Page 17 of Faking All the Way
I nod, tasting the sauce and adding a pinch more salt. “Makes sense. I’ve never done this fake dating thing before.”
“Really? I would have thought someone like you would be an expert at managing complicated social situations.”
“Someone like me?”
“You know. Professional athlete, probably used to dealing with media and public appearances and all that.”
I consider that while I stir the sauce. “I guess I’m used to interviews and team events, but those are different. Everyone knows why I’m there and what my role is. This is more like improv theater, and I was never good at that shit.”
She laughs, and the sound is natural and relaxed. “Well, we’ll figure it out as we go. What do you think we should cover first?”
“Basic stats? Age, birthday, that kind of thing?”
“Good idea. I’m twenty-seven, which also happens to be my lucky number. And my birthday is March fifth. You?”
“Twenty-nine, my birthday is October nineteenth.” I pause. “Favorite color?”
“Blue. You?”
“Green.” I glance at her as I say it, noticing that her eyes are exactly the shade I’ve always loved—vibrant and deep, like the leaves of a rainforest plant. It’s the kind of detail a boyfriend would probably remember.
“Got it. How long have you been playing hockey professionally?”
“Since right after college. Been playing seriously since high school, but I’ve been on skates since I was a kid.” I turn downthe heat under the sauce. “How long have you been doing illustration work?”
“Professionally? About five years. But I’ve been drawing since I could hold a crayon.” She pauses in her meatball rolling. “Although I definitely don’t make the kind of money you probably do.”
I shrug. “Not everything should be about money, right? You have to pursue your passion, no matter what it pays. Hell, I’d play hockey for free if I had to, just because I love the game so much.”
Even as I say it, something twinges in my chest. I mean it, but lately I feel like I’ve lost touch with that part of myself. At some point, the business side of things kind of took over, and hockey stopped being about the pure joy of being on the ice and started being about contracts and statistics and whether I’m good enough to justify my salary.
But Kat smiles at me as if I’ve said something particularly wise. “That’s exactly how I’ve always felt about art. Not that my family really sees it that way.”
“They don’t approve of your career?”
She sighs, dropping a few meatballs into the hot pan where they immediately start sizzling. “It’s not so much that they don’t approve. They just don’t understand it. They see it as this risky, impractical thing instead of a real job. They’d be happier if I was a teacher or a nurse like Josephine.”
I can tell it bothers her more than she’s letting on, but I don’t push. Everyone’s got family shit they don’t want to dig into with someone they just met.
“Your mom mentioned you’ve only been in Philadelphia for eight months,” I say instead. “Where were you living before that?”
“Chicago. Before that, Boston for about a year. Portland for a few months before I realized I hated the rain.” She’s focusedintently on the meatballs, not looking at me. “I’ve been moving around a lot ever since I left Maplewood after Daniel broke up with me.”
“What made you want to move around so much?”
She hesitates, her hands stilling for a moment. “I don’t know, really. Just like trying new places, I guess.”
I nod, although I’m not entirely sure that’s the whole story.
“Fair enough,” I murmur, checking on the sauce. “I think this is ready. How are those meatballs coming?”
“Almost done. Can you get the pasta started?”
“Sure.”
I grab the package of spaghetti and get a pot of water boiling while she finishes with the meatballs. Within another ten minutes, we’ve got everything plated and are sitting at the small dining table Sam has set up near the window.
“Thanks for the help,” Kat says as we dig in. “I probably would have burned half of it without you.”
