The Husband Game

9

Four days in, and so far the experiment is proving to be a success, at least as far as Fiona is concerned. “Have you seen the hits that first article is getting?” she keeps declaring every time I stop by the office, making me come over to her desk and physically look at the tracking results on the screen, even though I could check from my own computer just as easily.

But I haven’t. I don’t want to. Something about it has started to feel weird. I wrote about our first date (the PG-13 version, anyway, so heavily edited), then the way he dropped me off at my place after (omitting the fact that I did in fact spend the night at his before he dropped me off the next morning). I wrote about how we met up for breakfast another day, and traded childhood stories over coffee and croissants—well, croissants for me, and a heap of protein for Charlie, because, training regime.

Apparently the story struck a nerve. People were all about reading the intimate details of a “traditional” relationship. So many people were leaving comments talking about how romantic it sounded, how they wished they could find a guy like this, start a love story like this.

It makes my coffee curdle in my stomach, now, to think about it. Because I know what’s coming. I know this whole article series is just a set-up to a disastrous end that will leave people angry, heartbroken. Or maybe just impressed at my writing, I don’t know.

Not for the first time, though, I wonder if this is really a good idea. Or if I just let Fi talk me into it because I’m scared of the alternative. Scared of not having anything catchy to write about at the moment, so my name and my work will fall into obscurity.

But is that worth going through this? Is that worth getting so close to Charlie only to have to blow it all up soon?

I don’t know the answer.

I should probably figure it out, I keep telling myself. Especially tonight, our first long weekend together, as I dress to go to his big Friday night hockey game. Apparently they’re playing a big rival team, so tonight’s game should be well attended, a packed stadium full of—well, Charlie’s classmates. Other students. Other girls, girls closer to his age and sharing his classes, who I’m sure all have eyes for their team’s hot starter.

Charlie may downplay how good he is, but I’ve looked him up over the past couple of days—mostly whenever I needed to link to articles about him in the student paper from my own article, with his permission of course. He’s the co-captain of the team, and their lead center. The other captain is the goalie, and the only other player on the team with a better rating than Charlie. Granted, their team isn’t the best out of the college league they’re in, but they’ve been playing a stellar season. Some of the articles I’ve seen predict that they might pull a come-from-behind move this season and wind up as a surprise playoff contender.

Tonight’s game will help determine that. If they win tonight, it puts them one step closer to the playoffs, to glory.

My stomach ties itself in knots, I’m so fucking nervous. Because tonight will also be the first night we’re stepping out in public together since the articles launched. At least in a big way. We’ve gone to coffee shops, bars, little restaurants in his neighborhood or mine, where the owners already know one of us.

But we haven’t met each other’s friends yet. We haven’t gone together to a big event. We haven’t gone somewhere like this: to a hockey game where he’ll be on the ice, the center of everyone’s attention, and I’ll be the girl right behind the team bench, cheering him on. The girl he’ll obviously be with.

What if he changes his mind? What if he doesn’t want to be so public about our relationship?

I have to keep reminding myself, this isn’t a real relationship. None of the feelings I’m having right now are real. It’s all a game, designed to get Fiona more clicks on her website, and me more notoriety as a down-to-earth real-world romance chronicler.

Somehow, the reminder does nothing to help calm the churn in my gut as I tug on the sweatshirt that Charlie loaned me, a school hoodie with the logo of the hockey team sprawled across the front.

It still smells like him. I pause for a moment in front of my mirror, lifting it to my nose to breathe him in. Only then does the churn in my stomach settle, and my body relax, ever so slightly. Because this, at least, is familiar. He has become familiar, a comforting presence in my life. Over the past few days, we’ve opened up to one another more, to the point where I feel like I can talk to him about anything: about my worries about my career, my dreams of how I’ll make it big someday, my fears about what will happen if I can’t write a break out article, something that really goes viral.