Fake Skating(38)

“Oh my God, is he going to tell my grandpa?”

Just when I’d thought the embarrassment couldn’t get worse.

“No,” he said, then added, “Well, I mean, I don’t think so. He didn’t really say.”

“What did he say, then?”

“You were going to be quiet while I told you, remember? From five seconds ago…?”

“Go already,” I said with a sigh, just wanting this to be over.

“Thank you,” he said, and when he offhandedly rubbed his shoulder, I noticed how exhausted he looked. “What I was saying is that Coach didn’t respond the way I thought he would. When I said I knew you when we were kids, he and Gordy mistakenly thought that meant we were, like, childhood sweethearts or something.”

“Weird,” I said, looking down at my lap and trying not to remember the kiss.

We hadn’t been childhood sweethearts except for that one night.

“For sure weird. But the guys who were with him are hockey dudes. Two of them are D1 scouts, and the one with the bad haircut is a sportswriter who has ties to everyone who matters in USA hockey, right?”

“Okay,” I said, remembering what Grandpa Mick had said about those guys.

“They came to see me play, which was great, because I’m trying to convince them I’m not a fuckup, because a picture that, uh, might’ve made it look—”

“Like you were smoking the world’s largest bong?”

His eyebrows went down. “You saw the picture?”

“Yeah, it was our dinner entertainment the other night,” I said.

“Shit—did Mick see it?” he asked, looking panicked.

“Would it really matter if my grandpa saw a picture of you with a bong?”

“Mick Fucking Boche?” He looked at me like I’d just said something ridiculous. “Of course it would matter.”

“He’s just a man, you know.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Back to the story,” I said, gesturing with my hands for him to get going.

“They came to see me when I’m supposed to be proving I’m not a locker room distraction, so the fact that they walked into the locker room and saw what they thought was me hooking up with a girl is a fucking nightmare.”

“I bet,” I said, almost feeling bad for him.

Almost.

“But when they heard who you were from my coach and his incorrect assumption that you and I are maybe an item—”

“What?”This day was a nightmare. “They think we’re an ‘item’?”

“Shhhh and listen,” he said, shaking his head. “It was inferred by my coach because he misunderstood what I said. Anyway, once they heard that you’re a genius who’s going to Harvard and Mick Boche’s granddaughter, all of a sudden they started looking at me in a different light. Like maybe I wasn’t a fuckup and maybe I’m dating somebody who’s going to be a good influence on me.”

How could four dudes have it all so wrong?I wondered.

“But we aren’t dating,” I said dumbly.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I mocked in a stupid voice under my breath, irritated by his attitude.

“Dani.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and said very seriously, “Obviously this is a shit show, a misunderstanding that got way out of hand.”

“Obviously,” I said.

“But while I’m trying to get people to see who I really am—not a partying fuckboy—this could be a good thing.”

“For you,” I said, trying to keep up with his direction. “So, what—you want to just let them think the wrong thing because it makes you look better?”

“You promised to be quiet until I was done,” he said with raised eyebrows and a tilted head, like he was reasoning with me.

“No, I didn’t,” I argued. “I believe I said, ‘I’m listening.’?”

“Dani,” he said through gritted teeth. “Please?”

“Fine,” I said with another eye roll.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. His face got super serious as he put his big hands together like he was praying and said, “I have a proposition for you. I will get you the hockey-manager job so you can have Harvard, if you agree to go along with this and maybe, like, let people think we’re kind of dating a little bit.”

“What?”Whatwhatwhat the hell?? “You want me to pretend we’re dating?”

“I mean, it’d be low-key,” he said, looking offended by my reaction. “It’s not like we’re going to make a formal announcement or anything. We’d just, y’know, kind of act like we’re seeing each other.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, irrationally irritated by his nerve, his assumption that I’d just do him the tiny favor of ruining my own not-yet-formed reputation.

I could just imagine how it would go.

I’d be his little nerd beard, giving him the credibility he needed, yet all his friends would know the truth and laugh behind my back about the way Miss Four-Eyes was fake prostituting herself for an extracurricular.

Meanwhile, I would be on display for the rest of the school to notice me—who even is she?—and make judgments about me because I was suddenly dating their superstar.