Page 9 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)
CHAPTER 9
FRAN
C lutching the officially in escrow bottle of champagne Tony Carlton presented me in our morning meeting, I try so hard to play it cool, like it’s no big deal as I walk through the sales floor. But it’s hard not to smile. This is my first escrow. Sure, the way it came about might be a little shady, but no one knows that; to everyone that matters, I sold a six-million-dollar apartment.
“Good job, Fran,” someone says from the other side of the floor.
Smile beaming, I continue on the way to my desk only to be stopped by my name coming from behind me. Turning, my eyes bulge at the sight of Giselle, Carlton Myers’ receptionist, advancing on me, carrying a box of red roses almost as big as she is.
“Fran!” Giselle calls out again, grinning at me with a slight skip in her step.
“Hey,” I say, dubiously eyeing the flowers.
“These just came for you.” Giselle hands me the box and the small gift bag she’d had hanging off her arm.
Confused, I look at her, my eyebrows knitting together because it’s definitely not my birthday.
“Someone has an admirer,” Giselle says with a conspiratorial wink before spinning on her heels and practically prancing off.
I peer into the bunch of expensive looking roses for a card, but there’s nothing. I turn and head to my desk, ready to do some serious digging.
“Nice flowers.”
Loaded down with the flowers, the gift bag, and my bottle of champagne, I almost stumble, gawking up as Tadd steps out of his office and directly into my path. Craning my neck to look up at him, I don’t miss the way his smile totally contradicts the darkness in his gaze.
I force a smile.
“Who’s sending you roses?”
“None of your business,” I sass, stepping around him and hurrying all the way back to my desk, thankful for the semblance of privacy my cubicle walls provide.
I huff a breath, gathering my wits, looking from the gaudy display of roses to the white gift bag secured by a black ribbon. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I slowly tug on the ribbon, opening the bag, gasping when I find MASON glaring back at me in big bold letters.
“Oh my God,” I groan as realization settles low in my belly.
Pulling the sorry excuse for a gift out of its bag, the white and black jersey unfurls in my hands. I hold it up, studying it with serious disdain. I hope he doesn’t actually expect me to wear this thing.
Shoving the Thunder paraphernalia back inside the bag, I’m tempted to pop the bottle of Veuve right here at my desk; it’s five o’clock somewhere, right? Instead, I take my phone out and scroll to my messages.
Me: For future reference, I’m more of a chocolates girl.
Asshat: I’ll have you know those roses cost me 400 big ones!
Me: Sucker. A box of chocolates would’ve set you back no more than ten bucks.
Asshat: I take it you got the gift, too?
I snap a photo of the jersey crumpled up in the bag and insert it into my message.
Me: Yeah, thanks. So thoughtful.
Asshat: Wear it tonight.
Me: Can’t I just wear a team scarf or something.
Asshat: You need to have my name on your back.
Me: Branding a woman with your name on her back. How 1950s.
Asshat: It’s basic dating-a-hockey-player 101.
Me: I must’ve missed that class in college.
Asshat: Lucky you got me as your tutor then, huh?
I roll my eyes.
Me: I’ve never been to a game before. Where do I even go?
Asshat: Madison Square Garden.
I scoff at his response.
Me: No shit.
Asshat: When you get there, Andy will meet you and take you where you need to go. Then after the game you’ll come down to the locker room and I’ll meet you there so you can swoon all over me.
Me: In case you can’t tell via text, I’m literally bursting at the seams with excitement.
Asshat: You need to put your socials on private.
Me: Huh?
Asshat: I followed you on Insta today.
Me: Ok?
Asshat: My fans are on another level. Well, they’re not really my fans because most of them don’t know shit about me or hockey. But they seem to notice who I follow on social media.
Me: Weird.
Asshat: Yeah. Don’t accept any DMs.
Interest sufficiently piqued, I scroll to TikTok , shocked to find the account I’ve never even used other than to look at cute dog content tagged in a whole bunch of videos. When I click on the first, I can’t help but gasp when I see photos of me that have clearly been taken from my own personal Instagram , attacking me.
@HockeyGal89: I refuse to believe it until I see them together.
@MasonStan92: He went from Lola Grey to THAT???
@ThunderLover: A solid 4 with the lights on LOL
“They’re so mean,” I mutter under my breath.
A message notification pops up on the screen.
Asshat: You’re looking at TikTok aren’t you?
Me: Who are these people?
Asshat: Mostly losers with nothing better to do.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack, quickly doing as he said and switching every social media profile I have from public to private.
When I agreed to be Robbie Mason’s fake girlfriend, I knew I’d need to work on my patience in order to deal with someone as intolerable as he is. I certainly didn’t think I’d need to deal with online bullying. The comments on the video are horrible, and they go on and on, based on nothing more than pure speculation because he followed me on Instagram ? Man, I’m going to get eaten alive when we’re actually spotted in public together.
Raking my teeth over my bottom lip, I briefly consider myself before tapping out a new message, sending it before I can stop myself.
Me: So, why me, anyway?
Asshat: What do you mean?
Me: Why did you ask me to be your fake girlfriend? From what I can see on social media, you could have your pick of literally anyone. I’m certainly no Lola Grey, that’s for sure.
Asshat: Okay, first of all, don’t ever mention her name to me again. Got that?
I bristle at the tone of his message. But before I can try to analyze it, he sends a follow up.
Asshat: Second of all, who better to fake a relationship with than someone you can’t fucking stand?
I scoff. But then I find myself looking at the mean comments again before forcing myself to close out of the stupid app.
Me: I’m going to be the most hated woman in New York City.
Asshat: The price of dating a superstar, baby.
Me: Question: is your hockey helmet custom made?
Asshat: Random, but no. Standard Bauer. Why?
Me: Your ego’s so inflated, I just assumed you’d need a custom size to fit your humongous head.
Asshat: Nah. My cup’s custom tho ??
Me: Ew.
I spent most of my afternoon at work frantically searching the internet for ideas on what the hell one is supposed to wear to a hockey game, met with links to Reddit and Pinterest , and Instagram feeds full of beautiful women dressed in cute wintry outfits. Puck bunny chic , apparently. Who knew there were entire blogs dedicated to this exact topic? Not me, that’s for sure.
But now, after leaving the office early so I could rush home to get ready, it seems my research has been in vain, because the longer I stand here, staring at myself in the reflection of the mirror, I can’t help but come to the conclusion that instead of an adorable little puck bunny , dressed in a pair of jeans and Robbie’s stupid jersey, I look more like Adam Sandler.
I’ve always been a little thicker. A size twelve for most of my adult life, at only five-foot-four, sometimes I can’t help but feel like an actual meatball. Sure, I’m pretty. I’m not denying that. Big blue eyes, blonde hair that’s probably my best asset. But my hips have always been wide, I’ve never had a thigh gap, I’ve often wished my D cup would miraculously shrink to a B cup overnight, and as a long-time sufferer of PCOS, I’m conscious of the extra weight I carry around my middle depending on what time of the month it is. Sometimes, being a woman really blows.
Realizing this is as good as it’s going to get, I throw my head back with a groan.
Slipping on my checkerboard Vans, I shrug on my leather bomber jacket, and that’s it. I’m done. I mean, let’s face it, I’m definitely not winning any puck bunny awards any time soon, but maybe I’ll get lucky and take home runner-up in some Adam Sandler lookalike competition.
With a quick mental pep talk, I shove my things into my purse and make my way to Madison Square Garden to watch my fake boyfriend chase a stupid puck around a stupid ice rink. Because what else would a single girl rather do on a Friday night in New York City?
God, I can’t believe I got myself into this mess.