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“Suppose. I’m just looking out for my girl.”
That comment strikes me as odd. Ryan’s insisted they’re just friends, but if he likes her, I need to back the fuck off right now. There’s a code among players; we don’t mess with other players’ girls. “Are you okay with me taking her out?”
“Nah, you’re good. We’re just friends.” But there’s a distance in his gaze. Something to explore later, I suppose.
We step into the outdoors, and I embrace the late afternoon air. Silence stretches between us. As we walk the path to the parking lot, my mind races forward, plotting moves and countermoves. But somewhere deep down, beneath layers of practiced charm and calculated coolness, a flicker of doubt sparks to life.
What am I getting myself into?
CHAPTERFIVE
AMANDA
A notification zapsmy focus away from the dense anatomy textbook sprawled on the coffee table—a heck of a way to spend a Friday night. I swipe at my phone, the screen bright against the dimness of our living room. My heart does a treacherous flip when Blake’s name appears.
Blake: What are you doing?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to ignore his message and bury myself back into the anatomy diagrams that don’t make my stomach twist in knots like his single text does.
“Hold up. Is that Blake, as in the hockey team’s captain?” Maddy’s voice slices through my thoughts, laced with disbelief that matches her arched eyebrow. I look up to find her eyes glued to the illuminated name on my phone.
Damn it. I knew using the hockey puck symbol beside his name was a bad idea. I don’t know why I did it. It’s not like I’d mistake him for someone else. He’s the only Blake I know.
“Uh, yeah.” I shift uncomfortably, sensing where this conversation is headed.
“Blake Morton is texting you. For real?” She leans forward, abandoning her own stack of textbooks, auburn hair tumbling over her shoulder as her gaze flicks between me and my phone. “What does he want?”
“Nothing much.” I force a shrug, attempting casual, but my pulse races traitorously beneath my skin. “Just dinner.”
“Just dinner?” she echoes, laughter bubbling in her throat. “With the captain of the hockey team? Oh, this is no casual ‘just dinner,’ Amanda.”
“Really, it’s nothing.” A lie so smooth, I almost believe it myself.
“Come on, spill!” Her impish grin stretches wide, freckles dancing across her cheeks. “Since when do you and Mr. NHL hopeful chum around for dinners?”
“Since … recently.” The vagueness feels clumsy on my tongue. I’m not sure whether to tell her the complete truth.
“Recently, huh?” Maddy narrows her eyes playfully, then pushes off the couch, her curiosity blooming like the purple asters outside our window. “I need details. And I mean all of them.”
I chew on my lip, a nervous habit that’s hard to kick. “It’s complicated, Madds.”
“Complicated how?” She creeps closer, the scent of her strawberry shampoo wrapping around me. “You’re not usually one to hang with the jock crowd, especially not a guy like him.”
“Especially not a guy like him,” I repeat under my breath, a mantra to remind me what this is—fake. It’s an elaborate ruse that’s spiraling faster than I expected.
“Whatever it is, it’s got you flustered,” she observes with a sly tilt. “And looking like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
“Am not,” I counter weakly, my fingers betraying me as they tap an impatient rhythm on the textbook.
“Are too.” She flops back down beside me. “Come on. Fess up. What’s going on?”
“Fine,” I relent. There’s no escaping her prodding. Once Maddy’s mind is set on something, she goes after it. “We might be … seeing each other.”
“Seeing each other?” Maddy repeats, her voice climbing octaves with shock. “Like dating?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, feeling heat creep up my neck. Why am I so bad at this?Seeing each other?That phrase makes us sound like an item when we’re not. “It’s really more like one date.”
“Hot damn, girl!” Her whoop of delight bounces off the walls. “Blake Morton and Amanda Hoyt, who would’ve guessed?”
