Page 19 of Puck Me Twice
“I don’t do relationships. I’ve been single for a while.” I shrug. “It’s what I want.”
“And this won’t be an issue?” He moves his finger between us. “There’s nobody else who may have a contradictory history?”
“No, because it’s not real.” I’m matter of fact. “We’re just pretending. In a few weeks, we’ll break up.”
He mutters something in Swedish under his breath.
I barrel forward, fabricating a story I hope is believable. “It happened over summer. We ran into each other and…” I trail off.
“Fine,” Sven says crisply.
I blow out a breath. We can do this.
This is a lot. I don’t know Sven, not really. We hooked up—once—nine years ago. It never went beyond that. I didn’t follow his career. It’s only by chance that we both work in hockey now for the same team—him still on the ice, me behind the scenes.
Fuck. I have to tell my boss about this.
“What are we doing?” I scrub at my eyes, and as they come away gritty with dark smudges, I realize I’ve just smeared my eye makeup. “What the fuck is today?”
To my surprise, Sven laughs, his body relaxing. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”
He shrugs. “You looked uncomfortable. I didn’t like it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he repeats.
“No ulterior motives?”
He frowns. “I didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”
That doesn’t ease my anxiety in the slightest.
“Robby’s fine. He won’t hurt me. He’s just—”
“He tried to make you small. He talked down to you. He made you afraid.” A scowl crosses his pretty face. “I don’t like it.”
There’s a noise behind us, and immediately Sven moves, blocking me in with his broad frame—so nobody can catch sight of me in my cubicle with him? So he can protect me again? I don’t know.
He glances around. “Do we tell everyone?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
“That’s my line,” he mutters under his breath.
Glaring at him, I poke him in the chest. “I don’t date hockey players, and I—”
He captures my finger, smoothly sliding my hand into his and lacing our fingers together. “I know you don’t.”
Patrice, the communications guru, enters the back office. He turns to look at her but doesn’t disengage.
“I should go,” he sighs.
Nodding, I agree, “That’s probably for the best.”
“Text me,” he says, squeezing my hand. “We’ll figure this out.”
