Page 1 of The Fake Date Agreement

Chapter 1

Tobie

“How much?”

“Fifty dollars.”

My eyes bulge. “Fortickets? But the match already started.”

“Game.” The ticket agent doesn’t even try to hide his judgment.

It’s not my fault I don’t know anything about hockey. I’m just here to be a supportive girlfriend. If that means freezing my ass off watching a game—match—whatever, broken up by the occasional burst of violence, then so be it.

I stick my hand in my coat pocket and thrust a handful of bills toward him. “Fine. Here. Commit daylight robbery.”

After collecting my overpriced ticket, I stop at the concession stand and nearly have a heart attack when I learn the going price for two hotdogs.

I can’t really afford tonight, especially after blowing two hundred dollars on a new dress and however much dinner will cost at Luigi’s, an Italian restaurant in our small Pennsylvania city.

Marc’s LSATs are literally around the corner, and he needs to ace them to get into the law school of his dreams. Sure, I’d hoped he would send me flowers or take me out since todayisour six-year anniversary, but he never misses a hockey game. We’ll have other nights together. He’s worth it. He deserves a treat.

The lobby of the Fairfax Arena, home of the Lamont Wolverines, is awash in bright sponsorship signs plastered on every wall.

Someone talking sports has always made my eyes glaze over, but I vaguely remember Marc saying the Wolverines have been winning. They’ve been winning a lot.

I put my hotdogs on a shelf and undo my coat belt, swallowing the anxiety growing in my gut.

The skirt of my dress rides up, and I tug it back down to my knees, silently willing it to behave. In the store, the navy blue wrap dress felt like the perfect choice. Now, all I see are lumps and bumps.

I should’ve gone with something looser.

Or black.

Every day is a jeans and hoodie day for Tobie Myers because finding a dress that flatters my thighs, belly, and B-cup breasts isn’t easy. It never is. I’d wanted to make an extra special effort for Marc—a dress instead of baggy jeans, contacts instead of my thin gold-rimmed glasses, and block-heeled sandals instead of my Chucks.

And makeup. Not much of it—lipstick, blusher, mascara, and dark brown kohl eye shadow to bring out the green Marc says he loves about my hazel eyes.

Now I feel like a kid playing dress-up.

Mom died when I was in the eighth grade. I was thirteen and just getting interested in makeup. When she passed, I threw out the few pieces of makeup she’d bought for me and told myself it didn’t matter. But I miss how it felt sitting beside her, laughing as we tried out eyeshadows and lipsticks.

I just miss her.

Before I can talk myself out of entering the arena, I throw my shoulders back, pick up the hotdogs, and walk inside.

Marc loves you. He won’t care if you look ridiculous. He’ll be happy you showed up to surprise him when he knows you hate hockey.

I shiver when I’m hit in the face with a chilling blast of cold air from the ice.

As a library science major used to a quiet library, the roar from the excited crowd and the loud boom of the announcers’ voices makes me want to turn around and walk back out.

I carefully make my way down the stairs toward the season ticket holders’ section, somehow remembering where it is from the one time Marc brought me to a game in our freshman year. Between freezing my ass off, sipping flat beer, and having no clue what was going on, I decided hockey wasn’t for me.

Too many rules. Too fucking cold. And my glasses kept fogging up so I could barely see anything.

I won’t be able to sit with Marc, but I’ll surprise him, give him a hotdog, and find my seat until the game is over, and I can take him out for dinner.

Figures move with graceful ease across the ice.

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