Page 90 of Play Along With Me
"Why?" she asks simply.
It's a fair question, and one that deserves an honest answer. I take her hand in mine, our fingers interlacing naturally, and really look at her. The scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The tiny scar at the corner of her right eyebrow. The way her eyes change from blue to green depending on the light. The slight asymmetry of her smile that somehow makes it more charming, not less.
But it's not just her physical features that have captured my attention. It's the quick mind behind her jokes, the genuine kindness beneath her sarcasm, the way she engaged with my parents as real people rather than annoying obligations. The ease with which she navigates awkward situations, turningpotential disasters into entertaining stories through sheer force of personality.
"Because you're interesting," I tell her finally. "And funny in a way that never feels forced or mean. And kind without making a big deal about it. And I like being around you, even when we're not pretending for an audience."
Something in her expression softens, the wariness giving way to a cautious smile. "Careful, Hockey Jesus. That almost sounds like you're developing real feelings for your fake girlfriend."
"Would that be so terrible?" I ask, suddenly very invested in her answer.
She considers this, her thumb absently tracing patterns on the back of my hand in a way that's incredibly distracting.
"It's complicated," she says finally. "You're at a critical point in your career. I'm still getting over someone who basically erased three years of my life when he moved on. And wow, see, this is what Leila is always telling me. I speak as if it just happened, but it's been years, and I need to move on. Where was I? Oh, right. We got to know each other under bizarre circumstances. Not exactly promising foundations."
"I don't know," I counter. "Seems like we've already survived more chaos than most relationships face in months. That could be a good sign, not a bad one."
This earns me another of those genuine smiles that I'm finding increasingly addictive. "Optimistic interpretation. Very on-brand for a guy who manifests NHL success through journal affirmations."
"You remembered that," I note, surprised.
"I remember most things you tell me," she admits. "It's annoying how interesting I find you, actually. Very inconvenient for my 'sworn off men after Daniel' narrative."
"Daniel's your ex?" I guess.
She nods. "Three years, followed by watching him marry someone else and accidentally pushing his bride into their wedding cake. Not my finest chapter."
"See, you live an interesting life," I say with complete sincerity. Then I add, "His loss."
"That's what everyone says," she shrugs. "Very kind, probably not true, but I appreciate the sentiment."
"It is true," I insist, surprising myself with the intensity of my conviction. "Anyone who had you and let you go clearly made a massive error in judgment."
Audrey looks taken aback by my vehemence, a flush of color rising to her cheeks. "You kind of, sort of barely know me, Jake," she points out.
"I know enough," I counter. "I know you agreed to fake date a stranger to help him avoid an awkward situation with his ex. I know you've endured my mother's aggressive Instagram campaign and inappropriate wedding hashtags with remarkable grace. I know you make me laugh more than anyone has in years, and that I've been thinking about you constantly since we met, which is problematic when I'm supposed to be focusing on hockey."
The words tumble out before I can censor them, more honest than I intended to be. But something about Audrey makes me want to skip the usual dating dance of calculated revelations and strategic vulnerability.
"Wow," she says quietly. "That was... unexpectedly direct."
"I can be direct when it matters," I tell her.
"And this matters?" she asks, the question hanging between us with surprising weight.
"Yes," I say simply. "It does."
Audrey studies me for a long moment, as if searching for something in my expression. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she squeezes my hand and says, "Okay then."
"Okay what?" I ask, not quite sure what she's agreeing to.
"Okay, let's see where this goes," she clarifies. "For real, not as a performance for family or exes or Instagram. Just us, figuring out if there's something here worth exploring beyond our mutually beneficial charade."
Relief and anticipation flood through me in equal measure. "I'd like that."
"Me too," she admits. "Though I should warn you—I'm a mess. I use humor as a defense mechanism, I'm pathologically incapable of being on time for anything, I still occasionally check my ex's social media, and I have exactly zero knowledge of or interest in hockey statistics."
"And I'm obsessively punctual, pathologically neat, completely focused on a career with zero stability or geographic certainty and currently live in a barely furnished apartment that screams 'temporary resident,'" I counter. "We're both disasters in our own special ways."
