snacks and booze.

  I’m still hungry, and the little bag of pretzels they gave us is doing nothing to touch it. I look over at Hattie, wondering if she’s going to eat hers, but she’s passed out. Anxiety, alcohol and altitude, it’s a bad combo. Been there. I pull off my jacket and tuck it over her like a blanket as her head rolls to the side, and she lets out a little snore.

  New York City, here we come.

  13

  Baa Baa Black Sheep

  Hattie

  New York slides by the window of our Uber in a blur, but I don’t see any of it. Everything feels all out of focus since the plane landed. Waking up disoriented and drooling at the end of the flight was mildly embarrassing. Remembering all the liquor-inspired sex questions I fired off at Griz was more so. I can’t believe I asked him if he’s circumcised. Way to keep things classy and professional, Hattie.

  Luckily, neither of us have had a lot of time to talk about much of anything since we got in. Navigating the JFK airport is confusing enough on a good day. Waking up from a margarita-induced coma is not exactly my A-game. However, I’ve flown in enough times that muscle memory kind of took over.

  “We’re almost there,” I let Griz know. He’s doing the opposite of me. He seems to be soaking in the details of every street we drive down. “I hope you’re ready for this.” I search his face for nerves or confidence or something, but it’s stone.

  “I was born ready,” he jokes, but neither of us laugh. My stomach is too tied up in knots for humor.

  This entire fake-boyfriend idea is starting to feel like the biggest mistake I could have ever made. There’s just so much that can go wrong. Why did I get myself into this? It’s too late to do anything about it now because the driver pulls up to my parent’s familiar Brooklyn brownstone. The arched, mud-colored brick over the entryway draws the eye, pronouncing to every visitor this is a place where people with money live.

  With the driver paid and our bags in hand, we stand on the sidewalk outside my childhood home. My palms are sweaty, and my tongue feels too big for my mouth. Either I’m nervous or having an allergic reaction, and someone should go get me an EpiPen. Before I have a chance to indulge myself in a fantasy where I get to spend my sister’s wedding in the hospital, the front door opens and my mother waves at us.

  “Hattie, come in. Oh, it’s so good to see you.” She gives me a squeeze as I hit the top step.

  “You too, mom.”

  “And, if it isn’t the man of the hour. Aiden, is it?” Mom asks him, like she hasn’t already clarified Griz’s given name with me a million times. I know it’s a dig. A subtle dig, but a dig nonetheless. She still doesn’t like that my fake boyfriend has pretend moved in with me, and she wants to make sure I know it.

  “Yes ma’am. Everyone calls me Griz though,” he answers.

  “And you like being called that, do you?” Mom’s age always shows when she frowns. As a lawyer, she’s spent years practicing that frown to convince judges about why her clients couldn’t possibly live without ridiculous sums of alimony. As a mother, she perfected that frown when Clemmie and I put her through the paces of raising two teen daughters.

  “I prefer it.” He runs his hand down over his beard.

  “Then Griz it is. Come on in you two. Everyone is inside, and we’re just getting ready to have supper soon.

  Griz lights up at that. It does smell good inside the house. My stomach rumbles at the scent of something tasty roasting in the oven. It reminds me that in the craziness that has already been this day, I haven’t had anything to eat.

  “Jerry?” Mom bellows into the bowels of the house. My father has a man cave in the basement that’s less formal and stuffy than mom’s decor on every other floor. I guess she figured that he does pay half the mortgage, so maybe he should have one room in their home to call his own. It’s his sports den, where he disappears as often as possible to watch a game or just check in on the highlights.

  Just because it’s less formal doesn’t mean it’s like a college frat house down there. Dad keeps it classy. He’s got a bar, some overstuffed couches and old college trophies and medals displayed around the room. The one thing his man cave shares with the room-in-the-garage style ones is the massive, high definition television. Apparently there’s no point in watching sports if you can’t see the actual pores on the players’ faces that each drop of sweat falls from.

 
Mom walks to the stairs leading to the basement, her house shoes tapping the polished floors. “You know your father when he gets down there. I swear, the minute his feet hit these stairs, he goes deaf.” She rolls her eyes, turns her head and blasts her voice so loud no sports reel could block it out, “Jerry! Hattie and Griz are here. Come on up and say hello.” She turns and gives her signature tight-lipped smile. It doesn’t really resemble a smile. It just sort of looks like someone stood behind her and pulled her cheeks toward the back of her head. It’s the smile she gives whenever she’s trying not to show how annoyed she is.

  I know it well.

  “I’ll be right up,” he calls back. She shakes her head, but makes her way back to us. “Just leave your bags there. You can take them up later. Clemmie?” she calls into the family room, “Stop fretting over your wedding for ten seconds and come meet Hattie’s boyfriend. You too, Julian.” There’s that smile again.

  “Mom, it’s fine.” I try to stop her from forcing everyone to come formally greet us like the father of the Von Trapp family whistling for each of his children in The Sound of Music. “We haven’t even taken our coats off. There’s no rush.” I unbutton my double-breasted, winter jacket with the belted waist. Fashion is the one thing in life that all of us share an interest in, although my parents and sister dress more like an old J Crew ad, like back before they knew more than just white people existed. Myself…I’m more of a ModCloth girl.

  “Oh nonsense. It’s not every day you bring a boy home. The least they can do is come introduce themselves.” She brushes me off, and then turns her attention to Griz. “I’m sorry no one picked you up at the airport. I can’t stand driving in the city. I asked your sister to go pick you up but, well, you know how it is with all the last minute wedding things.”

  “Oh my God, mom.” Clemmie walks in from the hallway into the grand entryway. She’s got her fiancé and his pinched face in tow. I mean, technically I think they’re holding hands, but it really looks like one of those wedding toppers where the bride is literally dragging the groom down the aisle. “You act like Hattie hasn’t been hailing cabs since she was seven. It would’ve cost more in parking than her Uber.”