Page 63 of From Ice to Grace
“Fine,” I concede. “But if EJ knows, then so does my brother.”
“Your brother?” she asks.
“My agent. Brady.”
I write down the second part of our agreement down before she takes the pen and paper from me again.
“Number three…PDA,” she says while writing. “Hand holding, hugs and public dates.”
“Kissing?” I ask, my eyes dipping once again to her lips. I may have allowed myself to think about it for a second before, but now I allow myself to really think about it.
What it might feel like to kiss her. To taste her. Even if we came to terms on no intimacy, kissing would be something that happens occasionally.
“If it absolutely needs to happen,” she says, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Like in life-or-death situations. You know…CPR.”
I let out a laugh. “Sure, because that’ll make this look real.”
I wouldn’t mind kissing Avah. And I’m pretty sure kissing her could never be confined to clinical situations only. Maybe if I keep it small, it won’t cross her lines. A kiss on her head, her cheek, her nose…my eyes trace all the places.
I swallow.
Before I can address my concerns, she writes the next part. The exit strategy.
“That’s easy,” I say. “Six months, then we part quietly. No mess. No public blow-up.”
She looks at me with a frown forming between her eyes.
“Now I know you’re not really serious about this,” she says, putting the pen down and getting up from her seat. She heads to the fridge and gets out a bottle of water, muttering under her breath. I can faintly hear the words ‘moron’ and ‘should’ve kicked him out when I had the chance.’
“What do you mean I’m not serious?” I ask, getting up, frustration bubbling up inside of me. “I might not be Mr. Commitment, but this is something I take seriously. This is my hockey career we’re talking about and I don’t take that lightly.”
She laughs, shaking her head while setting her water bottle down on the counter with force.
“You need to show them you’re committed and more stable. That means six months won’t be enough. That’s not a marriage—It’s barely a long-term relationship. As for me, I need this to last at least two years if immigration isn’t going to flag this and revoke my green card.”
“Two years?” I repeat, shock moving through me. I’ve never been in any kind of relationship, real or fake, for that long.
“Yes, two years,” she says firmly. “So unless you plan on tanking this before we’ve even started, six months is off the table.”
It hits me that she has thought about this, maybe more than I have. Trying to imagine myself with Avah in my life for the next two years doesn’t stir up the urge to run like it did with Megan or Melissa. Instead there’s this sense of calm knowing that she’d be the one who will be there watching me play, the one by my side at events and dinners and galas. I wouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy her company.
Because as much as I hate to admit it—fighting with her is more fun than talking to anyone else.
“Two years it is,” I hear myself saying, grabbing the pen off the counter and writing it down myself before adding our names and the date at the bottom.
She watches me carefully as I sign my name before holding the pen out toward her.
“What’ll it be, Snowflake?”
Her gaze drops to the paper between us. The pen. My hand. She hesitates long enough for me to wonder if she’s about to walk away.
Then she takes it.
Her signature curves across the page, neat and deliberate, sealing something between us.
When she sets the pen down, I should feel victorious. Instead, I have the distinct, gnawing sense that I just started something I can’t control.
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