Page 69 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"Duke filled us in on what this whole thing is about, and Hotcakes, I have never been more excited to watch a football game."

"We agreed to do whatever feels natural, right?" I whisper.

Her eyes jump to my lips, and the fire in my brain spreads to my whole body. "Yes."

I drop my helmet and pull her head toward me, our lips crashing into each other. Our kiss is a flash in a pan—quick and flaming hot—but I'm so lost in her mouth that when we break apart, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. Ash's lips are bright red and she's smiling. "Holy hot lips, Batman. Where did you learn to kiss like that?"

"I'm available for private lessons after the game," I say.

Ash grabs the front of my jersey even as the coach tells me to hurry up. She's staring at my mouth with her teeth gritted playfully. "I know this is fake, but I may take you up on that."

"I may let you."

She licks the corner of her mouth, and a guttural sound issues from my throat. "Ashley Jane …"

"Dude, you saying my name like that is next level hot."

She kisses me hard and fast again and then lets go of my jersey.

I fall back, and fortunately, Tripp catches me.

Ash is already running back to her seat when Tripp puts my helmet on my head.

"Let's go, Loverboy."

The teams lineup in our end zones. Unlike in regular football, in ice football—hillbilly hockey—possession is determined by whichever team can run to center court first and get the ball.

There's no question I'm the fastest guy in this room. I ran a 4.4 forty yard-dash in college. But this is ice, not grass. And I'm in bowling shoes.

I have to beat Philip.

The referee blows his whistle, and we're off.

We lose Tripp instantly.

I hear my giant of a friend curse, but I don't risk a glance behind me. Based on the laughter, I imagine he took a pretty big spill. Another few guys fall, and within ten yards, it's just Sonny, me, and one other guy on our team. Philip's team has five men left.

Including Philip.

Running on ice is like a funhouse version of running, less the fun. But this ain't my first time playing hillbilly hockey.

I keep my knees bent and land on the balls of my feet, letting my heels barely kiss the ground before I lift again. I still feel off balance and like I could wipe out at any second, but that's hardly surprising. The cold air is exhilarating, and when I see Philip wobble, a sharp smile forms on my lips.

With less than ten yards to go, Philip is on his feet, but I drop to my knees, letting my momentum carry me across the ice.

I scoop the football up and the referee blows his whistle.

Philip is still running at me, though, clearly set on a collision course.

I tuck my head and brace for impact. His knee pad smacks into my helmet, rattling my head around. He's falling forward, so I shrug and he flips over me neatly, landing hard on his back.

"Oof," he says as the wind knocks out of him.

The crowd oohs and laughs. And because I'm a gentleman, I get to my feet and offer Philip my hand.

He slaps it away. "I don't need help. I'm sure Ashley told you how good I am at getting things done."

"Honestly, she never mentioned you," I say. "I don't think you meant as much to her as you think you did."

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