Page 104 of Faking All the Way
A wave of sadness washes over me, making my limbs feel heavy. But I push it away as best I can. This is Asher’s moment, and I don’t want to ruin it for him or dampen the enthusiasm.
“We’ll have to celebrate when you get back,” I say, keeping my voice light.
His voice drops to a growl, that hungry tone that always makes my stomach flip. “Believe me, bright eyes, I plan to celebrate with you until you’re hoarse from screaming my name.”
That makes me grin despite the knot sitting heavy in my chest. “You’re on, hockey boy.”
By Wednesday, the deal has been publicly announced, and the news has started spreading like wildfire. First across hockey blogs and sports sites, then into broader media.
Asher is back in Maplewood, but his schedule has picked up significantly. He’s constantly busy now, fielding media interviews and handling logistics. He’s still making time to help out his dad with things around the house, but now he’s also making serious plans to move to Denver—looking at condos online, arranging for a realtor to sell his place in Philly, getting things set up so he’ll be able to start with the team in January.
I watch from my art station that evening, pencil in hand. I’ve learned to hold pens and pencils in a way that doesn’t bother my stitches, angling my grip so the healing cut doesn’t pull. Asher is in the living room, handling a phone interview like he was born to do it, his cell pressed to one ear while he gestures with his free hand even though the reporter can’t see him.
He’s confident, charming, and professional in a way that’s almost mesmerizing to watch. Talking about how happy he is to join the Aces, how excited he is about the team’s direction. Joking about the elevation in Denver and how he’ll have to get used to breathing thinner air. Making the reporter laugh, building rapport effortlessly.
It’s a side of him I haven’t seen much of, and it reminds me that this is the world of a professional athlete.
When he hangs up, he runs a hand through his hair and gives me a sheepish look across the room. “Sorry for being so busy lately. I feel like I’ve barely seen you, even though we’re in the same house.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” I set down my pencil, stretching my fingers. “This is part of the hockey player gig, right? The business side.”
He chuckles, coming over to lean against the table where I’m working. “Yeah, but if it was on the brochure how much media stuff we’d have to do, most hockey players would never have signed up. We got into it for the love of being on the ice, you know? Not to become public speakers.”
I grin at that. “Yeah, I guess it’s sort of the same for a lot of artists. You get into it for the love of creating, but if you get more successful, there’s a lot of other stuff that inevitably comes along with it.”
Asher nods in agreement, running a hand through his messy dark hair, and I set down my pencil properly, looking up at him. My hand is starting to ache a bit from holding the pencil for so long.
“Listen, if you’ve got too much on your plate tonight, you don’t have to come with me,” I tell him.
We’re supposed to go to the annual Christmas choir performance at the Fischer barn tonight. It’s one of those small town traditions that everyone attends, and Mrs. Fischercornered us in the grocery store earlier today and made us promise to be there. My family will probably all be there too. Mom mentioned it at lunch the other day.
“I can go by myself if you need to handle work stuff,” I add. “Or make more calls or whatever. I know you’re swamped.”
Asher shakes his head immediately. “Hell no. I’m not letting you go by yourself. I promised I’d be there, and I will be.”
My pencil almost rolls off the edge of the desk, and I catch it quickly, ducking my head to hide my pleased smile. “Okay, then. We should probably eat something first. I’m starving.”
After a quick dinner of leftover pizza, we head upstairs to get ready. I’m pulling clothes out of my closet, trying to decide what to wear to a barn performance, when my phone buzzes with a text from Samantha.
SAMANTHA: Hey, so I maaaay have been Googling your fake boyfriend—you know, doing my due diligence as a best friend to make sure this guy is on the up and up—and I saw something about him getting signed with a team in Denver? That’s amazing! Tell him congrats for me. But also… what does it mean for the two of you?
I stare at the message, not entirely sure how to answer. Or maybe it’s more that I don’twantto answer, not wanting to face what the answer actually is. So I don’t reply for now, setting my phone face down on the dresser.
After a couple more minutes of debating, I slip into a comfortable red dress, something festive but not too formal. It’s soft and warm, perfect for a barn in December. When I turn around, Asher is getting dressed too. Dark blue pants that fit him perfectly, a gray dress shirt that makes his eyes look even more blue, and a tie. He’s rolling up its sleeves, exposing those corded forearms that have no right to be as attractive as they are.
I must be staring because he notices, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You see something you like, bright eyes?”
“Um, yes.” I flush but don’t even try to deny it. “You look good.”
“Just good?” He’s teasing now, moving closer.
“Really good. Unfairly good, actually.”
He reaches me in two more strides, pulling me into his arms. His mouth finds my neck immediately, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin there. I tilt my head to one side automatically, giving him better access as my eyes flutter closed.
“You know what I fucking love?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Mmm?”
