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Chapter nine

That’s not very girlfriend-like of you

Chase

T he last thing I expect when I walk into The Rink Rat is to see Zoe sitting at the bar with a drink in her hand, looking like she’s ready to commit a crime.

I stop in the doorway, processing the scene of the dingy dive bar owned by Gary, everyone’s favorite grumpy old bastard. The place is quiet. Dim lighting, old sports memorabilia on the walls, and a jukebox in the corner that probably hasn’t worked since the early 2000s.

The usual crowd’s here—a handful of old-timers nursing beers, a couple of guys playing darts, one dude passed out in a booth like he’s spent the last forty years chain-smoking Marlboros.

This is the kind of place where no one gives a shit that I play for the Storm, which is exactly what I need after the absolute clusterfuck that was today’s meeting.

Except now I’ve got a very pissed-off-which-only-makes-her-hotter PR executive sitting twenty feet away, and something tells me she’s not in the mood for casual conversation.

Gary looks up from behind the bar, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth despite the no-smoking sign directly above him. He squints at me like I’ve personally offended him just by existing.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” he mutters, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “Why are you here?”

I grin and drop onto a stool. “Missed you, too, old man.”

“Bullshit.”

I chuckle, tapping the bar for a drink. “Whiskey.”

Gary grumbles under his breath but pours anyway, muttering something about his dive bar not being a goddamn social club for hockey players.

He says this every time one of us shows up, and yet he’s never once kicked us out.

Instead, he just suffers through it with boomer-level exasperation, occasionally dropping some weirdly insightful wisdom that none of us are ready for.

I take a sip of my drink, letting the burn settle in my chest, and force my brain to slow down.

“What the hell did you do now?”

Gary never assumes I’m here for a casual drink. Because in his mind, if I’m showing up at his bar outside of a Storm team night, it means one of two things:

I’m running from a PR disaster.

I’m about to start one.

And technically, today’s situation qualifies as both.

“Nothing,” I lie, turning the glass in my hand.

Gary’s unimpressed grunt says he knows better. But before I can answer, his gaze flicks down to the other end of the bar, and his frown deepens. He knows our crew, and he knows that this isn’t normal.

I glance down the bar, too, and immediately regret it.

Zoe looks like she’s about five seconds away from breaking the glass in her hand just so she can have something sharp to stab me with. And, yeah, okay, that’s fair. Today didn’t exactly go her way.

Gary watches the silent, tension-filled moment between us, then lets out a heavy sigh.

“You know what? I don’t wanna know. Just don’t break any of my shit.”

I clear my throat and look away, ignoring the way Zoe’s eyes are burning a hole into the side of my face.

Instead, I let the weight of the day settle.

I thought I’d be able to check out for a while.

Play a couple games of pool. Avoid thinking about the fact that I somehow— some-fucking-how —managed to trick the universe into giving me a chance to date Zoe Carlson, even if it’s fake.

Fake.

The word curdles in my brain because I don’t want fake, I want her. I want her in a way that isn’t just fun or convenient or easy. It’s desperate. Messy. Fucking irrational. The kind of wanting that slams into your chest and sticks.

But she hates me right now, and if I don’t fix that, this whole fake relationship idea is dead before it even starts.

Which is why, when she finally slides off her stool, drink in hand and posture tense as hell, heading toward the back of the bar, I make a very stupid decision to follow her.

Because it’s been two weeks since I’ve spoken to her properly and I can never fucking help myself.

Zoe sets her drink down on the edge of the pool table, rolling her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off the day.

When I sidle up next to her, she doesn’t acknowledge me, which is unacceptable because I’m an asshole that will do anything for a crumb of her attention. So I lean against the table, hands in my pockets, and tilt my head.

Her jaw clenches. “You following me now?”

I grin. “Didn’t realize you were a dive bar kind of girl.”

“Didn’t realize you had functioning brain cells.”

God, I missed this.

“Still mad, huh?”

“Oh no, I’m fucking peachy,” she says with a saccharine tone. “Being forced into a fake relationship with my least favorite person in the world? Absolute dream come true.”

I hum in appreciation. “Least favorite? Well, at least I’m at the top of one of your lists, I guess.”

She picks up a cue stick and ignores me, inspecting it like she’s trying to decide whether to use it for pool or for beating me to death.

I gesture at the table. “Didn’t realize you played.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Walton.”

That shouldn’t make something hot and dangerous curl in my chest, but it does. Because I want to know everything about her.

I glance at the table, then back at her. “Let’s play.”

She scoffs. “Not interested.”

“Scared you’ll lose?”

Her eyes flash, and she grabs the chalk, rolling it between her fingers like she’s imagining snapping my neck.

Fuck, she’s hot.

“What’s the bet, then?” she asks, voice sharp.

“If I win, you agree to this fake relationship.”

Zoe exhales through her nose like she’s re-evaluating every decision that led her to this moment. But something flickers in her eyes, and I know I’ve got her.

“Fine. But if I win, you drop the entire thing.”

I smile, letting my eyes coast over her face for just a moment.

“Deal.”

She stares back at me for a beat, then huffs, shaking her head like she already regrets this.

I move around the table, lining up the break shot, rolling my shoulders as I glance at her. She’s standing with her arms crossed, weight on one hip, already calculating angles. I haven’t even broken yet, and she’s assessing the damn table like it’s a battlefield.

“Try not to cry when I run the table, sweetheart,” I murmur, lining up my shot.

She hums, utterly unconcerned. “Let’s see if you can even get past the break first.”

I send the cue forward, cracking against the racked balls with a sharp snap . The scattered colors streak across the green felt, and two striped balls sink instantly.

Zoe nods once, then flicks a glance at me. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

“I do love it when you give it to me,” I say with a grin, lining up my next shot and sinking one more. But the angle on the fourth is tricky, and when I go for it, the cue ball kisses the edge and stops short.

“Tough break,” Zoe murmurs, already stepping forward before I’ve even moved aside.

The casual way she moves is almost deceptive. There’s nothing calculated about her posture, but I know better. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

The first shot is a clean, effortless sink. I tilt my head, mildly impressed. Then she does it again. And again. Shot after shot, ball after ball. Absolutely perfect.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

Zoe doesn’t just know how to play, she’s destroying me.

She lines up her next shot, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek in that way she does when she’s amused but pretending not to be. Her eyes flick up to mine, golden brown flashing under the bar’s dim lighting.

“You good over there, Walton?”

I tighten my grip on the cue stick.

“No talking while I’m strategizing,” I reply smoothly, nodding at the table. “It’s very distracting.”

She smirks, chalking the tip of her cue. “I’ll try to keep my chit-chat to a minimum.”

Then she leans down, arching just enough to make my brain short-circuit at the curve of her ass. I force myself to stare at literally anything else, but I can still hear everything.

The soft hitch in her breath as she pulls back the cue stick. The smooth, practiced follow-through as she sends the ball rolling straight into the pocket.

This was a terrible idea.

I rub the back of my neck. “Alright, I have questions.”

“Such as?”

“How long have you been a pool shark?”

She tilts her head in mock thought. “Since I was sixteen.”

“Sixteen?!”

“I used to hustle drunk frat guys in college. Easy money.”

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. “Of course you did.”

“I mean,” she continues, completely nonchalant as she surveys the table, “it’s not my fault they underestimated me.”

My eyes narrow. “So what you’re saying is, I was set up.”

Zoe doesn’t look the least bit guilty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You hustled me.”

She hums, bending over for another shot. “Maybe.”

The next ball sinks seamlessly, and my pulse spikes in full-blown panic. Because I just bet my entire goddamn chance on this game, and I’m losing. My cocky smirk is gone. My calm and collected act? Fucking obliterated.

And Zoe knows it.

I was supposed to have the upper hand. To charm her, playfully antagonize her into saying yes. Make it fun. Lighthearted. Now I’m just out here trying to survive.

She straightens, looking obnoxiously satisfied.

“Having fun yet?”

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. “Oh, yeah. Best night of my life.”

Her grin flashes, cocky and far too fucking pretty.

She’s down to the eight-ball now—just one shot left—and I’m praying for a miracle. Lining it up, her brows furrow slightly, tongue tucked in her cheek as she takes the shot.

Clack.

The ball rolls, but bounces off the corner and stays on the table.

A breath saws out of me. “Thank fuck. There is a God.”

I plant my feet, grip my cue, and line up my shot before glancing at her.

And then, casual as anything, Zoe murmurs, “Stop looking at me like that.”

I freeze. The cue stick wobbles slightly in my grip, and I blink once, twice, then flick my gaze back up to hers.

“Like what?”

She tilts her head, mouth curving just slightly . “Like you’ve seen me naked.”