by Kendall Ryan
“Hey, what’s going on with Denver?” Asher asks, bumping my shoulder with his. “Aren’t they looking at you?”
I nod. “Yeah, they’re looking, but I don’t know anything yet. As far as I’m concerned, this is my team. And until that changes, my mind-set is still one-hundred percent here.”
And it’s the truth. Just because I’m a free agent and could be offered a contract somewhere else doesn’t mean I can allow my focus to start drifting now. I have games to play and win, and until someone comes through with a contract, I need to keep my head down and focus.
Asher nods. “Fair enough.”
We part ways in the parking lot, and as I drive away, I spot Owen’s face in my rearview mirror. He’s still smiling like he won the freaking lottery.
Man, what I wouldn’t give for a little bit of that feeling right about now. These last few days, all my concentration has been jacked, and I can’t help the nagging feeling inside me that something is missing.
By the time I make it home to my empty apartment, I realize what that something is.
Justin and Owen are both in serious relationships—Owen’s going to be engaged soon, for God’s sake—and I’m alone. And I guess it’s hitting me for the first time how different my life is from theirs. Sure, Asher is single too, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s with a different girl every weekend.
Sliding my keys onto the counter, I pull open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.
One of the biggest decisions of my career is coming up, and I have no one to talk it over with. No one to talk to about my grandpa’s failing health, or about the possible trade to Denver, or about how some weirdo is threatening to release a sex tape of me. Just a quiet, empty apartment. It’s never bothered me before, and I have no idea why it’s starting to now.
Leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, I sort through the mail my housekeeper left for me. A thick silver envelope catches my attention, and I groan when I realize what it is. Ripping open the foil paper, I slide out a card-stock invitation and scan the overly formal script letters.
Mr. & Mrs. Stuart Jamison request the honor of your presence . . .
Groaning, I shove a hand through my damp hair. I can’t believe my ex actually went through with it.
I got a save-the-date card in the mail a few months ago, and I thought, She’s not actually going to invite me to her engagement party, is she? But the card in my hand proves otherwise. The engagement party is this weekend at one of the nicest restaurants downtown.
Can’t I just send a gift or something? Does a toaster say, Hey, we used to bone before you decided it wasn’t my dick you wanted to be your forever dick?
Obviously, Kelly and I were close at one time, but this is awkward. Why the hell did she invite me? It’s then I realize this was probably her father’s idea—he was always wanting to talk hockey with me and seemed intrigued by the idea of me being a pro player.
Tossing the envelope back onto the counter, I grab my phone and make my way into my living room, sinking down onto the couch. There might be one bright side to getting invited to this engagement party.
I pull up Sara’s name on my phone and bite my lower lip. Here goes nothing . . .
7
* * *
Drunk Words and Sober Thoughts
Sara
I have somewhat of a track record of being taken on weird dates. It’s happened a lot over the years. Between boring documentary showings, awkward improv comedy classes, and once, an honest-to-God rodeo, I’ve always been the type to have a story that begins with “You won’t believe what I did this weekend.” Of course, that all changed when I committed to making partner and my dating life went out the window. For the past few years, my weekends have been, well, believable.
Until today.
I can confidently say that, on the weirdness scale, accompanying Teddy to his ex’s engagement party is above and beyond any other date I’ve been on. The bonus weirdness comes from the fact that it’s not even a real date. It’s nothing more than an opportunity to start making our phony relationship public. But even if this relationship is fake, the giddy, jittery feeling that’s been fluttering in my stomach all day is very, very real.
As I perch on a stool near my bathroom sink with my curling wand in hand, I review the answers Teddy and I prepped to any potential questions that may arise, like how long we’ve been together, when we met, all the good stuff people ask new couples. We’ve gone over everything we can think of to make tonight run smoothly. I even bought a brand-new little black dress that almost makes me feel hot enough to be dating a professional hockey player. So I have no reason to be nervous. But I am.
And then, as I hold my breath to lock my waves down with hairspray, I suddenly remember something one of my professors told me in law school before I took the bar exam. Something about nervousness and excitement being practically the same emotion. They both make your heart beat faster and give you that jittery feeling in your stomach.
Maybe I’m not nervous for my date. Maybe I’m excited for it.
And who could blame me? All of the stress and legal gymnastics of trying to keep this sex tape under wraps has put a lot of pressure on Teddy and me. A night of taking advantage of an open bar doesn’t sound so bad. Plus, I haven’t been on a date since half past forever, and even though it is a fake one, Teddy and I always have a good time together. Granted, we mostly hang out in group settings these days, but back in college, when it was just us two, he used to make me laugh like no one else could.
“One shot or two?”
My memory rewinds to a twenty-one-year-old Teddy sitting on the floor of my dorm junior year, mixing us vodka lemonades. My RA was dating one of the older guys on the hockey team and never busted us for drinking in the dorm.
“Two,” I said, holding up two fingers like a peace sign as he measured the shots and poured them into my red plastic cup full of lemonade.
“Oh, sure, you give me the peace sign now,” he teased, giving my oversize sorority shirt a flirty tug. “But a few more of those things, and we both know you’re gonna be anything but peaceful.”
I held my hand up to my face to keep lemonade from coming out my nose. “Are you saying I’m a loud drunk?”
A smirk tugged at his full lips as he cupped my chin in his calloused hand, leaning in until I could smell the potent liquor on his breath. “Not a loud drunk. A fun drunk. But not as fun as you are in bed,” he teased before capturing my lips with his, coaxing my tongue into his mouth in one hot, vodka-fueled kiss after another.
The hairspray fumes pull me out of my trip down memory lane.
I have to keep getting ready, but the warm buzz of the memory stays firmly cemented in my heart. That’s precisely the sort of feeling I need to call on to make this fake relationship convincing.
Teddy gave me some of my best memories that year. He also gave me a record number of orgasms. If I can harness the power of those two simple facts, I’m positive I can fool a bunch of strangers into thinking I’m head over heels for Teddy King.
Once I slip into my new strappy black dress and my black chunky heels to match, I feel absolutely unstoppable. Forget pantsuits. If I could wear this in the courtroom, I wouldn’t lose a single case.
Watching myself in my full-length mirror, I pivot a few times to ensure I’m looking good from all angles, then add a swipe of deep red lipstick to complete the look. Perfect. And just in time too. My phone buzzes on the vanity with a text from my hot date.
Hey, babe, I’m parked out front. Ready to make our acting debut?
I grab my purse with one hand and my phone with the other to send him a quick reply.
As ready as I’ll ever be. Be down in a sec.
Outside my apartment, Teddy’s car is about as easy to spot as a diamond in a bowl of oatmeal. Among the used SUVs and modest sedans parked on my street, there’s one sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows that immediately sticks out. I may not be able to see through the tinting, but I’
m willing to bet any amount of money that I know exactly who is behind the wheel.
I tug open the passenger’s door, and sure enough, there’s Teddy, one wrist draped lazily over the wheel. His dark hair is neatly combed back, and he’s wearing a crisp black suit that perfectly frames the breadth of his muscular shoulders. It looks like it was made for him, and knowing Teddy, it probably was.
When he turns to meet my gaze, I spot a flash of crimson from beneath his jacket. A red tie, nearly the exact shade of my lipstick. We almost match too well.
“Goddamn, Sara.” He hisses under his breath as his eyes trace the curves of my hips. “You look incredible. If your goal was to upstage the bride-to-be, mission accomplished.”
His tone holds a hint of wonder, and a hot shiver runs down my arms. His gaze is still fixed on my curves. It’s been a long time since a man has taken me in like this, and it feels surprisingly good. Almost too good to be fake.
“Is this dress okay?” I ask sheepishly. “Should I go change into something less—”
Teddy shakes his head, gesturing for me to get in the car. “Not a chance. You look like the fake girlfriend of my dreams. Let’s roll.”
With a low purr of the powerful engine, Teddy pulls into traffic.
“So, how long did you and Kelly date?” I ask, glancing down at the invitation that’s been placed on top of the cupholders. It has the address to a swanky restaurant downtown I’ve never been to, but always wanted to try.
“Uh, two years?” he says, his eyes on the road.
“Was it serious?”
“For me, yes.”
“Interesting,” I say, more to myself than to him.
But Teddy just shrugs. “When I go in, I go all in.”
I guess that’s true of him. It’s especially true with hockey. The man has made it into a stellar career for himself.
“So, what happened? Is there going to be any drama tonight?”
He shakes his head. “None at all. It’s been years since we broke up. I think her dad liked me more than she did. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason I got the invite.”
The restaurant isn’t too far from my apartment, allowing us only a few precious minutes to review the details of our half-fake, half-true backstory one last time. I feel like I’m preparing a client for court as I run through the questions one by one, letting Teddy rehearse his answers. Luckily, he doesn’t seem as on edge about this as I am. His voice is cool and smooth, like a shot of tequila, as he runs through the answers we agreed on.
“How’d I do?” he asks as he turns the car into a parking spot and cuts the ignition.
We’re here already? Those ten minutes flew by in what felt like seconds, and I suddenly realize that I didn’t pay attention to a single word Teddy said. I’ve been too focused on the five o’clock shadow creeping down his chiseled jaw. I hate to admit it, but it’s sexy as hell.
“You did great,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’ve been too busy ogling him to listen. Whether he did well or not, it doesn’t matter. It’s time for us to take the stage.
When Teddy steps out of the car, allowing me my first full view of him tonight, my breath stills in my chest.
Holy fuck. I thought he looked handsome the night of the auction, but I guess “looking good for charity” Teddy has nothing on “looking hot to make sure my ex knows what she missed out on” Teddy. He saunters over to me, adjusting his cuff links and giving me an encouraging half smile.
“Should we hold hands?” I offer shyly. “You know, so we look convincing?”
“Great idea.” He nods, weaving his strong, thick fingers through mine.
The hairs on my arm stand up in response, and I have to remind myself for what won’t be the first or last time tonight that this is all just for show. I still can’t believe I agreed to this, but I was a desperate woman who would do anything to keep this tape locked away forever. Plus, what’s the harm in spending some time with Teddy?
Inside, the restaurant has been completely rented out for the engagement party. Dozens of guests flit about, snagging hors d’oeuvres from waiters’ trays. I had no idea this was going to be such a large event, but I guess if the bride-to-be’s ex-boyfriend was invited, it must have been a pretty extensive guest list.
We’re hardly two steps into the restaurant when someone calls out for Teddy. More specifically, they call out his jersey number. I almost forgot I was here with a bona fide Seattle celebrity.
We make our rounds, chatting with old acquaintances of Teddy’s, and to my surprise, it’s not half as awkward as I thought it would be. When Teddy introduces me as his girlfriend, the words fall naturally from his lips without hesitation. I shake the hands of the bride and groom, offering them my congratulations, but we hardly exchange introductions before Teddy is whisked off by a few old college buddies, all of them bragging to their wives that they were friends with the Teddy King back in the day.
“The life of dating a hockey player,” I say, giving the bride-to-be an apologetic smile. “You know how it is.”
Over the course of twenty minutes, I’m introduced to more people than I can count, all of whom Teddy assures me I will never see again. Still, I do my best to smile and greet each one with a “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Teddy’s girlfriend.” The more I say it, the easier it is. Even better, no one seems to have too many questions about the details of our relationship.
A few of his friends remember me vaguely from college and make some friendly comments about how it’s about time the two of us officially got together, but beyond that, Teddy and I aren’t really the most popular topic of conversation. His hockey career is.
Everyone we talk to wants to hear about his exciting life on the ice, but I’m surprised when he mostly keeps his answers brief, directing the conversation back to whoever he’s catching up with. This is a humbler side of Teddy that I haven’t seen before. Then again, we rarely go out just the two of us, into settings like this one. But I’ve got to say, I do like this side of him. It’s intriguing, and I find myself wanting to discover the other sides of him I’ve never witnessed before.
After plenty of socializing, we eventually settle in at a table with our drinks—a wheat ale for him, a vodka soda with lemon for me. What use is an open bar if you don’t take advantage of it?
“I see you haven’t outgrown your vodka-and-lemon phase,” Teddy teases, giving me a wink as he takes a long sip of his beer.
“What can I say? I find what I like, and I stick to it.” The lemon barely conceals the taste of vodka, but as it washes over my tongue, the familiar taste puts my nerves at ease.
“I’m the same way, actually,” he says, nodding toward the bottle in his hand. “I’ve been drinking the same beer for years. And whenever I travel for games, the guys always give me shit for eating at chain restaurants. But if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? It’s a lot easier than trying to figure out where to get a decent burger in a new town every couple of days.”
“No way,” I say with a laugh. “You’re a chain-restaurant junkie too?”
A smile forms behind his beer bottle as he takes a sip. “Hell yeah, I am. The food is solid, and I know I can trust it. Why change a good thing?”
“Exactly! Tell that to my foodie friends. They’re always making fun of my odd love for cheesy chain restaurants with those little pictures on the menu . . . but I don’t see what’s so bad about a little consistency.”
“I guess for our next date I’ll have to take you to Chili’s then.”
I give him a grin. “Don’t knock Chili’s. I’d enjoy myself more there with a plate of chicken wings than at one of those stuffy places where the food is tiny and contains things like foie gras or calves’ brains.” I shrug. “I’m pretty low-maintenance on the date scale.”
He chuckles, then kills the rest of his beer. “I’m grabbing another one. Do you want another vodka soda?”
I nod, gazing at him. “Why not? It’s an open bar, after all.”
Teddy
grins at me. “My kind of girl.”
A weird sensation rushes through my chest as I watch him walk away.
Once we have our second drinks in hand, we launch into a full-on discussion of the pros and cons of each chain restaurant, pausing only so that Teddy can pose for the occasional picture with attendees of the party, looking for proof that they partied with a member of the Ice Hawks.
“Doesn’t that annoy you?” I ask in a whisper after what has to be the twelfth picture of the night.
Teddy shakes his head. “Nah. It’s the least I can do. My grandpa always says that no one is more important than anyone else. So I try to treat fans that way. They’re just as important as I am.”
“Is this the grandpa you were visiting in Denver?” I ask, interested in finding out more about him.
“Yup. He’s the one who raised me. But he’s getting up there in years, and he has dementia. So I don’t get a ton of advice from him anymore. Most days, I’m just glad he still remembers my name.”
“I get it. My parents are in their late sixties. They had me really late. They say I worry about them too much, but . . .” I shrug, then clear my throat and lift my glass in the air in an effort to steer away from this suddenly sad conversation topic. “I propose a toast.”
Teddy furrows his brow but lifts his beer in the air. “Okay, a toast. To what?”
I giggle. The alcohol is clearly getting to me. “I don’t know. To . . . chain restaurants?”
“To chain restaurants,” Teddy says. “And to open bars.”
By the time the party is coming to an end, Teddy and I are both certified tipsy. He suggests the diner across the street as a venue for some drunk food and a few cups of coffee to sober up, or take a cab home. Since I can never say no to a plate of french fries, we’re sliding into a booth in no time. The waitress must smell the booze on us, because she instantly pours us each a huge mug of coffee.