Page 17 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

I don’t mean to laugh at her, but Mom always used to say “ When you can’t cry, laugh.”

“What?” I’m incredulous, shaking my head, looking down at the shit in my binder because that suggestion doesn’t make any sense.

“Date someone else,” Wren says again, nodding and starting to pace like she does any time an idea takes hold in her head.

This might be the first time one of her ideas is actually terrible.

“Let me get this straight.” I push my chair out from the table and follow her with my eyes, like I always do when she starts to pace. “You think, right in the middle of the season, right in the middle of my divorce, right in the middle of this media frenzy—I should date someone else?”

“Yes.” Wren grabs a whiteboard marker, turns to the board, starts to mark it up as she talks. First, she writes Mandy’s name then Christie Elle’s. “Here’s my theory—it’s kind of like a—like a vacuum.”

“Like a vacuum,” I echo, watching as she draws lines and connects things on the board that don’t make any sense.

“A vacuum,” she repeats, a little frantic now, “because the media knows Mandy’s side of the story. They’ve seen her with Christie Elle and either drawn the conclusion that she’s cheating or that the two of you are separated—has she commented on that?”

“She can’t,” I say, crossing my arms. “Not according to our pre-nup, the NDA.”

“Okay.” Wren’s eyes dart to me for a second.

I know the idea of having an NDA with your wife is a little weird, but it’s actually turning out to be useful right now.

“So, anyway, there’s a lack of information here, and they’re all waiting for you to provide it.

And you’re right—go to the press with a statement and it might be twisted or interpreted as more of a draw.

But simply make a public appearance dating someone else, and you’re providing your own information.

You’re moving your chess piece, bringing balance to the situation and filling the vacuum. ”

I blink at her.

“Trust me.” She takes a step closer to me, triumphantly popping the cap back on her marker. My eyes are drawn to her hands, to the way she holds it, how she uses it to gesture at me. “Think about all the other times you doubted me. I’m right about this, Luca.”

“Okay,” I relent, exasperated. “So, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say what I need is to show up in public dating someone to make this thing die down.”

“To make this thing die down, and regain your mental balance so you don’t throw the rest of the season.”

“I’m not going to—” I stop, take a breath, continue with my original point. “Even if all that is true, where the hell am I supposed to find another girl who’s going to want to date me, but not really date me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone to put up the appearances of dating.”

“Luca—really?” Wren laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t you want your next relationship to be a real one?”

“I don’t have time for dating. Not unless that woman is interested in flying off places every other night, or hanging out around here in the arena. Any time I’m in public is either before or after a game, and we’ve got more away games coming up than home.”

Now, apparently, it’s Wren’s turn to laugh. “Are you serious? You’re seriously trying to sit there and tell me that you’re going to struggle to find a woman who wants to even just pretend to date a famous hockey player.”

“I’m not famous—”

“Luca,” she interjects, pointing in the general direction of the entrance where the paparazzi are no doubt still lined up outside. Unless security has finally managed to get them off the property. How those people manage to trespass so often is beyond me.

“Fine,” I relent. “But the other problem is that we wouldn’t really be dating. I’d be using her. She would have to know that it was going nowhere.”

“So you’re worried that with your heaps of charm, that poor woman would just fall head over heels in love with you—”

“Don’t be an ass. I’m just not built for that kind of thing.

That was the whole point of the thing with Mandy—that I’m focused on my career.

That hockey is what matters most to me. I don’t have time for relationships, for all that stuff.

What if she doesn’t want to throw herself into the limelight, too?

And what about me? I’m just supposed to spend time with some stranger—”

“Jesus Christ!” Wren laughs, throwing her hands in the air. “Then I’ll do it.”

Silence falls between us and we stare at each other. Her chest rises and falls, and the joking smile on her face starts to fade the longer the silence stretches on.

“I mean—” she starts, her hands dropping, but I’m already sitting forward, realizing what a perfect solution it is.

“Actually…”

“No, Luca.” She holds her hands up in front of her now, laughing and shaking them. “I was joking—”

“But it would be perfect,” I interject, and now it’s my turn to stand up out of my seat, walking toward her. “You come to the away games. You’re around all the time, so it would probably even make sense to outsiders. I know you—”

“—because you had a P.I. following me!”

“—and I trust you.” I don’t mean to say it so seriously, but it comes out that way, and I can’t take it back. I don’t want to take it back.

Because it’s true. This woman I met just a few months ago—a woman I was certain was bad news—is one of the people I trust most now.

“It’s probably a bad idea,” she says. Then, “and what would I get out of it?”

“A Stanley Cup win.” I say it right away, clear my throat, adding, “I may have looked through your contract. I know you’ll get that bonus if we win.”

“So I should be your fake girlfriend.”

I take a step back, taking my turn to hold my hands up. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she says, looking to the ceiling. “I-I’m just…don’t you think it’s going to be weird?”

“Two colleagues, planning out a strategy and enacting it. Manipulating the stupid fucking press who don’t care about the truth anyway. All in the combined effort of getting through this season, getting into the play-offs, and taking home the cup? You want it, I want it. What’s stopping us?”

She stares at me, looks away, bites her bottom lip, and finally, after taking a tour of the room with her gaze, returns to me. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I try not to sound surprised, but I am.

“Yes,” Wren says, sighing and grabbing her chair to sit down, pulling her notepad toward her. “But we are going to need to get some stuff on paper.”

“Stuff? Like what?”

“Rule number one,” she says, actually uncapping a pen and scrawling it down as she goes. “No hiring private detectives on one another.”

“You’re still not over that?”

“Rule number two: Understand that Wren is never going to let that shit go,” she deadpans before looking up at me. “Sit down. We need to figure out exactly how we’re doing this.”