He scrubs at his face. Is something else bothering him? Like the fact that one day, somewhere in the near future, my dad could once again be his coach? “Are you sure you’re okay? Honestly Penn, if this is going to be hard, you don’t have to?—”
“One,” he says, eyes glinting, “I do have to, considering we’re trying to pull off a fake engagement. And two, no way am I letting you walk in there after he wrangled himself an invitation.”
A deep line cuts into Penn’s forehead. Yeah, I get it. I’m not exactly thrilled either. I couldn’t freaking believe it when Dylan called earlier—smug as ever—asking what kind of wine he should bring. As if this was some kind of game. As if he’d belonged at my family’s table tonight. He lost that privilege ages ago. What the hell is he up to?
My stomach knots. Does he want to be here for our announcement? Does he already know we’re faking?
Unease weaves through me. “I have no idea why he’d even want to come.”
“Maybe he wants you back,” Penn says, and the muscle in his jaw jumps.
I huff a laugh, though it’s hollow. “Doubtful.”
“People want what they can’t have, Jay.”
The way he says it, the way his gaze hooks mine in the cold, sends shivers through me. My breath puffs white in the air. “So, you’re saying he sees me with a guy like you?—”
“A guy like me?” His tone dips, softer now, and there’s something raw in the way he’s studying me, as if my answer matters more than it should.
“You know.” My voice thins a little. “Big. Scary. Bucks enforcer. A guy with a great career who’s going places.”
“That’s how you see me?”
“It’s how everyone sees you.” The words are out before I can reel them back. It is how everyone sees him—or at least how he wants them to. Tough. Untouchable. Built for impact. But there’s something else I’ve seen, something he doesn’t parade for the cameras. And I can’t stop my mind from drifting back to that day I’d watched him play for the Grizzlies. It wasn’t about the game—it was after the game, when the ice was empty and the roar of the crowd had faded.
It was that moment. That brief, unguarded space when his shoulders dropped and his stick moved in ways most people would miss—deceptive skill, quiet brilliance. The kind of magic you only spot if you’ve been raised on hockey tapes and post-game analysis. And I had been. I’m my father’s daughter, and my father is an AHL coach.
For just a second, something shadows his face, small enough that if I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I’d have missed it.
“Penn?”
He blinks, the moment shuttering. “I’m just saying… he might want you back. Guys like him will do whatever it takes to get what they want.”
But his voice is lower now, threaded with something that feels like a warning.
I shove away the strange, uneasy current snaking through my blood. “Even if he did, the North Pole would have to melt before that ever happened.” My steps slow on the icy walk. “Do you think he’s on to us? Maybe he just wants to watch me squirm again. Maybe he’s a sadist who gets off on hurting me.”
“The only one who will be watching you squirm is me, and that will be in our bed,” Penn says, low and deliberate, “And if he dares try to hurt you again, he’ll have me to deal with.”
I open my mouth, ready to remind him that punching people is not the way to fix his image, but he barrels on. “If he thinks he’s on to us, then we’ll just have to give the performance of a lifetime.”
“I’m not that great of an actress,” I warn. Sure, I did a summer play at the country club, and a play in high school.
“I watched you in Macbeth back in high school. You were great.”
That stops me. “You…watched me?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can hear the truth in his voice, how casual he wants it to sound. “Yeah, sure.”
It takes me a second to regroup. Going to that play wasn’t mandatory. It was optional. He didn’t have to be there.
“Aunt Elaine wanted to see it.”
“Right.” How silly of me to briefly think it meant something. He might have kept to himself during high school, but he wasn’t into me. He was the damn star on the hockey team, the guy all the girls wanted. Funny thing is, I can’t actually remember him with any of them.
“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head. “How’s your acting? Any secret plays I should know about?”
He lets out a short, surprised laugh, but there’s a hitch in it—like I just brushed against something private.