by Avery Flynn
But she wasn’t fine. There was no missing the way she favored her right leg by repositioning so most of her weight was on her left.
“You sure?” he asked as he released her and took a step back to give her some space. “Here, let me look. I’ve got experience with messed-up ankles.”
Okay, that experience mainly centered on the health of his ankles rather than anything he could do to fix them, but still, personal experience had to count for something. He squatted down and visually checked her ankle for bruising or swelling, telltale signs of a sprained ankle. There wasn’t any, but she was obviously in discomfort. The fact that she was continuing to wear shoes that had to be four inches high definitely didn’t help. He was a smart enough man not to make that observation out loud—having sisters growing up had definitely taught him a thing or twenty about how not to get kneed in the nut sack.
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
She sighed, her breath a bit shaky, and nodded. “Go ahead.”
He ran the pad of his thumb over and around her ankle, watching her face for signs he’d hit a sensitive spot. Beyond a tightness around her mouth in a few areas, she didn’t show any reaction. How many times had a trainer or a coach checked him for injury? Too many to count. This was different, though, and he couldn’t quite define how except that it made the hairs on his arms stand up.
He cleared his throat, shaking off the uncomfortable feeling. “How would you rank the pain on a ten-point scale?”
Her brown eyes narrowed as she sized him up, her gaze combing over him like he was a used car she wasn’t sure was worth the price but she was considering kicking the tires just for fun. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
Message received, he stood up. “Does your ankle hurt enough that you want some help walking?”
“I can manage on my own,” she said, the inflection in how she said “own” giving her away as a Harbor City native. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He and the hostess exchanged what-the-fuck looks over his salty date’s head, and he followed her back to the table where he’d been sitting. He noticed two things as they made their way through the café. One, she was definitely limping. Two, her ass in those jeans was phenomenal. The limp he could maybe do something to help with if she was open to an ankle massage—which didn’t seem likely. The ass he needed to forget before he messed up this wack-a-doo plan to redeem himself.
The reality was, his mouth, hands, and dick were going to stay untouched by his date tonight.
He gave himself a mental high five. Hell yeah!
That moment of joy faded fast, though. Why? Because this was what his life had come to—a mental fist pump that he would be going home alone to spend solitary quality time with his right hand and would continue to do so until he had five Bramble dates in the win column.
As soon as they sat down at the table, a weird what-in-the-hell-do-we-do-now moment came rushing at him full force. He should have read Zara’s dating profile when his mom offered the other day. He could have used the audible read-text option on the iPad, but he hadn’t wanted to do that in front of everyone in Lucy’s office. Instead, he’d gone onto the dating ice only to find he had no game plan.
“So,” he said, picking up his menu. Okay, he wasn’t a big dater—he did have this face, after all—but he wasn’t a noob, either. He knew how to do this. “Have you eaten here before?”
“No,” she said, tucking her bright-red hair behind one ear, her gaze locked on her menu. “I’m more of a street hot dog kind of girl.”
“Really?” Was it wrong that he liked her a little for that answer? 98 percent of the time he was on a pretty regimented nutrition plan, but on cheat days? He could eat his weight in street dogs and stadium nachos. “With or without relish?”
She looked up and wrinkled her freckle-covered nose. “What kind of horrible person skips the relish?”
Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total shitshow.
“So,” Caleb said after the waiter dropped off a bread basket. “What do you do?”
She lay the menu down on the table and lifted her chin as if she was expecting a blow. “I’m a miniatures artisan.”
Okay, the jokes here just wrote themselves, and it was killing him to keep his mouth shut. Asshole? Him? Maybe.
“Go ahead and say it,” Zara said with a sigh. “I’ve heard them all.”
There was nothing “poor me” in the tone of her voice. Instead, it was more of a weary, hit me with what you’ve got, I can take it that landed like a dirty joke at a Bible study group, sucking out all the immature humor of the moment. Despite it—or maybe because of it—he edged a little closer to appreciating his mom’s choice in his Bramble date.
“What do you mean?” he asked, because admitting he’d been thinking exactly along those lines felt shitty.
“Good thing I found a job my size. It must be so much easier to build the doll furniture when you can fit inside the doll’s house,” she said with a carefully neutral delivery that instead of hiding her hurt just highlighted it. “I’ve heard both of those a million times. You got a new one?”
That would be a big no. He shook his head.
“How about you?” she asked. “What do you do?”
“I’m a defenseman for the Ice Knights.”
Her eyes widened. “The hockey team?”
He nodded. Not being one of the handful of players on the team with endorsement deals who were tailed constantly by the media meant he sometimes had to convince folks that he wasn’t kidding about his job. It was a trade-off he’d take every day and twice on Sunday.
“Then why are you on Bramble?” she asked. “Isn’t there some ultraexclusive rich-athlete dating app?”
“I have my reasons.” Yeah, and those would be because he’d been a total asshole in public. Now wasn’t that just the perfect first date talking point. Lucy would definitely not approve.
Lucky for him, the waiter picked that moment to stop by the table to take their drink order before Caleb could say anything stupid, like the truth. He ordered a water while she got a milkshake, the lift of her eyebrow just daring him to make a comment about it. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
The waiter left, leaving Caleb still trying to figure out how to answer her question. Sure, he could come up with some cover story, but that didn’t feel right. He might usually let his mouth run faster than his brain, but he was trying not to do that this time. If he was going to make this Bramble date thing work, he couldn’t be that kid who stood in front of the class and fumbled for words. Really, there was only one call to make.
“I take it you don’t follow the hockey media,” he said after the waiter left.
She tucked her hair behind her ears again, revealing a tattoo of three tiny stars at the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “Not even a little bit.”
“I got videoed with a group of my teammates who were saying stupid shit, I didn’t tell them to cut it out, and the video went viral.” That was one way to explain it.
“What kind of stupid shit?” she asked as she tore apart a roll and slathered butter all over it.
Would it be weird to ask if he could smell the white-flour, nutritionally empty carbs? Sure, he ate a three- to four-thousand-calorie diet most of the year, but he wasn’t expending in-season calories right now. That meant he was up to his eyeballs in high-quality whole-grain carbs, lean protein, steamed veggies, and fresh fruit.
Too distracted by the sight of her eating the roll to think before he spoke, the truth tumbled out. “They were running off at the mouth about puck bunnies.”
“Ohhhh,” she said before letting out a snort of disbelief. “And now you’re having to do this as some kind of punishment, or is it to look like you’re less of an ass?”
“Little of both.” He’d argue it if he could, but she wasn’t wrong. “So why are you on Bramble?”
She took another small bite from her roll before answering. “My best friend is blackmailing me, and my dad wants a S
AG card.”
That was definitely not the answer he’d been expecting. “And I thought my reasoning was twisted.”
“I’m sure it all makes sense in Gemma’s head,” Zara said. “She thinks I work too much and need to loosen up. She’ll let me be her plus-one to go meet a collector if I do the Bramble five dates thing. And my dad? Well, let’s just say he’s never met an unlikely plan he didn’t think he could pull off.”
All the possibilities this created sped around inside his head until one broke free like a perfect fast break late in the third period when the game was on the line. All he had to do was put the biscuit in the net.
“So neither of us really wants to be here,” he said. “We’re each other’s solution to getting back to our regular lives as soon as possible.”
It was fucking perfect. Petrov’s job with the team would be safe for another season—well, as safe as he could be, considering he didn’t have a no-trade deal in his contract.
Zara, though, didn’t seem to be seeing the genius of it, going by the suspicious look she gave him as she took another bite of her roll. Instead of giving him a straight-up no, though, she started eating. The words—okay, begging pleas—were bubbling up inside him, but for once, he kept it on lockdown. He wasn’t about to rush this play, no matter how it had every nerve in his body jinglejangling.
Finally, she used her napkin to wipe the corners of her mouth, straightened her spine, and looked him dead in the eye. “We’d have to have ground rules.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” Ice Knights season tickets? He’d make that happen. A photo op with her dad’s favorite player? Done. Whatever it took, he’d do it.
“This isn’t a real or fake relationship, it’s a temporary alliance,” she said without an ounce of humor in her tone. “I’m not pretending to be your girlfriend or the random chick you’re banging this week.”
“Agreed.” All of that sounded like it would cause more problems than it would solve anyway. “I’ve got a condition. Dressing up is not required. I’m not putting on a suit.”
The best thing about the off-season was not having to strangle himself with a tie multiple times a week just for a bus ride to the rink or a plane trip to another city. Coach Peppers was old-fashioned about doing things the original way.
“Fine.” Zara held up three fingers. “The third stipulation is that I’m not putting on a good attitude. If it’s been a crappy day, I don’t have to pretend to be a manic pixie dream girl.”
He snorted. “No one who’s met you would believe that. You’re a little salty.” That was putting it mildly based on her attitude when she showed up for their date.
“I have my reasons.” She added another finger, so she was holding up four. “Oh, and no making love. Sex?” She paused and looked him over quickly. “Maybe. Emotional, heartfelt, staring-each-other-in-the-eyes making love? Not gonna happen. No offense, but you’re not my type.”
What the hell? Not her type? He was a professional athlete making millions. He’d been led to believe he was everyone’s type.
“Not a problem, since I don’t think we could see eye to eye while having sex unless you magically grew a foot,” he said.
“You’re not into being creative?” Zara rolled her eyes. “I guess that’s expected for someone who has probably had women throwing themselves at him for years. You haven’t ever had to work for it.”
Caleb had no idea what to say to that. He’d been punched square in the face by the most feared goons in hockey and it hadn’t knocked him as senseless as this little five-foot-nothing of a snarky woman had done with a few choice words.
“I have one more rule,” she said, reaching for another roll. “Five dates and we’re done. Period. Do we have a deal?”
Chapter Three
Zara’s stomach was folding in on itself she was so hungry. She really had to set alarms or something so she’d remember to eat instead of getting lost in work and missing out on lunch. Her low blood sugar was probably the only reason why she was agreeing to this madness. Hangry plus not wanting to be on this date had combined to make bad decisions sound like good ideas.
The waiter returned with her milkshake and Caleb’s water. “Are you folks ready to order?”
“Absolutely.” She was half a second from marrying the waiter, she was that grateful. “I’ll go with a cheeseburger and seasoned waffle fries, please.”
“Which vegetable option would you like?” he asked.
“Can I go with a side order of the mashed potatoes instead of a veggie?” Yes, she was having the dinner of a ten-year-old out without parental supervision, but she was stress eating thanks to this date, and when it came to that, no veggies needed to apply.
“Of course,” the waiter said before turning to Caleb. “And you, sir?”
“I’ll go with the spiced grilled chicken and a triple order of steamed mixed vegetables.” He handed his menu to the waiter. “You can hold the side order of mashed potatoes that comes with it, thanks.”
Zara tried to wrap her brain around the whole no-mashed-potatoes thing while the waiter took her menu and then headed off to the kitchen. No potatoes? That was just wrong.
“Who turns down mashed potatoes?” she asked.
“Who ignores the fact that food is fuel and says ‘no thank you’ to vegetables?”
“The woman who barely had time for breakfast and totally missed lunch. You’re lucking I’m just eating the rolls right now and not the bread basket itself,” she said, a little zip of a thrill skimming across her skin at the prospect of debating someone other than Anchovy. A bit of fussy give-and-take always got her blood pumping. “Anyway, don’t you burn a million calories a day, so you can eat whatever you want? What’s a few carbs to someone like you?”
“Four thousand calories in doughnuts has a totally different impact on how well I do my job compared to a healthy diet of chicken and veggies. Playing well isn’t a joke to me. I have to do whatever it takes to play at the top of my game or someone else will take me out.” Caleb shrugged as he rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt, seemingly slowing down and drawing the process out the longer and harder she watched. “It’s not like mashed potatoes are really all that good for you.”
Oh, he was good, but that wasn’t how this was going to work. She was made of sterner stuff than to back down at the flash of some drool-worthy arm porn.
“You’re kidding, right?” Her gaze dipped down to his muscular forearms, not because she was checking him out but because of the movement. Really. And the fact that her heart started to beat a little faster with each sinewy inch he revealed? Totally an accident. “It is the creamiest, yummiest, best food ever.”
“The box kind is easy to make, I’ll give you that,” he said, sitting back in his chair, not even a hint that he was joking about his horrible food hot take. “And you can always add in some food coloring and veggies to vary it up.”
“Please tell me you’re joking, because all of what you just said was wrong.” And not a little. It was really, really wrong.
He shrugged his broad shoulders, cocky arrogance coming off him in waves. “Well, you eat what you want, and I’ll eat what I want, and we can take comfort in the fact that we aren’t compatible in the least and don’t have to worry about ever breaking rule number one.”
“Oh yeah, a real relationship is definitely off the table now.” Not that it was ever on the table—and not just because hers would always have mashed potatoes on it. She exhaled a melodramatic sigh as if any of this talk meant anything more than more mashed potatoes in the world for her. “I don’t know if I can do this for four more dates.”
“Too late.” He shot a self-satisfied smirk her way. “You already agreed.”
She might have reconsidered if she’d known about the mashed-potatoes thing first.
…
Lying about mashed potatoes was like dancing with your dog. It was possible to do, but it was weird, seriously weird. However, watching Zara’s reaction when he’d s
ang the praises of boxed mashed potatoes was pure gold. The woman definitely had firm opinions, which—since he’d been raised by a woman who had her own thoughts on everything and never minded airing them—he could appreciate. Okay, so he was poking the pint-size bear, but it was that much fun watching a fierce scrapper like her in the middle of a smack fight.
“You probably have a ton of trash food opinions,” he teased, pushing her just a little bit more.
She let out a you-asked-for-it chuckle. “Oh, so we’re just going to let it hang out there, huh?”
“Might as well.” It wasn’t like any of this mattered in the long run.
Neither of them was trying to impress the other. This was the lowest of low-key dates, because whether or not she liked him or he liked her didn’t matter. They were badly matched compatriots on a doomed dating cruise.
Zara steepled her fingers and tapped the tip of her nose, looking up at the ceiling as if she was some kind of cartoon villain plotting his demise and giving him the perfect opportunity to check her out. Her bright-red hair, freckles, and height were the first things he’d noticed, followed by her perfect ass when they’d walked to the table. What he hadn’t noticed until she started busting his balls about his food choices was how her eyes sparked like she wasn’t gonna start a fight but she’d end it if necessary. If the circumstances had been different between them, he might even have asked her out for real. As it was, though, this was just fun.
Finally, she dropped her gaze back down to his face. “Pizza is overrated.”
Whoa.
He thought he’d crossed the line with the mashed potatoes, but now she’d gone and destroyed the idea of there ever being a line. Pizza was sacred. There were no jokes to be made about the pie.
“You have obviously not gotten it from Zito’s,” he said and left it at that, because once someone went to the “pizza is overrated” side of the street, there was no bringing them back. “Peanut butter cookie or oatmeal raisin?”