“See? Your food is here, and I put my things in this drawer.” She opens one of the fruit crispers, and I see a couple of apples and some off-brand milk.
The rest of the fridge seems to contain everything on my list. “Thanks?” I’m still a little confused.
“And this is my shelf,” she says, opening a cupboard and pointing to a jar of cheap peanut butter and grocery store bread.
I grab the peanut butter and read the label. “You like this stuff? It has added soy oil and sugar. It’s not even organic.”
“Neil.” She grabs it, shoves it back into the cabinet, and opens the adjacent cabinet. “Don’t panic, fancy boy. Yours is here.”
Indeed, my peanut butter is waiting there. But we still have a problem. “Charli, I didn’t mean for you to shop twice. I doubled up on my stuff for both of us. You’re supposed to eat whatever you want and put it all on one bill.”
“No way.” She closes the cupboard firmly. “I can’t afford your highbrow stuff, Neil.”
When she turns to go, I catch her hand. “Wait a sec. We’re not done.”
She stares down at our joined hands, then looks up at me. “I don’t want to be late.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I’m only saying this once. The food in this kitchen is yours to enjoy. I don’t want to be bothered segregating the fridge. I’ll probably eat your apple or something and then worry the entire Bombshells squad will come for me in my sleep.”
She snorts. “Not on a first offense. Touch the oranges, though, and I can’t make any promises.”
“Ah. Good to know.” I give her hand a squeeze, and let it go. “The deal was that you save some money by living here. It’s room and board, Charli. Just like college, but with a hotter roommate.” I lean against the counter and flex my pecs conspicuously.
She rolls her eyes. “I really have to go, poser. It’s game night.”
“Knock ’em dead, kitten.” I take a step closer and wrap her into a hug.
Charli goes still, and I realize belatedly that we don’t do this. Oops. But she feels good in my arms.
The truth is I did miss her when I was away. This whole fake marriage thing is messing with my head.
I pull back, my hands on her shoulders, and she blinks at me, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink. “You’re still wearing the sexy makeup,” I point out.
“Until I sweat it off,” she whispers. “It won’t be sexy then.”
“Says you,” I whisper back. “Sweating can be very sexy, if the timing is right.”
Charli’s lips part, and her flush deepens. Her shoulders relax under my hands. She licks her lips, and my gaze drops to her mouth. I want to taste her again. I want to savor it this time.
“Got to go,” she says abruptly, taking a step to the side. “Toodles, hubby.”
She darts out of the kitchen. The front door opens and shuts, and then she’s gone.
I stand there like a dope for a beat longer, just staring at the space where she stood before.
SEVENTEEN
WE’RE SOLD OUT
Charli
I walk into the conference room for the pregame PR huddle, expecting to see all my teammates there. But there’s only Coach Sasha and Bess Beringer, who helps manage the team. “Wait. Am I in the wrong place?” I ask.
Georgia hustles in behind me. “Not at all,” she says. “We need to chat with you for a second.”
Oh no. What the hell is wrong? What did Robert do to me?
My mind whirls, and I numbly take a seat at the table. I start practicing my speech. I was just a bartender. Just for a couple weeks…
“Charli, we just wanted you to be prepared to do the press conference tonight.”
I search my brain for understanding and come up blank. “After the game?” I clarify. “But we don’t know yet who will score.”
“You will,” my coach says with a laugh. “You’d better try, anyway. Because I know you, and if your personal life is all you’ve got to talk about, I fear for those reporters.”
“What reporters?” I ask. Our postgame press conferences are a joke. Sometimes there’s only a single journalist there, plus the family members of a few players.
“We’re sold out, Charli,” Bess says.
“Of tickets?” I clarify. We usually play in front of a half-capacity audience.
Bess actually presses her hands together and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “O Lord above, may there come a day when my players aren’t surprised if we sell out. And if it could happen in my lifetime, I’d be very grateful.”
Sasha snorts, and Georgia grins.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I demand. Something’s happened, and I am in the dark.
“We sold out of tickets,” Georgia says slowly. “Tonight’s game will be very well attended. So the postgame press conference should get more attention than usual. And we’ll want you to participate, no matter how the game goes.”
I finally understand what’s going on. And I do not like it. “This… The record attendance is because of me and Neil? What the actual fuck?”
“This is a good thing,” Sasha says quickly. “It’s going to be a great game between two stellar teams. And several thousand people are going to discover how much fun women’s hockey is.”
“Right,” I say slowly, because my brain is still playing catch-up. The women in this room think this is a good thing. A positive development.
And I just want to smash things.
“You’re going to get a lot of playing time,” Coach Sasha says.
“I always get a lot of playing time,” I point out. “I work hard for it.”
“Of course,” she says with a smile. “But you’ll be starting tonight for sure. We’re going to give the crowd what they want.”
“Are we?” I yelp. “Because it sounds like you’re telling me that somehow marrying a rich dude just made me twice as interesting as I was before. In case you were hoping my game has also gotten twice as flashy since last weekend, I’m going to have to burst your bubble.”
“Easy,” Bess says with a smile. “We are already fun. We are already fascinating. We are already ass-kickers. Now we just have a few more people to watch us.”
“Fine,” I grunt. “Can I warm up now?”
“In a second,” Georgia says. “Later, in the press conference, I’m going to need you to be full of sunshiny gratitude that all these new fans came out to watch tonight.”
Oh boy. “Sunshiny gratitude is not my default setting,” I point out. “Tell me exactly what to say.”
“Just think—if you score a goal or hold off their sniper for a shutout, this gets easier,” Coach Sasha points out.
“Okay.” I take that in. “But what if we lose? What if the game goes badly? What the hell am I supposed to be sunshiny about? I mean—I’ll say we’ll work hard and do better next time. But it’s gonna be a pretty short interview. You won’t even want me there.”
“Oh, yes we will!” Georgia sing-songs. “You have to talk about Neil. Just for a moment.”