Right Man, Right Time

She lives in a dorm?

A fucking dorm?

Jesus Christ, what the hell am I doing?

I rub my hand over my forehead, absolutely humiliated as I sit in my Tesla. Staring at the dorm entrance, I wonder if I’ll be able to muster enough courage to walk up to those doors and go in.

I spent the morning figuring out where to get a meaty sandwich and pickle combo. When I found a place, I ordered five different sandwiches because I was unsure what she would want.

The boys asked me how I was this morning. I told them I was great, that I didn’t think Sarah would be a problem, and not to worry about me. I think they bought it. At least, I hope they did because if the number of text messages I got from them is any indication of how they’re going to play this Sarah thing out, I truly hope they bought it.

No way in hell was I going to tell them about Ollie and what happened last night. Or the fact I’m sitting in a dorm parking lot with a bagful of sandwiches and pickles, looking to make a college girl my pretend girlfriend. They’d believe I’ve lost my mind. They’d probably try to have me committed if I’m honest. Some sort of intervention would occur.

Maybe I need it, though.

Because is this really how low I’ve stooped?

Is this rock bottom?

For my own sake, I truly hope so. I don’t think I could go any lower than this.

I glance at the clock and swear under my breath. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late, and I don’t want to be a dick since she’s expecting me—and her stupid sandwich and pickle. So on a groan, I slip my hat on, glasses, and hood over my hat—can’t be too careful—then take my bag of food in one hand and head toward the entrance of her dorm, where security personnel man the door.

“Post Mates delivery?” he asks as I approach.

Sure . . . why not.

“Yup,” I say. “Suite 305. She asked me to bring it up.”

The door buzzes, and I’m let in. Okay, that seemed too easy.

I spot the elevators and press the button for the third floor. When the doors close, a nervous energy bounces in me as I ride to Ollie’s floor. When the doors part, I’m surprised by the wide, bright hallways and the common space full of couches, chairs, and tables. Not that bad.

I follow signs for her apartment and spot it at the end.

Fuck, what if she has roommates?

Would she invite me over if she has roommates? No, right?

Jesus, I hope not. If she does, I’m dropping this food off and bolting. No thirty-one-year-old man should be in a dorm room full of women . . . ever.

Palms sweating, I knock on her door and stand there, waiting for her to open up. It takes a few seconds, but when she does, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep in the inappropriate sound that wants to escape. Standing in the doorway, wearing a crop top with her nipples erect, is Ollie. Her sweatpants hang low on her hips, her toned stomach is on full display, and she looks so comfortably hot that it’s almost painful.

Jesus.

Is this something she wears on the daily?

And where’s her bra? I can see nearly her whole nipple against the sheer fabric of her shirt.

“Between the way you’re inconspicuously dressed and the full-on once-over you just gave me, your vibe is screaming pervert looking for his next prey.”

And then there’s that snappy wit of hers. How could I possibly forget?

“Just let me in,” I say, irritated that she’s right.

She pushes the door open even more and lets me into a quaint studio suite. With a kitchen on the right of the wall, bathroom on the left, the room parts open into a space just big enough for a desk, double bed, and dresser.

So . . . no roommates. Thank fuck.

The bag of sandwiches is taken from my hand and set on the counter. “Make yourself comfortable, and when I say that, I mean get rid of the hood, glasses, and hat. You look ridiculous.”

“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”

“You are giving your stardom too much credit. I don’t even think that many people like hockey.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Is she kidding? We’re the most successful team in the league, and we live in Canada. Hockey is in the blood of every Canadian.

“You realize you live in Vancouver, right? Everywhere you look, someone is wearing something branded by the Agitators logo.”

She just shrugs her shoulders. “Never noticed, I guess. Oh, is this pastrami? Yes, please.”

The pastrami was for me, but that’s just fucking fine.

“What do you want? Plain ham? You seem like a ham guy.” She slips the sandwich on a plate and turns toward me to hand it over when she notices I haven’t disrobed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She sets the sandwiches down on her bed, then steps up to me and tears my hood and hat off in one fell swoop. Then she removes my glasses.

“There, now take a seat and eat.”

“Where?” I ask as I pat down my hair. “There’s no dining table.”

“Dining table. God, could you be any more of a snob? It’s a dorm room, jackass. There’s my bed and my desk chair. Take your pick. Unless you want to have a picnic on the floor, those are your choices.”

I think I’m still too hungover for this conversation.

“I’ll take the desk chair.” There is no way I’m getting on that bed. It looks far too comfortable, and I can see myself falling asleep.

“Then I’ll take my bed.” She hops up and then brings her plate close to her. She lifts the sandwich and takes a large bite before leaning back and moaning.

Jesus, that sound. It has the blood in my body pumping harder.

“Did you go to Tony’s around the corner?”

“No, the Brooklyn Pickle.” I walk over to her fridge to look for a drink. When I see nothing but hot sauce, I glance over at her. “Anything to drink?”

“Glasses are above the sink. Water is great. Thanks.”

Okay. I grab two glasses and fill them up with sink water. I give one to her and then set one on the desk for me before grabbing my plate from the bed and taking a seat.

“Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Then take it off. God, I can’t watch you eat in that.”

I set my plate down again, grab my hoodie from over my head, and pull it until it’s completely off. I adjust my shirt that rose, and then I fold the sweatshirt and put it on the desk.

“You know, if you don’t want to get recognized, maybe don’t wear an Agitators sweatshirt.”

“It’s all I had,” I say before taking a large bite of my ham sandwich, wishing it was pastrami.

“So . . . how was the hangover? Brutal?”

“More than I care to admit,” I say.

“I was perfectly fine, in case you were wondering. I went for a run this morning, did some light ab work, took a shower, and had a protein shake. I’ve also done my laundry, cleaned my room, and ordered my online groceries to be delivered later today. What have you done?”

“Searched sandwich shops with pickles on my phone.”

She smirks and holds up her pickle. “Well, then you accomplished more than I would have expected. Don’t you have practice or something?”

“Sundays we have off. Once the season starts in a few weeks, things get more intense.”

“Do you drink during the season?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I try to be as healthy as I can, but there are nights when nothing will cure a tough loss like a pint of beer.”

“Soaking your sorrows, I get it. Do you do this sorrow drinking at a bar or at home?”

“If we’re away, it’s at a bar. If we’re home, it’s in my apartment.”

“Makes sense, and do you ever pick up women at the bar?” Her brows wiggle.

“If you’re wondering if I often ask women to be my pretend girlfriend, the answer is no.”

“I’m not asking that. From how you reacted last night, I knew it was the first time you’d asked someone to be your fake girlfriend. I’m just curious about your sex life.”

“Why are you curious about that? Interested?”

“God, no,” she says, as if that’s the most preposterous idea she’s ever heard. “You’re far too old for me. I’m just curious to know what it’s like to be a hockey player. Do you get a lot of action?”

“Some players do,” I answer, not wanting to use names, ahem, Levi Posey. “Some are in relationships. And then there’s me. I only hook up if I really need it. But I don’t like fucking random women because it’s too risky. The last thing I need is a random kid.”

“So your pleasure is mainly from your hand.”

“Is this really how we’re going to start the conversation? Masturbation?”

“I truly believe the best way to get to know someone is through their orgasms, so yes. How many times a week do you come?”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Is this really what the dating world has come to—not that we’re dating—but have I really been that out of the game that we’re now comparing orgasms?

“Are you shy? Fine, I’ll go first. I have a healthy appetite for pleasure. I would say at least every night. Now it’s your turn.”

Every night? I nearly choke on my sandwich just thinking about her getting herself off so often. I’m pretty sure Sarah didn’t even know how to touch herself, let alone want to touch herself that often, or even once a week for that matter.

“How does this pertain to fake dating?”

“It has everything to do with fake dating. Before I sign on for anything, I need to make sure you’re pleasuring yourself so you don’t come sniffing over here, looking for someone to place their hand on your dick. Because if we do this thing—guidelines still to be determined—then I need to know that there is no chance in hell you’ll be a horndog, sniffing up this tree.”

“Wow,” I say under my breath. Not sure I’ve ever had a woman talk to me like this before.

“So if you don’t mind, please tell me how many times you masturbate.”

I pull on the back of my neck. “Probably same as you.”

“Ooo, healthy. Good to know. Now that we have that out of the way, I’d like you to convince me why I should agree to this farce.”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” I say as I lean back in her desk chair and kick my feet up on the foot of her bed. “The more I think about it, the more I know it’s ridiculous, but fuck . . .” I shake my head lightly. “There are some events I’m going to, and it would feel so fucking great to show up with a girlfriend.”

“I understand that feeling. I experienced it last night when I shoved my lips onto yours. It felt great to kiss another man in front of my ex. It’s like silently laughing in their face.”

“That’s how I imagined it would be.” I take a bite of my sandwich, chew, and swallow. “I know it would be asking a lot, but I could help you out as well. I’m not sure if your ex and that Candace girl will be at anything you’re attending with the holidays coming up, but if I don’t have a game and I’m in town, I can go with you. I can also offer you help on your assignment.”

“Which I’ll probably need,” she says. “Sucks that you’re out of town a lot coming up because there are some events I could use you at.”

“And I have some too. Plus, if I told my friends I’m dating you, then they won’t harass me over my personal life, which they’ve tended to do a lot since Sarah and I broke up.” I stare down at my sandwich. “I feel like I need to sweeten the deal for you.”

“I could enjoy a little sweetening.”

I twist my lips to the side, thinking about what I can offer her. I have lots of fucking money, but that would be borderline prostitution, and I’m not into that. I have a nice car, a home gym . . .

Hmm, maybe that would be of interest.

“Do you need to borrow a car? You can always borrow mine when I’m out of town.”

“I have a car, but thanks.”

“Yeah, figured. I have a home gym, not sure if—”

“Tell me more about that,” she says, setting her sandwich down and wiping her fingers with a napkin.

“Uh, I have a gym in my apartment with practically brand-new equipment. I don’t use it as often as I want, but just enough to warrant the money I spent on it. I mainly work out at the arena.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“Everything,” I say.

“Even cardio?”

“I need to keep my legs in shape to ensure I keep up late in the third period. Yeah, there’s cardio.”

“And you would give me access to your apartment so I could use the gym? You don’t think that’s weird or anything?”

“I have nothing to hide,” I say. “My cabin up in Banff feels more like home than my apartment here in Vancouver.”

“You have a cabin in Banff?” she asks. “Like in the mountains?”

“Yup.” I smirk at the awe in her eyes. “Not so bad knowing a thirty-one-year-old now, is it? Bet your little pipsqueak friends don’t have a cabin in Banff, do they?”

“I don’t even think they pay their own phone bill.”

That makes me chuckle. “Anyway, the gym is yours if you want to use it. Tack that on with helping out on that assignment and going to any event I’m present for, and that’s what I can offer.”

“And what would you require from me?”

“Being available when I need you.”

“For . . .”

I roll my eyes. “Nothing sexual. Remember, my hand owns that job.”

“As does mine.” She winks. “Well, that and my seven-inch, neon-purple vibrator that I’ve promised myself to use only once a week to keep my expectations low.”

“Probably smart.” I take a bite of my sandwich because I’m tempted to ask her if I can see it. Seven inches? The girl likes a touch of length. “But nothing sexual. I think you established that early on in this conversation. But we’d have to be intimate around people.”

“Describe intimate.”

“Holding hands, maybe a kiss here and there. You’ll have to look at me as if you find me attractive and not some old man you’re trying to help across the street.”

She smiles. “It might behoove you to know that I do find you attractive. I’m just able to control myself, unlike you, whose eyes wandered immediately to my breasts the moment you saw me this afternoon.”

“You’re not wearing a bra.”

“So?”

“So that’s hot. I looked.”

“Well, at least you’re honest.” She takes a sip of water. “Okay, so are we doing this?”

“You tell me.” And for some reason, I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.

It’s not like it matters if she says no. It’s not like my career or my life depends on her answer.

But I also find the idea of having someone by my side when I’m around Sarah very appealing. I’m still not over what Sarah did to me, and it would feel like such sweet redemption if I showed up to an event with Ollie on my arm.

So yeah, maybe I do hope that Ollie says yes even though this is an asinine idea. Probably a terrible plan in the long run.

“Seems like a ridiculous thing to agree to,” she says. “But I’ll be honest, I think the gym won me over. You have no idea the type of misogynistic behavior I deal with all the time at the gym.”

“What kind of behavior?” I ask.

“Oh, you know, random men coming up to me, mansplaining proper form even though they’re over in the corner, attempting bicep curls by swinging their entire body to get the weight up. Or men who think they can move my stuff to the side to use the bench I’m occupying. Or stealing equipment or blatantly trying to hit on me. It’s frustrating. I just want to work out.”

I run my tongue over my top teeth. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that with me.”

“So I can count on you not attempting to show me how to squat?”

“I probably won’t be there very often at all, so no, you won’t have to worry.”

“How close are you to my dorm?”

“Ten minutes,” I say. “Not very far at all.”

She sighs and leans against her headboard. “This feels too good to be true. My very own gym, help on this stupid hockey thing, and a guy to take to random events. I should have signed up for this a long time ago.”

“Guess you kissed the right man at the right time.”

She smirks at me. “I guess I did.”