Page 7 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“My house. Beacon Hill. You can watch the game with me. He’s been ordered to report there directly after the game. And not to say a word to anyone. Yet.”
“Coach knows we’ve arranged a fake engagement?” I bet the coach, Larry Green, a no-nonsense guy if there ever was one, from what I’ve seen, doesn’t like this at all.
“Yes. Joey—the general manager—insisted we let Coach in on it. So it’s you, me, Finn, Coach and Joey. That’s it.”
Joey?Really? That’s the last thing I’d think of calling the iconic GM of the Boston Brawlers. But good old Mary’s been around a long time, too. And seems to be very . . . good friends with Mr. Joseph Moroni. Come to think of it, they might be cut from the same very strong, salty cloth.
I nod and get up to leave.
“Not so fast. We have a shopping excursion.” She gives me that evil smile again. My stomach lurches. But we’re only buying clothes, so I calm down. One of these days she’ll stop making me nervous.
“I’ll get my coat and bag,” I say.
“I’ll come with you.” She follows me back to my closetlike office as if she thinks I’m going to bolt. And really, I need to stop giving that impression. No way do I want my nerves to get in the way. Not nerves, but my normal reticence—the kind that some people mistake for shyness or mousiness. Once I get the lay of the land, I’ll be all right. New situations stress me. A little.
As she drives us in her impressive Mercedes, I ask, “Where do you live?”
“Beacon Hill. Mt. Vernon Street. It’s a top-notch location, high-value real estate. But I bought it decades ago for a song because I could walk to the Garden from there. Plus it’s close to the Mass General.”
“Why does—?”
“I’m in PR for an NHL hockey team,” she says. “I tend to spend some time at the hospital each season, tending to the PR needs of injured players.”
“That makes sense.” In a depressingly realistic way. Did I mention my thing is literature? That I love the romantic classics: Austen, the Bronte sisters, and even Cyrano de Bergerac, Don Quixote, and Don Juan? I’m a relentless romantic, lover of love stories, flowery poetry, and windmills. The windmills are what I’ve faced all my life. Never giving up my dreams. A smile pops up, because here I am. Living my dream. Sort of.
We pull into the parking lot of Chestnut Hill Mall, a place I’m familiar with only because it’s near BC and I worked there my first two years to help pay bills. Not that I’ve shopped there. Did I mention I’m a poor college kid? And this mall is made for people with money. Serious money.
We walk inside at the Lord & Taylor entrance and she maneuvers me left.
“I hope you don’t mind if we go to the salon first. I made an appointment.”
“Salon?” My hands go to my hair in a protective panic. It’s long and straight and shiny and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.
“Of course. You’re getting a makeover, remember?” Her hand clamps onto my arm because she’s no fool and knows hesitation when she sees it. But I have no chance and no choice. I signed up for this, didn’t I?
“Okay.” I step ahead of her, determined to face the prospect that I may not feel like myself for a while, or even look like myself. May need another layer of explanation for my parents.
Mary watches as I sit in the chair. She’s already conferred with the gray-haired stylist, and I’m resigned to giving myself over to the role as if I’m playing a part in a movie. Problem is, I’m not sure who I’m playing. My write-up didn’t include a new personality, new attitude, or new anything for myself. Only a new fiancé. The image of Finnegan Reed does enough to quell any misgivings and bumps me up from resigned to mildly excited.
Okay, my heart is hammering with anticipation.
There’s only one glitch I need to get past before I’m ready to do this, to become the new Vivvie, fiancée to Finn. I need to find out whether I can tell my parents about the ruse. I could just tell them and not ask permission, but if anyone ever found out—it wouldn’t be pretty. Besides, this was my idea, wasn’t it? I need to follow it through. Own the pretense.
Mary the scary PR lady is my partner in pretense. For the duration.
Pierre the hair stylist may be old, but he’s fast, and within forty-five minutes after a wash, cut, henna, and style, he hands me the mirror. After hastily retrieving my glasses, I look. What I see is disorienting, like I’m looking in the mirror at a different person. The long layers and slight wave soften my face, and I have to admit the result is flattering.
“If I were you, I’d look into contact lenses,” Pierre says, “because you have fantastic green eyes to show off.”
Nodding, I look at him and Mary. Deciding this isn’t the time to confess that I do have contact lenses, but I hate putting them in so I usually—okay, always—wear my glasses. Besides, I’m used to myself as the girl with the glasses. It’s who I am, part of my identity.
But I’m playing a role now, I’m not the old Vivian Frost. I’m Vivvie soon-to-be Reed, Mrs. Finnegan Reed. So naturally I need a new identity, right?
“I have contact lenses. I’ll wear them from now on.”
Mary beams an approving smile, then catches herself. I think it’s time to leave, but they bring me to the makeup chair and in fifteen minutes, I have no idea who this woman in the mirror is. Where the hair makeover is subtle, the makeup job is over the top.
“It looks . . . gorgeous,” I’m forced to admit, “but I don’t think I could ever duplicate it.” They installed false eyelashes, albeit subtle ones, painted on eyeliner and eyeshadow like they were master artists and I was a canvas. There’s no way in heaven I’m capable.
