Tomboy (The Hartigans #3)(75)

Fuck, the next words out of his mouth were going to hurt.

“Okay,” he said, avoiding eye contact with every person in the room. “It was dumb.”

“Dumb?” his mom said, how-in-the-hell-did-I-birth-this-idiot thick in her voice. “You told the entire world that the key to your sweet defensive moves was the number of puck bunnies you banged before a game—and on top of that, how you call them all honey so you won’t have to bother remembering their names!”

He flinched. Yeah, that was not a good look. He was a privileged asshole who—truth be told—had exaggerated both the abundance of babes in his bed and his lack of memory skills. Still… “I’d had some beers and was talking shit with my boys. And it should be noted that I did the right thing by taking an Uber instead of driving.”

His mom rolled her eyes. “That’s called doing the bare minimum to adult properly.”

The room went silent except for the mental buzz saw revving in his ears so vividly that he could smell the diesel fumes. He clenched his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached so he wouldn’t snap off a nasty retort at his mom. That wouldn’t get him anywhere. She hadn’t gotten where she was because she backed down from fights. He’d inherited the trait, but he’d learned that sometimes the best way to win was to appear like he wasn’t fighting at all. Guerrilla warfare. Psyops. Subterfuge. When it came to winning a war with his mom, those were the only ways to go.

Never mind that he was a twenty-eight-year-old professional athlete with a mortgage, a retirement plan, and a degree in sports management that he’d use to open his own company when it came time to hang up his skates for good. To his mom, he would forever and always be Caleb Cutie who’d fucked up again. It was fucking exhausting trying to meet Brittany Stuckey’s expectations, and he was so done with it.

Lucy, who’d been uncharacteristically watching the goings-on with her mouth shut, broke the tense silence. “Here’s what it comes down to, Stuckey. You embarrassed yourself. You embarrassed the team. You embarrassed Harbor City. This has to be fixed. You are going to have to change the narrative and give everyone something else to talk about besides what a dickhead you are—that is, if you want to keep playing for the Ice Knights.” She gave him a second to digest that bit of yes, it’s been confirmed you’re an asshole, and if you don’t fix it, you’ll be playing in the reindeer league at the North Pole. “And that’s why you’re going to give the media a story they won’t be able to stop talking about. You’re going to let your mom be in charge of your dating profile on Bramble, and you’re going to film video segments about each date.”

He couldn’t breathe, and a throbbing started in his head right behind his eyes. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You want to make this whole perception problem go away so you can start the next season on the first line again instead of the bench because the front office wants to make an example of you?” Lucy asked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping it would stave off the ache making him think his head might explode, and nodded. “Yes.”

“Then it’s gonna happen,” Lucy said. “Lucky for you, Bramble is totally on board with using your redemption story to promote their launch next month. As the founder told me yesterday, if they can make you dateable, then anyone is game.”

Ouch.

“So here’s how it works,” she continued. “Bramble requires a five-date commitment so that everyone really gets a chance to know each other. However, each party must reconfirm their interest after each date, which they will plan for you up to date three.”

His headache was only getting worse. “Five dates?”

“Stop whining, Caleb.” His mom gave him the look. “What’s that in comparison to being able to reach your goal?”

That would be the goal he’d had since before he could remember—getting his name engraved on Lord Stanley’s cup. The Ice Knights were his best chance at that, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up any more than he already had.

“Got it,” he muttered. “Five dates.”

“After each date, you’ll do a little here’s-how-the-date-went chat with your mom. Bramble will use that footage in their launch-week ad campaign to show that anyone can meet their match using the app.”

Oh God. Would this nightmare ever end?

“And I already filled out most of your profile for you,” his mom added, handing him an iPad with the Bramble app open on it.

God’s answer? No. It’s only gonna get worse. Enjoy your time visiting hell, sucker.

He didn’t want to, but he looked down at the screen anyway. She’d filled out the basics, giving him a fake last name.

“Smith?” he asked his mom. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Would you rather go with Pain in the Ass?”

Sighing, he went through the rest of it. It was, like any good lie, as close to the truth as it could be. “Do we have to add a picture?”

“Nope.” Lucy shook her head. “They don’t have photos or job listings in an effort to eliminate unconscious bias in dating, on the theory that users will be more open to the person on the inside that way. Bramble wants to do as much as possible to limit who you are from influencing how your dates go. That means you cannot tell your date who you really are or why you’re doing it. Everything has to be authentic.”