Real Fake Love

by Pippa Grant

  I sit there blinking at her for a minute, because my eyes are suddenly wet and my throat is hot and I’m getting a tingle in my heart, right in that spot that lights up when I meet someone who gets it.

  Not that I’m Nora Dawn, but that it’s okay for me to be weird by normal standards.

  I spontaneously lunge for Mackenzie and squeeze her in a hug. “Thank you for being so accepting. Even though this is real. For real. Honestly.”

  Good gravy, I am not a good liar.

  “Chick sandwich. Awesome,” one of the hockey players says.

  Mackenzie pulls back and laughs. “Don’t take them seriously. They’re completely harmless and awesome off the ice, but they like to pretend they’re not.”

  “Duck!” one of them yells as a weird shadow dances over us.

  “Bird!” another calls over a squawk.

  “That’s not a bird, it’s an ostrich!”

  “Ostriches don’t fly!”

  I look up at the circling shadows, realize they’re inches from my head, and I duck.

  Mackenzie screams.

  Feathers explode around us, and something heavy beats at the side of my head.

  I shriek.

  Someone’s yelling.

  I can’t get under the seat. I can’t get under the seat.

  And suddenly I’m being squished by hundreds of pounds of something solid and sweaty that’s hollering, “Back, devil, you can’t have them!”

  Someone grunts.

  I think it’s me.

  I’m grunting with my lungs folded in half while feathers tickle my face and fly up my nose and land on my tongue.

  There’s more shouting, and then a familiar voice. “Get off my fiancée, you idiot.”

  “You weren’t here to protect her,” one of the hockey guys says.

  “I can protect myself,” Mackenzie snaps.

  Yep.

  Brooks has come to rescue Mackenzie.

  And where’s Luca?

  I’m about to think he’s not playing his part when the weight is lifted off me and there he is, dropping into a squat on the stairs beside my seat, reaching for me while Brooks trips over both of us to try to get to Mackenzie.

  Luca’s green eyes are pinched, his lips are having some kind of a spasm, and his hat is knocked crooked. People all around us are taking pictures. More people are running from the field, some official-looking, and fans are congregating closer to the two ballplayers in the stands while others start whispering about the hockey players.

  He doesn’t say a word, and while at first I thought he was annoyed, it’s rapidly dawning on me that he’s not annoyed.

  He’s trying desperately not to laugh.

  “What just happened?” I ask him.

  He still doesn’t speak, but instead, gestures to his hat.

  “The birds like your sequins,” Brooks supplies as he inspects Mackenzie from head to toe while she beams at him, brushes feathers off her jersey, and insists she’s fine and wasn’t the intended target.

  Luca chokes as I reach for my hat, which I’m wearing not because it makes me cute and fashionable like Mackenzie’s does for her, but because my hair isn’t fit to be seen in public.

  “Brooks! Brooks, can you sign my ball?” a falsetto male voice says.

  “Ohmygod, it’s Luca Rossi! Will you sign my left butt cheek?” another chimes in.

  “Where’s Cooper Rock? Why doesn’t Cooper ever come save the ladies?”

  We all turn to stare at the hockey players.

  They point at each other, none of them accepting responsibility for their requests. Also, half of them are going back to eating hot dogs or Cracker Jacks, which means they’re gesturing at each other while also dribbling food all over amidst the bird feathers, which probably won’t help with the long-term management of not getting attacked by flying beasts again.

  Luca’s lips are having another seizure. He squeezes my arm, glances at my head, and in a move so fast I’m not sure how he did it, he swaps our hats.

  His, naturally, smells like delicious male shampoo and that smooth scent of new clothing, and not sweat.

  Also, my ovaries are now exploding over the man who’s pecking my cheek and heading back to the ball field, his cleats clicking on the concrete stairs as he dashes past adoring fans while wearing a sequined hat on his head.

  It’s not a far leap from wearing sequined hats on the ball field to wearing tutus to tea parties with little girls.

  And there’s nothing more dangerous to that over-eager puppy of love beating in my heart than the idea of a man playing dress-up and sipping pretend tea with his toddlers.

  I’d ask if his Nonna cursed me too, but the sad truth is, she didn’t have to for this to work.

  Be strong, Henri. Be. Strong.

  I chant it all through the game, while watching Luca make diving catches and hit doubles and steal bases and slide onto home plate to score the winning run.

  I can do this.

  I can be strong.

  Wanna know why?

  Because in this case, I know for a fact that Luca could never love me, and even if he said he did, I know I can’t trust him.

  I just wish that knowledge didn’t suddenly sting.

  17

  Luca

  When we walk out of Duggan Field to board the bus that’ll take us to the airport for our away series in Florida, there aren’t any sports photographers with their cameras flashing.

  But we’re still swaggering, every last one of us in matching footy pajamas decorated with the official Fireballs mascot contender print.

  I have Glow the Firefly on both my ass and my left breast pocket. Yes, it weirds me out. But fuck if I won’t own the hell out of these puppies anyway.

  They’re our good luck charm, and we all look like goofballs together.

  “Dude, I want bling,” Francisco mutters to me as we file toward the bus.

  “Get your own girlfriend who likes to wear bird bait.”

  Yeah.

  I’m wearing Henri’s sequin hat.

  I traded it to the equipment manager for an official Fireballs hat before the game, but I have it back now, and I’m wearing it out to the bus.

  Even without people watching.

  The sentiment that I’m publicly claiming Henri through her hat should be enough to make me grimace, but the hat—

  Damn thing’s making me smile.

  I don’t know why, but it is.

  For a woman who was on my last nerve two nights ago, Henri’s amusing the shit out of me today.

  Up on the bus, Brooks drops into the seat next to me. “Ready to kick some Florida ass?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Gonna sleep with that hat too?”

  “You want one so bad, ask your fiancée to get you your own.”

  He glances around and lowers his voice. “Is she one of your Nonna’s tricks?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence in my ability to be a good person. Appreciate it.”

  “Emily?” he mutters.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  “Not trying to be a dick, but you being a dick won’t help our game either, and I’d rather be the dick who calls your bullshit now than the idiot who didn’t stop a train wreck when all I had to do was ask a simple question.”

  I played my rookie year with Brooks in New York. I met Emily in New York. I got engaged in New York.

  And I called it off last-minute in New York.

  Not many people cared about a post-season wedding disaster for a rookie who wasn’t yet shilling shampoo and hadn’t set any records, but a few of my teammates were there.

  And this one remembers.

  I scowl at him. “I learned my lesson.”

  “Lesson wasn’t supposed to be love sucks.”

  “Did I try to stop you from getting engaged?”

  “No, because you’re usually one of the good guys. Fun on the field. Good teammate off the field. Pretend to be happy for us even when you think we’re making mi
stakes, because you know better than to be that guy. But if you and your grandmother are manipulating a woman who’s an utter disaster—”

  I don’t lunge for his throat, but I’m close. “Do. Not. Call. Her. That.”

  “Rossi. You’ve met my sister.” He lifts his hands like peace. “Utter disaster’s a compliment where I come from. Also means I’m not gonna sit back and watch you take advantage of someone who reminds me of her.”

  “I’m not taking advantage of anyone.”

  He squints at me like he’s gauging how honest I’m being, then slowly nods. “Good.”

  “Hey, lovebirds, you made ESPN.” Cooper’s the last to board, and he drops into the last open seat across the aisle as the bus pulls into motion. He flips his phone toward us, and there’s video of Brooks and me leaping into the stands before the game while ushers and security race after us.

  God, Henri’s face.

  One minute, she’s buried under a pile of hockey players and bird feathers, and the next she’s emerging wide-eyed and gaping at me like she doesn’t even know what planet she’s on.

  I swear, her eyes say she’s talking as fast in her brain as she talks when she’s awake as I try to explain to her that the vultures were attracted to the reflection of her sequins.

  And that look that’s shifted on her face as I turn away—fuck.

  This entire situation is a bad idea. Brooks is right.

  But who else is going to protect her from herself?

  I might’ve screwed up royally when it came to Emily—though she messed up plenty on her own too—but I’m older, wiser, and better equipped to do the right thing by a woman.

  With Henri, the right thing is making sure she doesn’t hurt herself.

  Physically or emotionally.

  I can do that without getting involved, and the fact that she came to me with her eyes wide open, asking me to help her, is a good sign we’re on the same page.

  I’m about to grab my phone and text her to make sure she got home okay when it buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, scan a few lines, and holy shit.

  Whoa.

  Just whoa.

  Henri: Do you know what I want to do to you? I want to swipe my hungry tongue all over your hot skin from your mouth to your dick, and then I want to lick your cock until it’s weeping for me, and then I want to take your hard steel rod into my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat and suck you until you can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel the pleasure of my hot, wet, silky magic on your glorious cock, and until you know no other woman’s name but mine.

  My dick twitches. My mouth goes dry. I angle in my seat so my teammates can’t read this, and I’m gaping at the screen, my brain short-circuiting as I try to come up with a coherent response, when another text arrives.

  Henri: OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH WRONG SCREEN. That wasn’t for you. Erase that. Ignore that. OMG. OMG. OMG, I am so embarrassed.

  Luca: Wait. WHAT? Who the FUCK are you sexting with? Jesus. HOW MANY MEN ARE TEACHING YOU TO NOT FALL IN LOVE?

  Henri: I’m not sexting! THAT WAS FOR A BOOK!

  Henri: And it’s not published yet.

  Henri: And it’s not mine, so please, PLEASE don’t share that. With anyone. My friend Dorothea had all these dangling modifiers and misplaced commas so I was helping her smooth out her sentence and I copy-pasted it to the wrong person on my contact list. OMG. I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment and then Dogzilla will have no one to change her costumes.

  Luca: That was from a book?

  Henri: YES. My friend Dorothea. She writes as Satin Knight. You met her the other day. She asked Cooper to take his shirt off.

  Luca: GRANNY ROMANCE? GRANNY ROMANCE WROTE THAT?

  Henri: She’s seventy, not dead, Luca. Don’t judge a woman on her wrinkles. It’s not very nice.

  Luca: I’m not judging. I’m surprised. YOU SENT ME A BLOW JOB. Of fucking course I’m surprised.

  Henri: Clearly, it’s a good thing your Nonna’s not looking over your shoulder.

  Luca: *gif of a sexy older woman*

  Henri: Oh my gosh, tell me that’s not what you see when you think of your Nonna.

  Luca: I was making a joke about older women being sexy.

  Henri: *gif of a hot actor from a space cowboy TV show trying to say something to stop someone from being an idiot*

  Luca: ?

  Henri: My last fiancé left me for an older woman. You know, your mother? That wasn’t a very good joke.

  Henri: Probably you should stick to playing baseball. Good game, by the way. And thank you for the hat. It was nice to not have to worry about birds attacking me all through the game. But you can have it back. I don’t want the team to be short a hat. I can buy one at the store like a normal fan.

  Luca: The team has plenty of hats.

  Henri: And bats? And cats? And mats? And pats?

  Henri: Sorry. Ignore me. I’m a dork.

  Luca: You’re not a dork.

  Henri: I am, and I accept that about myself. But thank you for being kind enough to suggest I’m not if “dork” is an insult where you come from. *smiley emoji*

  Luca: You enjoyed the game?

  Henri: Yes! So much. And I got a jersey and ate too much popcorn and had the best time ever with Mackenzie. She’s so funny. Did you know she and Brooks are getting married at Duggan Field? That’s so sweet that she’s such a big fan and she’s getting to have her wedding at the ballpark. And so great that she’s not letting any superstitions stop her from her dream either. She and Brooks are so adorable.

  Luca: Not as adorable as me and Brooks. *selfie picture with Brooks*

  Henri: Oh my gosh! Your pajamas! Dogzilla needs a pair. Dogzilla definitely needs a pair.

  Luca: Who named your cat?

  Henri: Confucius.

  Luca: Your…made-up character?

  Henri: He’s very real in my head. And no, I don’t need to see a therapist. This is normal for writers.

  Henri: But. For real, how Dogzilla got her name… One day, I was driving along and I saw this dead cat in the middle of the road, so I stopped, because it deserved to have a proper burial, except it wasn’t dead. It was Dogzilla, and she was sleeping in the middle of the road. I took her to the vet, and it turned out she was microchipped, but her last owner died, and nobody knew it until Dogzilla and the vet and I tried to track her down.

  Luca: Jesus on mozzarella.

  Henri: Okay, that was all a story. *giggling emoji* Sorry. I actually got her at a shelter after my third wedding didn’t happen. I went in for a dog and came out with Dogzilla because we made eye contact and I knew it was right. And Confucius did name her. He was all up in my head like, This cat is so lazy, it would be ironically beautiful to name her Dogzilla. And so I did.

  Luca: You are a very unique woman.

  Henri: I know. It takes one of a kind to get dumped by this many fiancés.

  Luca: Why do you keep trying?

  Henri: I’m not. Remember?

  Luca: But you did. For five times.

  Henri: Well…if a person can’t believe in the simple purity of love, what can they believe in? Don’t get me wrong—I still don’t want to get engaged again, or plan a wedding again, and I know I need to learn the difference between “I love you as a person” and “I love you enough to want to spend the rest of my life with you,” but don’t we all want someone to love us?

  Luca: Baseball loves me.

  Henri: For today. What happens in ten years?

  Luca: I was making a joke.

  Henri: I think you’re hiding because it’s easier to protect yourself than to risk being hurt again. And you have a great career and great teammates and a great life already, so it’s easier to enjoy that than to wonder if things could be even better, or to think about what life will be like when you’re too old to play anymore.

  Henri: Sorry. Ignore that too. Love sucks. People only want to hurt each other. I mistakenly think it’s great because I’m a love-aholi
c, but really, I’m probably using my own weddings to compensate for feeling like I should’ve done something to help my parents stay together when I was a kid. I know I’m wrong. I’m working on it. And thank you for your help. I don’t know who else in my life I could turn to for this.

  Luca: Maybe your sister’s bird?

  Henri: *laughing emoji*

  The bus pulls to a stop, and I blink at being pulled back to reality, realizing I’m smiling.

  Brooks lifts a brow, then shakes his head.

  I ignore him.

  One, because he was his own brand of screwed up a few months ago.

  And two, because oddly enough, I have a better puzzle to work on.

  And that’s the mystery of the many facets of Henri Bacon.

  Because I’m going to help her.

  Maybe not the way she wants, exactly, but I’ll still help her the only way a guy like me can.

  18

  Luca

  Four days later, I get home late Sunday night to a house that smells like pine and something I can’t identify until I walk into the kitchen.

  Also apparently known as the library.

  There are books everywhere.

  On the table. On the floor. On the chairs. On the counters. Inside open cabinets.

  Seriously. There are books stacked where my pots and pans and Tupperware would go if I owned more pots and pans and Tupperware.