Page 14 of Mac Meyers Needs Me

Our friend group knows exactly what Cammie writes. In her first year, a girl who had a crush on Chase decided a good way to get back at Cammie for dating the guy she wanted was to out her fic name. It backfired spectacularly, though, and now Cammie is semi-famous on campus thanks to her steamy why-choose romance.

I shrug, my cheeks heating. “I have a few favorites. I beta read for Cammie, but there are a couple other authors I enjoy.”

“I read a little bit of Cammie’s stuff once. It’s uh…not what I expected.” Mac taps on the table, cheeks turning pink.

“She looks sweet, but her mind is filthy.” I focus on my tea and try not to replace Aragorn and Legolas with two versions of Mac in one of the scenes I helped her edit recently.

“What about you, do you⁠—”

“I have a morning glory muffin and the lumberjack special!” Our server slides our plates onto the table in front of us, cutting him off mid-question.

I wouldn’t be honest with him anyway. Not right now. Because the answer is yes, my mind is just as filthy.

But Mac is only my fake boyfriend. We’re just friends. And unless something changes, there won’t be any special benefits in this arrangement.

CHAPTER 7

MAC

The puck comes my way and I snag it, dekeing around two Guelph players. I make a break for their net. This whole game I’ve played like shit. Every time I had the puck, I fumbled the pass. If I can just score a goal or an assist, I’ll make up for some of the shitty passes that might lose us this game.

I line up the shot, but before I can take it, I trip over air and sprawl across the ice.

Guelph reclaims the puck as I scramble to my feet, the rest of my team chasing after them. And instead of me scoring a goal and breaking my streak of bad luck, Guelph scores one of their own, giving them a two-goal lead. All because I’ve forgotten how to play hockey.

“You okay, man?” Lovett asks as we take the bench.

“Fucking embarrassing is what I am,” I grouse.

Chase is out there making great passes, and I’m falling over my own thoughts.

“It’s all right. We all have bad games.” He taps his stick against the boards.

“Yeah.” What else can I say? It’s not a bad game, it’s a bad season. If I keep it up, all my hopes and dreams will be flushed down the toilet along with my pride. And my girlfriend is here, watching me shit the bed. Fake girlfriend. Whether it goes beyond the title is irrelevant. Everyone outside of our friend group believes the lie.

We lose the game. And it feels like my fault. It doesn’t matter how many of my teammates tell me they were on the ice too when Guelph scored, if I hadn’t fumbled the puck, if I hadn’t tripped, hell, if I’d been on the bench, Guelph wouldn’t have scored. At least the scouts weren’t here tonight to watch me fuck my team over.

The mood in the locker room is somber post-game, and Coach comes in and gives us one of his you can play cleaner, you’re a better team than this, and we’ll turn this around next week when we play London speeches.

Gage decides we need to have people over so we can drown our sorrows in bad decisions and booze. I’m not in much of a party mood, but anything is better than stewing in my own anxiety for the rest of the night.

Which is how we end up sitting in our living room, playing a drinking game. It’s not the worst since Fee is sitting next to me, smelling fantastic, wearing a Tilton hockey shirt.

Someone came up with a brilliant idea to play I Drink and I Know Things, which always leads to hangovers for Gage, because he’s usually terrible at random trivia.

It’s currently Chase’s turn.

I lean in close to Fee, inhaling her fruity shampoo as I whisper, “He’ll pull out a hockey stat.”

She smirks. “No doubt.”

“I drink and I know the player who holds the single game point record in the pro league,” Chase says.

Every guy and half the girls shout out the answer at the same time.

“It’s my turn. I got that first,” Gage declares.

Everyone lets him have it since he rarely wins a round. Plus, he’s pretty hammered and there’s a solid chance he’ll pass out soon, while sitting in the lounge chair holding a mostly full beer.