Page 29 of Bleacher Report
His mouth curves like he’s fighting a grin. “Wow, we’re just diving right into the deep end, huh? No easing into the hard rules?” He tips his head. “Are you sure? I’d give you one hell of an elephant ride.”
I level him with a flat look. “I’m serious. This is fake. We’re selling the relationship to everyone else, but in here? Strictly roommates.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it. Roommates. No funny business.”
I nod.
“Rule two,” he interjects before I can continue down my list. “You have to sit in my seats and attend all home games and Hawkeyes events for the next two months. Starting with theopen stadium event this week. Everyone will expect you to be there now that you’re my girlfriend.”
“Every single Hawkeyes home event? That seems a little overkill, doesn’t it?” I ask, my eyebrows stitched together. That’s going to be quite a few.
“Bethany needs to see you as a doting supportive girlfriend. Let’s put it this way, you only have to come if other Hawkeyes wives and girlfriends are going to be there. How about that?”
“Fine,” I say, knowing this is going to throw off my calendar but this is part of the deal. “Then rule number three—no puck bunnies. I’m not running a brothel in my townhouse for your one-night stands.”
“Got it. No problem. The only puck bunny I’m bringing home is you.” He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I stare him down. “Too soon.”
“Okay, yeah. Too soon.” His grin fades, just slightly. “And I am sorry about that night. The bar. What I said. If I hadn’t been drunk, I would have done—” He stops himself.
“You would have done what?” I press, arching a brow.
He shakes his head. “Never mind—it doesn’t matter now. It’s in the past and this is a new slate.”
He clears his throat and straightens. “Rule four, we’re exclusive.”
I blink. “Exclusive?”
“That’s right. If we’re going to sell this, we need to make it believable. No dating anyone else, no one-night stands, and no hookups.” His eyes lock onto mine. “For the next two months, we’re crazy about each other.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Correction—you’re crazy about me.”
That damn dimple appears when he grins. “That’s fair.”
“So…exclusively not getting any,” I clarify. Which doesn’t actually change anything for me. Not that I would ever tell himthat the only thing making conjugal visits is my vibrator. “Even when you’re on the road.”
“Exactly. No one for the next two months. Same goes for you.”
I nod, grab the spare key from the counter, and hand it over to him. “Welcome to the circus, Reed. I’ll be your ringmaster for the duration of your stay.”
After our conversation, I cleared some space in my walk-in closet for him, and then I excused myself, taking pajamas with me to the spare bathroom to change while he said he was going to unpack and then take a shower. A pair of loose-fitting shorts and an old Seattle football T-shirt. Nothing that screams “please let me ride your elephant.”
Our earlier conversation about the ground rules still has my brain reeling.
I should feel relieved. We’ve got the terms clear. No sex. No puck bunnies. Strictly fake, strictly business. But instead, my brain won’t stop spinning because apparently, I’ve invited six feet plus of NHL trouble to move into my townhouse and crawl into my bed every night—for the next two months, and he wants me playing the WAGs role like I’m actually a part of it all.
No big deal. I’m totally fine.
My phone dings on the nightstand, lighting up with another text.
Mom:Tell your “boyfriend” I expect him at Thanksgiving dinner.
Shit. Thanksgiving is in three days, and with everything going on, I sort of forgot.
I groan, flipping the phone over to block the screen. The longer I stare at it, the more the weight of this entire fake arrangement sinks into my chest. This was supposed to be strategic—a way to get my interviews, my subscriber numbers, my future. Not…whatever the hell this is turning into.
And now, the most complicated man I’ve ever met is hanging his clothes in my closet.
