Page 22 of Puck Me Twice

I look down at my phone again, and Sven is on the ice. He’s an excellent power forward, and he’s on a six-game points streak. He’s scored a goal in four out of the last six games since we decided we’re dating.

Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.

The girls convinced me to go out tonight. Bex’s Ph.D. program is year-round, so she doesn’t get a lot of time off, and Elsy typically works weekends at the symphony, so it’s even more rare that the three of us are able to be together on a Saturday evening. Despite the fact that we all live together, I barely ever see them, and definitely not both at the same time.

My phone vibrates as Boston scores a goal. It’s not Sven this time—it’s Reynolds, the new guy. I like him. Sometimes he’s a little out there, but for the most part, he’s chill.

With a sigh, I look through my phone at the text chain I have with Sven. I’ve reached out a few times, and he only responds with a thumbs-up or a quick one- or two-word phrase. He doesn’t have a problem communicating in English; he has a problem communicating in general.

I don’t know what to make of it.

Is it too much for me to want my fake boyfriend to occasionally talk to me?

Flagging down the waiter, I order another drink.

And another.

Two hours later, I’m more than a little tipsy when I get out of the rideshare. Although I have Sven’s address—it was on the relationship declaration form—I haven’t been to his place. The neighborhood is not what I expect of a twenty-seven-year old athlete earning several million dollars a season.

We’re in a tucked-away corner of Beacon Hill. The brick buildings are picturesque and cute. Sven’s building has two flower boxes of purple, blue, and pink asters overflowing from the ground-floor windows. It looks well-maintained, no weeds or dying flowers.

The door behind me slams shut, and I jump.

“Can I help you?”

The voice is older, heavily accented. Its owner is a small woman with dark hair in a braid halfway down her back. She’s leaning on a cane, her body clearly frail, but when I meet her eyes, I see she’s definitely in control of her faculties.

“I—I’m—” I shiver, pulling my lightweight cardigan around me. The late October wind is colder than I expected.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says with finality.

“Oh?” I tilt my head.

“He doesn’t want you here.”

“Who?”

Her dark eyes narrow. “I think you know who.”

The door behind me creaks open, and I look over my shoulder to see Sven standing on the front stoop. A frown mars his beautiful face.

“Vanessa,” he says with absolutely no inflection. “Come inside.”

The inside of the house is white. There’s black wooden flooring and a gray shoe rack in the foyer. There are no pictures, no artwork, nothing on the walls. No clutter. A small console table—black—is off to the side, and even the keys and wallet on it are neatly organized.

“This is your—wow.” I take a step further into the townhouse and gape.

His living room is comfortably minimalist. More black wooden flooring. More white walls. A brick fireplace makes up the center focus of the room, and there’s a giant flat-screen TV anchored to a wall. A black leather sectional sofa occupies the majority of the room.

There’s greenery everywhere. Even after the flowers in the windowsill, I wasn’t prepared for the inside of his house to be alive with flora.

“Why are you here?” Sven asks.

He looks tired. He’s wearing his post-game suit, though the tie has disappeared, the top two buttons at his throat undone. His blond hair is disheveled, falling loose to his shoulders.

“I—you—we—” I wobble to the left.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says. There’s a faint note of disapproval in his voice.