Page 35 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

T he other night, as Bailey and I watched the fireworks in the cool autumn air, she was the only warmth and light I needed.

I’d wrapped my arm around her, not because anyone was watching, but because it felt right.

I cannot deny the connection we have, but this means we’ve broken a rule from our list of hypothetical fake dating guidelines. No feelings allowed.

As she said, she’ll be leaving soon. Then what?

My future races toward me at a home game against the San Diego Barracudas as I slot the puck to Jamie.

The arena roars as I circle behind our net, gathering speed.

It’s the third period, tied two-two. The pressure is familiar—a welcome weight that pushes me to be my best. The opposition steals the puck and takes the shot, but Clément blocks it with ease.

Jamie gains possession, sending the puck to Lucian. I cut hard toward the boards, creating space as the Barracudas’ defenseman commits himself to our center. Lucian sees the opening, feeds me a perfect pass, and suddenly I’m streaking up the ice.

Cade joins the rush on my right, calling for the puck, but I spot Asher at the blue line—the defense isn’t tracking him. I deke pass to Cade before sliding the puck to Asher, who sweeps it in—top shelf, but the opposition blocks it.

With mere minutes remaining, we’re all in the zone. Amidst the swishing of skates, the hum of the crowd, and my breath in my ears, I hear a distinct slamming sound and whirl around.

One of the Barracudas shoved Lucian into the boards. Nate Simpson left him vulnerable and doesn’t seem sorry about it. The whistle blows. We rush over. There’s blood, but Lucian is back on his feet.

I cut a glare at the penalty box and I’m not alone. Now, we’re playing with bad intentions, well, for the opposition.

But despite our best efforts, the red light flashes for the goal and the buzzer sounds, indicating the end of the game. We lose by one point.

The crowd erupts as my teammates mob together. Through the chaos, something catches my eye in the stands—a flash of blue—my number, forty-nine, on a jersey worn by someone with a familiar smile. Bailey is here cheering with the rest of the Maple Falls fans … and I’m afraid I’ve let her down.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and it’s not just from the exertion. Her presence feels like finding north when I’ve been spinning blindfolded.

The next minutes are a rush, a flash, a flurry as we return to the locker room, get the expected talk from our captain and shoulder the loss.

Lucian seems okay, but we guys are good at hiding injuries, at least initially.

And what’s okay for a hockey player could be catastrophic for a regular dude.

He has a cut on his face that will probably need stitches, the purplish start of a black eye, and very likely bruised ribs.

He’ll be sore for sure—and not just his body. Nate now has a target on his back.

“Earth to Crane,” Jamie says, tapping the bench. “Good work out there.”

“Thanks,” I manage, but my thoughts drift back to Bailey.

Coach Hauser slaps my shoulder. “That’s the chemistry we need, gentlemen. Next time you win. That’s all there is to it.” He gives us a fatherly nod and sweeps from the room.

Later, amid media interviews and dour locker room conversations, I shower quickly and change. Despite the outcome of the game, I can’t wait to see Bailey.

No sooner do I pack up my gear, does my phone buzz with a text.

Bailey: Good game. I’m outside the east entrance.

A smile spreads across my face as I shoulder my bag.

“Hot date?” Cade asks with a knowing smirk.

“Something like that,” I reply, heading for the door.

“The maple farm girl?” Jamie calls after me.

Weston hollers, “Hey, don’t forget we have the bachelor auction coming up.”

“Don’t remind me,” Lucian mutters.

“So is it for bachelors only?” I ask, hoping that’ll exclude me because I’m in a pretend relationship.

“It’s for the entire team,” Weston says.

“Right, but that’s not the point. It’s to raise funds to help save Maple Falls,” Asher adds.

“But it’s a bachelor auction, by definition, that implies single guys.” Bailey said she’d be on board for this, but I’d rather take a cream pie to the face than have someone else “bid” on me.

“If you’re being technical, maybe, but you’d better believe I’d go on a date with a grandma with deep pockets if it means keeping Maple Falls from development.” Asher chuckles.

I squint. “Would you though?”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Whatever it takes, bro. Which means you’re in whether you like it or not. We all are unless you have a really good reason. Sudden missing limb, food poisoning, extradition to your country of origin. ”

I rub my stomach. “I’ve heard food poisoning can take a few days to develop.”

Weston slants his eyes in my direction. “Not a chance.”

Grumbling, I mutter, “Fine. Sign me up.” And I’ll make sure Bailey bids on me.

Then, Otto, our otter mascot, shuffles through the locker room, giving me an idea.

My phone beeps again. It’s Gabe. I don’t answer, nor do I want to keep Bailey waiting, so I quicken my pace as I hurry through the arena corridors after Otto to have a quick word.

A few minutes later, I find Bailey under the soft glow of the outdoor lighting, my jersey now covered by her jacket. She rushes toward me, opening her arms for a hug. We embrace and I can’t help but want to stay like this for a long time—for her to remain in Maple Falls with me.

“Nice goal,” she says, her smile both familiar and new. Something I can’t get enough of.

“You wore my jersey,” I say, unable to hide my surprise ... and delight.

“Someone has to represent Bama. Do you guys usually celebrate afterward?”

“Not after a loss.”

“Pfft. When I was on the kickball team as a kid, we’d go out for pizza and I’d get a quarter for the Pac-Man game.”

Imagining a young Bailey, gaze focused intently on the vintage video game console screen, operating the joystick and leaning in the direction she wanted the little yellow character to go, makes me chuckle inside.

“I noticed a pizza joint in town.”

We walk toward the truck and I wonder if this moment will become a mere memory, buried away, or will Bailey and I have a future.

“The Rustic Slice. Let’s go, my treat.” She gets in the truck and slams the door.

In the driver’s seat, I counter, “No way, my treat. ”

“That doesn’t make sense. You got a goal.”

“Exactly,” I say, driving toward town.

As we pass under a street light, Bailey flashes a grin. “We’ll just have to battle over the bill. Lucky for me, there’s a good chance I know whoever is working tonight.”

The two large windows flanking the entrance to the brick building housing the Rustic Slice glow warmly, invitingly.

Despite her feistiness about the bill, I hold open the door for Bailey.

Technically, this isn’t a date, but I’ll still be a gentleman.

The scent of dough, and simmering tomato sauce with garlic and herbs greets us along with, of course, someone who knows Bailey.

She chats with the gal at the counter, taking care of the order for us.

Groups and couples fill the tables and I grab one tucked in the corner. Usually, after a game, I need to be mopped off the floor from exhaustion, but tonight I feel invigorated, despite the outcome.

Bailey strides toward me with two cups of soda and sets them on the table. “I took the liberty to order you the same thing that I always get.”

I arch an eyebrow in question.

“A slice of pepperoni and grape soda.”

My eyes bulge. “They really still make that stuff?”

She leans in like she’s about to reveal a secret. “Bottled grape soda is probably toxic sludge, but here, they just add carbonated water to grape juice. Insider secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

I make a lip-locking motion. “The Rustic Slice secret is safe with me, along with your maple syrup smuggling operations.”

Bailey flashes an indulgent grin and I wonder if it’s dinner I’m hungry for or her.

From behind us, someone calls her name, indicating our slices are ready. She dashes over and returns with them, along with shakers of red pepper flakes and parmesan cheese.

I watch as she loads up her pizza, picks it up, and taps the tip of my slice. “Cheers to a great game, the Ice Breakers, and a very handsome wingman who scored a goal.”

This woman brims with personality, uniqueness, amusement. Even the simplest things are an event. I kind of love it.

“Cheers,” I repeat, appreciating her comment more than I should.

After a few bites and wiping her mouth, she bounces in her seat. “So, I was thinking …”

I lean in, eager to hear what she has to say.

Wearing a mischievous smile, Bailey asks, “Ready for a blast from the past?”

“The stereo system is playing a tune from the 1980s, so how far back do you want to go?”

Will she suggest we launch a rocket in her backyard? Search for buried treasure. Oh, wait. We did.

Taking a cautious look around, Bailey pulls the metal box out of her bag. What else does she keep in there besides the contraband maple syrup? A complete set of encyclopedias—do they still make those?—a full-sized stapler, packets of condiments, a pair of galoshes?

It’s the time capsule we discovered when we were stuck in the basement.

“Dare me to open it?” She bites her lip and her eyes tip my way.

Swallowing because I’m more interested in her than the box, I nod.

After she sets up her phone to record our discovery, we huddle together over the table, our foreheads practically touching, pizza forgotten. The metal box sits between us, tarnished but intact, a literal piece of history … or it could just be full of dirt.

Bailey’s fingers trace the edges, looking for a way in. “It’s sealed pretty tight. Pocketknife?” She holds out her hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel .

“You mean to say you don’t have one in that Mary Poppins handbag of yours?”

She laughs, a sound that makes me feel like I won at the game of life—never mind hockey or video games.

I pull out my grandfather’s pocketknife and work the flat side of the blade under the edge of the lid.

It resists as if to ask if we’re really sure about this.

Once the box is opened, it can’t be closed.

The hinges are rusty, but when I’m able to pry it upward about a quarter inch, Bailey adds her fingers to the effort.

Our hands touch, and I pretend not to notice the electric jolt that shoots up my arm.

With a satisfying pop, the lid finally gives way. A musty, paper smell wafts up—the scent of time long past.

Bailey whispers, “We’re literally the first people to see this stuff since the nineteen-fifties.”

I recall her mentioning that’s when they celebrated the Maple Falls centennial and they were supposed to open it at the turn of the century.

On top is a small US flag, but instead of fifty stars, there are only forty-eight.

“This must be from before Alaska and Hawaii were made states.”

Beneath that are postage stamps and a packet labeled ‘Samara’ containing those little whirly maple tree helicopters that I’d try to catch at my grandparents’ farm when I was a kid.

We find newspaper clippings, photographs, documents, and what looks like a love letter.

It’s all preserved remarkably well. We spread them out carefully on the red-checkered tablecloth, mindful of the greasy pizza plates we push aside.

An elderly couple at the next table glances over curiously. Bailey shoots them a conspiratorial grin and lowers her voice. “Secret mission. Very hush-hush.”

The woman nods seriously while her husband winks at me. I feel my cheeks warm. Does he see that I’m head over skates for the blonde woman with the megawatt smile?