Page 8 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

Amanda

"Want a drink?" I ask, heading to the mini-bar. "If we're going to craft our epic love story, we might need liquid creativity."

"Hit me."

I pour whiskey into two plastic cups. "Okay, how did we meet? And please, nothing involving hockey. I'd rather not pretend I understand sports."

"What's to understand? Man hit puck. Puck go zoom."

I nearly choke on my drink. "Did you just say 'puck go zoom'?"

"See? You're already an expert." His smile is dangerous. "But fine, no hockey. What's your suggestion?"

"Well..." I settle on the bed, crossing my legs. "We could go classic romance novel. I was lost in the city, you gave me directions..."

"Boring. And you'd never ask for directions."

"How would you know?"

"You followed me today using a rental car GPS. Not exactly the 'damsel lost in Manhattan' type. "

"Fair." I take another sip. "Okay, what about... I was treating a celebrity's pet..."

"And I just happened to be there?"

"You could have been dating the celebrity."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Now I'm dating celebrities in our fake backstory?"

"Just spitballing here." I grin. "Though your parents might actually prefer that to a small-town vet."

"Trust me, they'd hate both equally." He leans forward. "What about something completely outrageous? We met while skydiving."

"Because that's believable."

"More believable than me dating celebrities."

"Fine. How about... you were doing a charity calendar. You know, shirtless hockey players with puppies?"

His laugh is unexpected and rich. "Now who's creating unbelievable scenarios?"

"Hey, those calendars exist! And it would explain why a vet was there."

"To protect the puppies from my terrible handling skills?"

"Mmhh. What about online dating?" I suggest, pouring another round. "That's normal, right?"

"Sure. Until my mother asks to see our matching profiles." He grimaces. "I can see it now: 'Seeking small-town vet with GPS skills...'"

"Hey! I'd have an amazing profile. 'Dedicated animal doctor seeks man who understands puck go zoom.'"

"Swipe right." He grins. "Though we'd have to explain why I was looking at profiles in Tennessee."

"Location settings error?"

"Now who's getting technical?" He shifts in the chair. "What about Instagram? You could've commented on one of my posts."

"Oh god, what would I even say? 'Nice goal, what's a goal?'"

"Better than 'nice puck zoom.' "

I throw a mini bottle at him. He catches it without looking, and something about that casual athleticism makes my mouth dry.

"Social media's out," I say quickly. "Your mother would want to see the comments. The likes. The whole digital trail."

"You've really thought about this."

"I'm thorough. It's why I'm a good vet."

"And a terrible spy."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Let me think." He pretends to consider. "No."

I grab a pillow to throw, but he holds up his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay. What if... what if we met through a mutual friend?"

"Do we have mutual friends?"

"We could make one up."

"That's more people to keep track of." I flop back on the bed. "This would be so much easier if we'd just actually met somewhere normal."

"Like following someone to their family estate?"

"You're hilarious." But I'm smiling. "Fine, what's your best 'how we met' story? Impress me."

He leans forward, and suddenly his voice drops into something intimate. "It was late. You'd had a rough week—lost a patient maybe. Needed to clear your head..."

“I’m liking this. So far. Don’t screw it.”

His voice wraps around me like warm honey. "You were in New York for a vet conference. Couldn't sleep. Found yourself walking through Central Park at sunset..."

"Very romantic," I murmur. "Also possibly dangerous."

"Shh. I'm creating art here." He shifts closer, perching on the edge of the bed. "You were wearing that sweater—the blue one that makes your eyes look stormy. Hair loose, like it is now..."

My breath catches. He's noticed my eyes?

"Go on," I manage.

"I was running. Training schedule doesn't care about sunsets. But then I saw you, standing by the lake, looking... lost. Not physically lost. Something deeper."

"Laying it on thick, aren't we?"

"Still creating." His eyes lock with mine. "You were feeding ducks, breaking all the park rules..."

"I would never. That's terrible for their digestion."

"Fine. You were... stopping other people from feeding ducks. Very responsible. Very vet-like."

I laugh. "That's more believable."

"I slowed down. You looked up. And right then, this massive storm rolled in—"

"In this perfectly romantic sunset?"

"Weather changes fast. Work with me here." His smile is soft. "We both ran for cover under the same tree. You started telling me about duck digestion..."

"Smooth talk."

"The smoothest. But I couldn't take my eyes off you. The way you got so passionate about waterfowl health. The way you didn't care that your hair was getting wet, that your sweater was soaked..."

Something shifts in the air between us. His voice has gotten lower, rougher.

"And then what?" I whisper.

"Then..." He's close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. "Then I asked if you wanted to get coffee. Get warm. You said you preferred hot chocolate. I said I knew a place..."

"Did I go?"

"You did. But only after making me promise we'd check on the ducks tomorrow."

"I'm very dedicated to waterfowl welfare."

"It's what made me fall for you. "

We both freeze, the words hanging between us. It's pretend, I remind myself. He's just spinning a story. But the way he's looking at me...

"So what else did we talk about?" I ask, pulling my knees to my chest. "Over that hot chocolate?"

"You tell me." His eyes dance. "What would you have said to a strange hockey player who rescued you from the rain?"

"Probably asked if he made a habit of stalking women in parks."

"Ouch. And here I was, being all heroic."

"Fine. Maybe I asked what you were training for."

"And I said 'man hit puck, puck go zoom.'"

"Stop!" I laugh. "No one would fall for you if that was your go-to line."

"But you did. In this story." His smile turns thoughtful. "What would have made you stay? Really?"

I consider this. "Honesty, maybe. If you'd admitted you were as out of place in that fancy hot chocolate café as I was..."

"The famous hockey player?"

"The guy underneath that. The one who'd rather be running in the rain."

Something flickers in his expression. "Your turn. What did I ask you?"

"Something safe. Like where I was from."

"No." He shakes his head. "I asked what made you become a vet."

"How do you know that's what you asked?"

"Because it’s me who asked? No. Because I'd have wanted to see your face light up. The way it does when you talk about saving animals."

My chest tightens. He's noticed that too?

"Okay," I say softly. "Then I told you about my first rescue. A puppy in a ditch, barely breathing. Three days of sleeping on the garage floor next to his box... "

"Did he make it?"

"He did." I smile at the memory. "I named him Fighter."

"Of course you did."

We're quiet for a moment, the pretense slipping away.

"Your turn," I say. "I asked you about your first time on ice..."

"First time on ice?" He winces. "Not very romantic. I looked like a baby giraffe."

"Perfect. That's exactly what I want to hear. Tell me you fell on your face."

"Multiple times. My mother was horrified—LaRues aren't supposed to be ungraceful."

"But you kept at it."

"Yeah." Something softens in his face. "In this story, that's what made you give me your number. Not the smooth hockey star thing, but..."

"The stubborn kid who got back up?"

"Exactly." He reaches for the whiskey. "Then I asked what scared you most."

"In the middle of our first date? Bold."

"I'm a bold guy. Also, you'd just told me about sleeping on a garage floor for a puppy. I was intrigued."

I accept the refilled cup. "Fine. I told you... I'm scared of failing. Of not being able to save them all."

"Real answer?"

"Very real." I take a sip. "Your turn. What did you tell me?"

"That I'm scared of..." He pauses. "Of being exactly what people expect. Just another rich athlete with a good PR team."

Our eyes meet. That felt honest too.

"So what did I say to that?" I ask, voice soft.

"You said..." His lips quirk. "'Well, you're definitely not what I expected.' "

"Smooth."

"I try." He stretches, and I definitely don't notice how his shirt pulls across his shoulders. "Then you told me your most embarrassing moment."

"I did not."

"You did. You were very charmed by my vulnerability."

"More like the hot chocolate was spiked."

"Come on." He grins. "What would it have been?"

"Nope. Your story, you tell it."

"Fine. You told me about the time you had to explain to a client why their goldfish was pregnant. Even though they only had one fish..."

"That's not embarrassing, that's just biology."

"...while wearing your scrubs inside out. With cartoon ducks on them."

"I do not own duck scrubs!"

"In this story you do. They're very cute."

"Okay, my turn to make up embarrassing stories about you." I tuck my feet under me, getting comfortable. "You told me about the time you scored on your own goal..."

"That never happened."

"In this story it did. You were distracted by a pretty girl in the stands..."

"Now my parents know you're lying. I never get distracted during games."

“But you do get distracted sometimes. Remember you told me about that time when you nearly crashed into a newspaper stand?"

"I was making that up to test your empathy. First date and all, you know? You failed, by the way."

"Back to our story," I say primly. "After you admitted to the own-goal incident—"

"Which never happened—"

"—I asked about your best moment on ice."

His expression shifts, turns genuine. "Game seven, playoffs. Down by one. Ten seconds left..."

"Let me guess. You scored?"

"No." His voice softens. "I passed. To my teammate. He had a better shot."

"That's... not what I expected."

"Sometimes the best play isn't the glory play."

I study him. "You really believe that."

"In hockey. In life." He meets my eyes. "In this story, that's when you realized I wasn't just another spoiled athlete."

"Smooth again."

"I contain multitudes."

"So what happened next? In this perfect first date story of yours?"

"Well..." He leans closer. "It started raining again when we left. But this time..."

"This time?"

"This time we didn't run."

My breath catches. "No?"

"No. Because I'd spent two hours learning that you were brave, and funny, and cared so damn much about everything. Even ducks."

"Especially ducks."

"Especially ducks." His smile is soft. "So when you tilted your face up to the rain, I..."

He trails off. The air between us feels electric.

"You what?" I whisper.

"I didn't kiss you," he says softly. "Not yet."

"No?"

"No. Because I wanted to do this right. I wanted..."

"What?"

"To earn it. To know it wasn't just another first date, another story to tell."

Something in my chest flutters. "So what did you do instead? "

"I took off my jacket. Put it around your shoulders."

"Very gentleman-like."

"I have my moments." His eyes hold mine. "And you looked up at me, water dripping from your lashes, and said..."

"What did I say?"

"You tell me."

I swallow hard. "I said... 'For someone who hits pucks for a living, you're surprisingly sweet.'"

"And I said, 'For someone who lectures strangers about duck digestion, you're surprisingly charming.'"

"I bet you say that to all the vets."

"Only the ones who follow me home."

We both laugh, breaking the tension for a moment. But when our eyes meet again, it's back, stronger than ever.

"Then what?" I ask.

"Then I walked you back to your hotel. You gave me your number—your real one, not the fake one you give to first dates who can't take hints."

"Bold of you to assume I have a system."

"Are you saying you don't?"

"...Continue with the story."

His grin is knowing. "I texted you before I even got home. Just three words."

"'Man hit puck'?"

"'Worth the rain.'"

Oh.

"And I replied?" My voice comes out huskier than intended.

"You waited exactly twenty-three minutes. Killed me the whole time."

"Playing hard to get?"

"Getting changed out of wet clothes. Or so you claimed."

"And then? "

"Then you wrote back: 'Worth the lecture about duck digestion?'"

I can't help smiling. "And you said?"

"'Let me take you to dinner tomorrow and find out.'"

We stare at each other, the pretense wearing impossibly thin.

"That's..." I clear my throat. "That's actually a pretty good story."

"Better than the charity calendar?"

"Much better. Though I still think the shirtless part had potential."

"We could always..." He hesitates. "We could make it real. Tomorrow. Central Park, sunset."

My pulse jumps. "For authenticity?"

"For memory." His eyes are intense. "So when they ask how we met..."

"We'll know. Down to every detail."

"Every word."

"Every look."

The air crackles between us.

"Tomorrow then?" he asks softly.

"Tomorrow." I manage a smile. "Better bring an umbrella."

"And ruin the romance?"

"Can't have you catching a cold before you zoom that puck."

He stands, and I pretend not to notice how reluctantly. "Central Park. Sunset. Wear something blue."

"For my eyes?"

"For the story." But his smile says otherwise.

At the door, he turns back. "Amanda Collins?"

"Yeah?"

"Worth the wait."

After he's gone, I touch my cheeks, finding them warm. This is dangerous. This whole thing—the chemistry, the way he spins stories, how he notices things about me I didn't think anyone saw.

Tomorrow we're supposed to be creating a cover story. But something tells me we're about to create something else entirely.

And I'm not sure I want to stop it.