Page 68 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Including ice football.

Sonny shakes his head. "Ice what?"

"Ice football," our coach says.

"Do I have a concussion?"

"Welcome to Hillbilly Hockey," I say.

Sonny laughs. "You're serious? 'Double H Hockey' means 'Hillbilly Hockey?' Y'all know that's three h's, right?"

"It's the name of the league: Double H," I say. "There are eight teams in the league so far, all throughout the south. They travel, and everything."

"Then why do they allow fans to play?"

"League rules. We can have up to three fans at a time substitute for our players,” the coach says. “It builds hype. And considering you, Tripp, and Rusty all know how to play football better than Bubba, Beau, and Brick, I figured it was a safe move."

Bubba, Beau, and Brick all laugh.

"Oh, those are your actual—" Sonny stops himself. "Okay. So we're playing football. On ice."

"Arena league football rules," I say, "with eight players from each team on the ice at a time."

"Plus a penalty box for fouls," Tripp adds.

"Fouls?" Sonny asks.

"Fights," Tripp says.

Sonny lifts his foot. "In bowling shoes?"

I smile. "In bowling shoes."

Sonny's look of disbelief transforms into a massive grin. "This might be the best thing I've ever heard. I'm gonna have PJ record every second."

"Trust me, they got it covered," Tripp says, nodding in the direction of our friends a half dozen rows up.

Every single one of them is already recording us.

Including Lottie.

She squeals when I look at her. "Hi, Uncle Rusty!"

I wave, and she blows me a kiss. Then she glares at Ash and I hide my laugh behind a fake cough. Ash looks at me with wide eyes. I guess Lottie hasn't forgiven her, after all.

The coach starts going over the plan for the game, but I keep my eyes on Ash. She is breathtaking. She pulled her hair into a bun, but a handful of curls have escaped. She's not wearing lipstick, but her lips are already a touch purple from the cold, and with the tiniest hint of pink on her nose, the effect is wildly attractive. She forgot to bring something warm, so she's wearing my gray Clemson sweatshirt, curling up in it for warmth in a way that pinches my chest.

She's wearing my sweatshirt.

And it sets my brain on fire. If that sweatshirt had my name on it …

Whew.

We keep looking at each other until Ash jumps up. She squeezes past our friends to get to the stairs, and then she runs down them to get to me.

She's wearing my sweatshirt and a smile that could melt the ice, and those willful loose curls bounce around her blue glasses, and she's running to me.

Fake or not, I could die a happy man. I step out of the bench and open the door into the stands.

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