Page 90 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“They loved the bad boy of hockey,” I continue. “The hits. The fights. The postgame glare. The clips where I looked like I might break a man in half and then score twenty minutes later. They loved the penalty minutes when they came with playoff wins. They loved the temper when it sold tickets, jerseys, beer ads, debates, highlight reels, and whatever else made men in suits money.

“They loved calling it passion when it helped the brand,” I say. “Fire. Edge. Grit. Intensity. That’s what they called it when it wasn’t a problem.”

Mark says nothing.

I keep going because apparently Saturday morning is where my restraint goes to die.

“Then I fucked up publicly, and suddenly the same thing that sold became proof I was dangerous. Not intense. Not competitive. Not good television. Dangerous.”

My jaw tightens.

I force it to loosen.

“People didn’t love me. They loved a version they could cheer for until it embarrassed them.”

“You didn’t want to clear your name.” Mark sighs. “You took the hit, and here we are.”

“No. That’s the problem.”

For once, he doesn’t argue right away.

Puck pads over and presses his head against my leg.

I look down at him.

His timing is either perfect or manipulative.

Probably both.

“Daisy isn’t going to be part of that,” I say.

Mark’s voice turns careful. “You like her.”

It’s not a question.

I stare at the coffee mug.

I think about Daisy’s handwriting. Daisy’s ridiculous rules. Daisy saying no falling in love with a smile too bright to be honest. Daisy putting obviously after it like the word could save either of us from knowing better.

“This isn’t about liking her.”

“That’s an answer people give when it is absolutely about liking her.”

I should deny it.

Immediately.

Aggressively.

Instead, I pour coffee into the mug and say nothing.

Mark laughs once, low and far too pleased. “Well. That complicates things.”

“No. It clarifies them.”

“How?”

“She’s not a campaign.”