Ten

My muscles are burning after another early morning practice with Kenzie. I knew trying to keep up with our routine and the Dragons' practices would be difficult, but excruciating is probably a more fitting word. She and I have been hitting the ice before the sun even rises, then I head out to destroy my body all over again by way of hockey.

My only saving grace is knowing that Kenzie and I don't have another pending competition for a while. Still, I wish my brother could heal faster. Scratch that, I wish I hadn't agreed to do this at all. I know and understand the reason I'm doing all this…to ease his and Gwen's financial burden, and our parents' too…but I'm in way over my head here, trying to do both sports, attempting to keep everyone happy.

Family comes first.

Mom's words echo in my head as I trudge down the sidewalk to my favorite indie book shop—the place I go when I want to clear my head for a bit. It's a little-known downtown treasure with a cool eighties' vibe. And the owner, Sam, isn't pushy, which I like. She usually gives me a quick greeting, then lets me browse the shelves at my own pace, unbothered.

And that's what I need right now: some peace and quiet where there's no Joel, no Dragons' players, no Kenzie or coaches, and especially no coach's daughter with dark hazel eyes that see way more than they should.

It's been days since she accused me of not being Joel, and she hasn't said another word to me about it. I knew it was risky showing up to practice after that night at Brokedown, but Gwen assured me she placated Chantelle via text. I'd believe her, except that Chantelle's eyes continue to find mine at the practices she catches. And if she sneaks into the locker room to lay into us guys, she always makes it her mission to run into me, throwing her sassy attitude my way every chance she gets.

It"d be hot if she wasn't about to blow my cover.

I've tried to avoid her as much as possible since that night, but she seems to be everywhere. She's like the stink bugs in my apartment. Just when I think I've squashed the last one, I turn around to see another crawling up the wall, likely laughing at my inability to rid myself of them.

Shoving the thought away, I duck my face further into my coat when a blast of cold air hits me. I take the last few steps up to the book shop and when I reach the door, a bright pink poster catches my eye. There's an author signing today? Some Evie Chandler who writes biker romance. Not my thing, but to each his own. I'm more into thrillers and sci-fi.

The door's bell jingles as I pull it open and step into Big Hair Books' warmth, and to my surprise, I am met with a wall of people. More specifically, women. Giggling, talking women holding books and sipping lattes.

"Welcome to Big Hair Books!" Sam calls out from somewhere. "Reach out if you need any assistance!" I try to glance through the sea of people to find her, but it proves useless. Instead, I make a beeline for the sci-fi section.

Thankfully, it's tucked toward the back of the store, where I'm assuming most of these women won't be. I'm guessing they're all here for the romance author, whose vacant table I pass on my way through the stacks.

The deeper I go, the fewer women I find. I suppose if I can't escape them completely, I could at least snag a book and duck into the VHS section that's blocked off with a beaded curtain.

Just as I round the corner to my destination, I bump straight into a small, pillowy body. A small oof puffs out of the little woman as our bodies collide. I brace my hands around her sides to keep her upright.

"I'm so sorry," I say, truly apologetic for nearly knocking her to the ground. "Didn't see you there."

Her dark head snaps up, eyes wide. My chest squeezes with something that startles the breath right out of me. "Chantelle?"

"You." That one word is an accusation. A pointed insult for simply breathing in her vicinity.

"What are you doing here?"

If it were possible, her eyes grow even bigger, the greenish-gold flecks swirling in her irises and catching the light above us. "Me? I'm—" She stops abruptly, then lets her eyes slowly travel to where my hands are still glued to her body.

I immediately release her and step back.

"I'm in a bookstore," she fumes. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

She's got a point.

Still, it feels weird to see her in a space I frequent. This isn't my bookstore, but it sort of feels that way. I've been coming here ever since Sam set up shop.

"What are you doing here?" She crosses her slender arms over her chest, puffing it up like she's trying to make herself larger than she is. Which is practically peanut-sized.

"Like you said," I say, smiling as innocently as possible. "This is a bookstore. Usually when one enters an establishment such as this, they're shopping for books."

"Usually," she mutters, looking toward the stacks, avoiding eye contact.

For the first time since running into her, I let myself take her in. She's stunning in her high-waisted jeans and fuzzy bright pink sweater with a pale pink heart in the center. Her black hair is a little mussed, tempting my fingers to smooth it down.

"Do you always dress like this when you're perusing books?" I point down toward her feet, where her hot-pink painted toenails peek out of high-heeled sandals.

She gives herself a cursory glance before meeting my eyes. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Nothing," I'm quick to say. "But it's cold outside and you're wearing sandals."

Something about the ire in her expression at my audacity to say such a thing spurs me to mess with her. Just a little bit. "You look more like you're going on a date than coming to wander aisles full of books who wouldn't be able to fully appreciate how perfectly…pink…you look."

Brows drawn together so tight that not even a wrinkle could fit between, she glares at me. "What's wrong with pink?"

"I didn't say anything was wrong with it. It's the perfect color for a strawberry."

Her jaw drops, parting her perfectly plump lips. "Are you saying I look like a strawberry?"

I tilt my head side to side and cross my arms, taking my time to respond. "Not necessarily, but if we're going with food items…" I pause and rub my chin to assess her. "I always thought of you as more of a peanut because of your size."

"Excuse me?!"

I lean in and lower my voice to a whisper. "Not sure if you knew this or not, peanut, but you're short. And also, a little nutty." I purposely let my eyes roam over her face. "Yeah, I'd say peanut is the perfect nickname for you."

Again, her mouth pops open, and I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air like a victor. Unfortunately, I also have to resist inhaling her subtle scent as she sways closer—a fruity blend that now reminds me of strawberries no matter how hard I try to convince myself she doesn't smell like my favorite fruit. Slowly, I back away while her obvious disdain mounts to epic proportions.

"You do not get to give me a nickname."

"Why not?" I ask, already knowing how she hates them. One of her dark eyebrows arches and she leans forward with a wicked smile. "Because, Joel, you're married."

All at once, my cardboard castle of lies tips over with a resounding thump. "Uh…of course." I step back, almost forgetting myself. "You're right." I take another retreating step, only to bump into the book stack behind me.

It suddenly dawns on me that I didn't have to pretend to be my brother just now. I could've corrected her and said that I was Jude. We're not at the rink, or anywhere remotely hockey related. But I'm so used to having to act like Joel around her, my walls went up automatically. Probably because of her recent accusation.

Sweat begins to collect on my forehead when I realize what a huge misstep I've made.

"Whether or not I look like a strawberry or a peanut or even if I'm here on a date shouldn't matter to you at all, right? Joel?" She spits my brother's name out like it's a curse as she advances on me. I swallow.

"I wasn't flirting with you," I hedge, hoping she buys it. I'm too close to teetering off the edge with no life-saving rope in sight.

"Maybe Gwen should know about this anyway," she says, stopping until she's just under my chin. She has to lean back to peer up at me, but all I can think about is how good she smells this close. I shove the sensation away, determined to keep my head clear.

"You don't need to tell Gwen about this."

Both her dark eyebrows fly up. "I don't need to tell Gwen? Wouldn't a devoted husband be begging me not to tell Gwen?"

I grit my teeth, hating how logical she sounds. "Not necessarily. Gwen knows I'd never stray. I'm not worried about what she'll think."

"Of course not; why would you be?" Her tiny finger jabs into my chest. "Because she's not your wife, she's your sister-in-law."

I release an overdramatic sigh and lower her finger, molding my features into that bored expression I've perfected around her. "This again? I told you—you're mistaken."

"I am not mistaken. I know the Dragons' players inside and out, and you, sir, are an imposter!" Her voice raises loud enough to draw the eyes of two older women at the end of the aisle. I set my hands on Chantelle's shoulders and direct her behind the beaded curtain into the VHS area for privacy.

"Stop saying that, would you?"

"No!" she hisses, still jabbing me with her finger. "I will not stop until you admit that you're not Joel!" She waves a hand toward the curtain and grits out another accusation. "Joel never would've flirted with me like you just did out there. He never would've given me a nickname or called me peanut. And he doesn't ever talk to me as condescendingly as you do."

A spiteful laugh echoes out of her in the small space and she shakes her head. "I'll admit. Gwen almost had me fooled the other night when she texted me. I actually started to wonder if maybe I was crazy, but this whole encounter has just proven me right."

My breathing's heavy and I'm irritated. At her, at not being able to find peace at my favorite bookstore after another long workout, at this whole entire charade I've been failing miserably at…if I'm honest, I'm too tired to keep fighting her. But I have to. For Joel, for Gwen, for everyone I love.

"Maybe you're just seeing what you want to see," I say with a hard edge to my voice. "Maybe you can't control your attraction to me, so you wish I was Jude instead of Joel."

"Ha!" Shaking her head and crossing her arms like I just spouted insanity, she begins to pace. "You would say that, wouldn't you? You've been nothing but a thorn in my side since I confronted you about—"

"A thorn in your side?! You're the one who won't leave this alone—"

"And," she continues, holding up a finger. "The really sad part is—" She halts and whips her head toward me so fast, her hair slaps against the shelves full of VHS tapes. "Gwen is in on this!" In two swift strides, she pins me against the opposite line of shelves. "What is going on with Joel? Is he sick? Hurt? Dead?"

Without thinking, I place my hand over her mouth to shut her up. "Would you keep your voice down?! Everyone in this shop is going to hear you and think I killed somebody."

Prismatic hazel eyes blink up at me as her soft lips move against my calloused palm. My skin buzzes with the touch, and I realize the mistake too late. I lower my hand, already knowing I won't make it out of this without giving her the truth.

"Fine, I admit it."

Chantelle narrows her gaze. "Admit what, exactly?"

I huff out a frustrated breath. "I'm not Joel."

Instead of giving me a look of triumph that I expect to see, her features cloud over, dark and stormy. "How dare you. How dare you think you can fool my dad, the fans…the entire Dragons franchise."

My shoulders droop under the weight of her words and I shake my head. "You don't know how hard it was for me to agree to this. I didn't want to, okay? But I had to, for my brother."

All at once, some of the clouds in her expression clear. "What's wrong with him?"

I turn away, annoyed that she's suddenly concerned.

"Jude, please."

I squeeze my eyes shut before refocusing on her. She's too beautiful and sounds way too sweet when she says my name like that. It's almost enough to make me want to confess to anything she'd accuse me of. But knowing how bossy and sassy she is kills that desire almost as quick.

"I don't owe you an explanation," I say. "All you need to know is that my brother needed me to do this for him."

Understanding dawns as her eyes search mine. "Did he injure himself?" Against my better judgment, I nod. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough that if he doesn't sit out and rest his injury, he may not be able to play in the playoffs or hold the interest of the scout who contacted him."

Her expression falls along with her eyes. They dart back and forth across the floor as the wheels apparently turn in her mind. "Why didn't he go to my dad first? If he would've just explained—"

"He's convinced he'll lose his shot at the major leagues if anyone finds out. He knew his starting position would be in jeopardy if he had to sit out for a few weeks. Especially with the playoffs coming up. Didn't that already happen to two other guys who got injured mid-season?"

Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, Chantelle remains silent. With the way she knows the team inside and out, there's not a doubt in my mind that she knows exactly what I mean.

"Joel didn't want that to be him," I add. "Getting graduated to a local major league team has been Joel's dream for forever. If he loses this shot because of a stupid injury that he'll recover from in a matter of weeks, he'll never forgive himself."

I don't add the part about the financial strain he and Gwen are in, nor the coming baby. Why would I? A girl like Chantelle, who's had her entire life handed to her on a silver platter, wouldn't understand needing to take care of your parents or taking out massive loans for schooling and fertility treatments. She's probably still riding her own parents' coattails into adulthood.

"Look, I get that," she says, taking up a defensive stance once again. "But you two are lying. You're fooling everyone."

Just then, the beaded curtain parts like the Red Sea, clicking together and revealing Sam's wide smile. For a split second, she eyes us both with a perplexed expression. "Hey, you," she directs toward Chantelle. "Ready to get back to signing some books?"

I tilt my head down toward the peanut-sized woman, and her irises light up with panic. "Uh…um, yes. Just give me one second."

"Okay," Sam says. "But just so you know, there's already a little line forming in front of the table. People can't wait to meet Evie Chandler!" With that, Sam disappears through the curtain. The swaying beads and the look of dread clinging to Chantelle's face are the only signs she interrupted our conversation.

"Evie Chandler?" As soon as I say what I now know as her pen name, her brown gaze narrows on me. "Something tells me this isn't common knowledge." Her face pales, and I realize I've found my loophole. "Who's lying now, peanut?"

"It's not like that," she insists with a quick shake of her head. "I just can't tell people I write books. Yet."

"Why is that?" She begins fidgeting and sneaking looks toward the stacks of books.

"Because. I just can't."

Everything about her demeanor tells me she's hiding something, covering up parts of the story she doesn't want me to know. But I need to know them all. Because if she's got a secret like mine, I have to discover it. That's the only way I'll be able to keep her quiet. She can't out me if she wants to keep her own identity under wraps.

I step toward her. "Why not, Chantelle?"

She shakes her head, visibly rattled. "I just…I can't. My dad…"

"Your dad what? Does he not support you writing books? Would he be disappointed?"

"No." Her voice turns to iron. "My parents just can't know, all right?"

I cock an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is it a steamy romance you'd be embarrassed for them to read?"

"What?" Her back stiffens. "No. I mean, it's not too steamy. There's kissing and making out and stuff, but that's all."

For some unknown reason, I smile at this. Maybe it's because her naivety is sweet, but her rebel spirit in going behind her parents' backs to write books I can only assume they don't like is wildly attractive too.

"If it's not something embarrassing, then why wouldn't you want your parents to know?"

Her gaze hardens and she steps back. "I don't owe you an explanation," she says, spitting my words back at me. When she goes to turn away, I grip her wrist. Not hard, just tight enough to delay her.

"Oh, I think you do," I say. "Because you're all too willing to dole out judgement on me and Joel without knowing the whole story. I think you owe me a reason as to why you don't want your parents knowing about this little setup."

Her eyes flash as her chest rises and falls with her frustrated breaths.

"And if you refuse to tell me?" I add. "Well, I can't promise it won't slip out to Coach Pratt. But I could be persuaded to keep your secret…if you promise to keep mine."