Page 79 of Play Along With Me
"Stop thanking me, Hockey Jesus," she calls through the window as she starts the engine. "It makes me feel like I'm doing actual work here. This is strictly for my entertainment and future memoir material."
As I watch her drive away, I'm struck by the strange reality of my situation. What began as a split-second decision to avoid an awkward encounter with my ex has somehow evolved into an elaborate fiction involving my parents, my teammates, and increasingly, my own confused feelings.
The fake relationship with Audrey was supposed to simplify things. Instead, it's becoming the most complicated part of my life—more complicated than my NHL career, more complicated than my uncertain future with the Saints.
And despite all logic, I'm looking forward to dinner tomorrow more than my next game.
Which is, I realize with growing unease, probably not a good sign at all.
Chapter 11
As I drive away from the Fairmont, the taste of chocolate fountain still lingering pleasantly on my tongue, I find myself in the grip of an unexpected emotion. The brunch was objectively successful—Patricia and Robert clearly adore me, the food was excellent, and Jake and I maintained our charade flawlessly. By all accounts, I should feel accomplished, maybe a little smug about pulling off another performance.
Instead, there's a strange, unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling that has nothing to do with too many chocolate-dipped strawberries and everything to do with the way Jake smiled at me across the table—a private smile, just for me, tinged with gratitude but also something warmer.
And his hand, curled around mine on the tablecloth—a calculated gesture for his parents' benefit, sure, but the wayhis thumb absently brushed over my knuckles felt less like performance and more like instinct.
"Get it together, Mazzone," I mutter to myself as I navigate downtown traffic. "It's fake dating, not 'develop actual feelings for the hockey player.'"
My phone buzzes with a text from Leila:
Leila: DETAILS. NOW. How was brunch with the future in-laws? Did Hockey Mom show baby pictures? Did you maintain your dignity or succumb to the chocolate fountain?
I can't deal with Leila's interrogation right now, not when I'm still sorting through my own confusing reactions. I text back quickly:
Me: Rushing to work! Café shift. Will call later with full debrief. Dignity intact, barely. Fountain was magnificent.
That should buy me a few hours to get my head straight. I'm not actually late for my shift—it doesn't start for another hour—but the café is quiet in the mid-afternoon lull, perfect for thinking while mindlessly wiping down already-clean counters.
The bell jingles as I enter Grind & Brew, and Marcos, the weekend manager, looks up from the espresso machine.
"Hey, Audrey. You're early."
"Thought I'd get a head start," I say vaguely, heading to the back room to stow my purse and don the forest green apron that constitutes our uniform.
"Slow day," Marcos informs me when I return. "Sunday afternoon slump. Feel free to restock while I handle the counter."
This suits me perfectly. I lose myself in the methodical work of refilling sugar caddies, restocking napkins, andarranging pastries in the display case, all while my mind replays moments from brunch like a highlight reel I can't shut off.
Jake, laughing at my joke about his hockey mullet, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that transforms his whole face from serious athlete to someone younger, lighter.
Jake, earnestly explaining to his father why my novel concept was "actually brilliant" despite only hearing about it twice.
Jake, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher as I enthusiastically described my chocolate fountain strategy to his mother.
The problem, I realize as I violently tamp espresso grounds, is that I like him. Not the superficial attraction to a handsome face (though objectively, the face is very handsome), but something deeper. I like his steadiness, his focus, the way he listens like whatever you're saying is the most important thing he's ever heard.
And that's dangerous. Because this isn't real. It can't be real. We're from different worlds, with different trajectories. He's a professional athlete on the rise; I'm a bartender/barista/eternal aspiring writer who can barely keep her car running.
Plus, the whole thing started as a lie. Not exactly the foundation for a healthy relationship, even if—by some miracle—he was actually interested in me beyond our fake dating arrangement.
"You've been wiping that same table for five minutes," Marcos observes, interrupting my spiral. "Everything okay?"
"Fine!" I say, too brightly. "Just... thorough."
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't press.
During a quiet moment, I pull out my phone and open the Notes app, unable to contain the thoughts swirling in my head. If I can't talk to Leila yet, I can at least purge some of this onto the digital page:
