“I won’t,” I insist. “I know what you’re thinking, but that was six years ago, Liv. I’m over him.” I shut down the whispered voice in my head asking me who I’m trying to convince, Liv or myself. Because I mean it. Chase and I are friends. Period.
Liv lets out a huff like she’s asking herself the same question. “But how is that helping you find your own relationship? The one you actually want? A family. Kids. Your dreams, remember?”
I groan, my ponytail swishing as I shake my head. “I’m not ready to put myself out there again yet. Fake dating Chase is an easy fix for both of us in the short term.”
The weight of her stare presses heavy, but I keep my eyes on the path ahead, feet pounding the gravel. Liv was the one who handed me a tissue in the toilets of The Hay Barn six years ago when I was crying over my shattered heart. The one who sat with me rewatchingFriendswith tubs of low-fat frozen yogurt we pretended were ice cream. Liv knows how hard I worked to pick myself back up, shove all my feelings for Chase down until they stopped existing, and throw myself back out into the world.
I suck in another breath, lungs burning as we round the far curve of the park. The sun pushes harder through the clouds. The park is waking up. People with strollers, dogs darting across the grass, kids shouting from the playground above the rhythm of our sneakers hitting the path.
“Tell me about the wedding planning,” I say, shifting us to safer ground.
Liv groans, tipping her face toward the sky. “Don’t even. Jensen’s mom has decided to invite all her neighbors. People I’ve never even met. I wanted small and intimate. Now it’s ballooning into this massive event, like some society wedding. She even asked if we could invite more of the Stormhawks team. I swear, she’s planning to sell our wedding to a gossip magazine.”
I laugh, shaking my head as we reach the final stretch of path and slow to a walk, both of us breathing hard.
“That’s the thing about plans,” Liv sighs as we reach the park gates. “They grow. Doesn’t matter what you decide, they alwaysget bigger. Weddings, and…” She gives me a pointed look. “Fake dating.”
“Subtle.” I bend to stretch my hamstrings.
“All I’m saying is, put some rules in place,” she says, mirroring my stretch.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Boundaries, Serena. What’s OK, what’s not. Handholding in public? Kissing on the cheek? Actual kissing? What about social media? Are you going to post about each other? Who are you faking it to? Are you going to tell your families? You need to decide, or someone’s going to get hurt.”
I let out a long breath, my chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with running. She’s not wrong. Maybe this isn’t going to be as simple—or as safe—as Chase insisted it was. And if that’s true, then the only way forward is to get ahead of it. Set the rules. Draw the lines.
“Good idea,” I reply, decision made, before spinning on my heels and breaking into a jog again.
“Hey!” Liv calls after me. “Where are you going?”
I glance over my shoulder. “To Chase’s place. We need rules, remember?”
I brandish his favorite loaf of bread in one hand and a cardboard tray of take-out coffees and pastries in the other as Chase opens the door to his apartment. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of loose basketball shorts, ab muscles carved from years on the field. His hair is growing back, a black shadow that matches the stubble along his jaw.
“Serena.” His voice is low and gravel-rough, how it always is when he’s not long woken up. “Did we make plans to run today?” He frowns like he’s trying to remember.
“I was running. Now I’m here. With coffee, pastries, and bread, obviously.” I hold up the loaf for emphasis. “You’re flying out to San Diego later for tomorrow’s game, right?”
He’s still half-asleep, but he opens the door wider. I step inside, kick off my sneakers, and head straight for the kitchen.
“And did you stock up on bread for your pre-game toast?” I throw the question over my shoulder, already knowing the answer. On home game days, Chase eats four slices of toast with almond butter before leaving for the stadium. His pre-game ritual since he was sixteen. But away games mean food at the airport lounge and in hotels, so he eats his toast before he leaves. More about superstition than carbs.
“It was on my list of things to get,” he mutters, shutting the door behind him.
“Right alongside a kitchen table, right?” I laugh, holding out his coffee and leaning back against the counter.
“Thanks,” he says, inhaling the steam like it’s the best thing he’s ever smelled.
The apartment around us is as stark as always. It’s an open-plan high rise, with soaring ceilings and gray walls that could use a splash of warmth. Wood floors gleam under the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled out below us with the Rockies hazy in the distance. It’s beautiful, but empty. Too empty. Two beds—one in his room, one in the spare. A couch, a TV, nothing else. No pictures, no bookshelves, no signs of a life being lived here. Just space.
“You know you could actually buy bread ahead of time,” I tease, pulling off the lid of my coffee, allowing the steam and the smell of caffeine to billow into the room.
He looks triumphant. “But then you wouldn’t show up at my door with coffee and pastries.”
“Your master plan all along.”
“Totally,” he says, biting into a pastry like he hasn’t eaten in a week. “But don’t even think about rearranging my cupboards again. I’ve only just figured out where you put the peanut butter.”