“Did she?”

“Happier than my parents. But that’s not hard.”

She sighs, sets a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “True. Understandable, but true.”

“It was so much better to be at your house, you know?”

She nods. “I do know, and I also know it’s not simply because I made amazing popcorn.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “‘Made’? More like bought.”

“Hey! I made it. Most of the time,” she says sheepishly.

“And all of the time it was better to be there than with my parents fighting constantly over insurance and treatments, and on and on.” Ironic that they moved to America for jobs with supposedly better health benefits but wound up arguing with insurance for hours every day, it seemed.

Summer winces. “I sound like I’m complaining about my mom wanting to support me. I’m a dick, huh?”

I laugh, loop an arm around her shoulders, and draw her near. “Only a little.”

“I’m a little dick. Even better.”

I laugh, knowing I’d miss these moments if I lost her to a stupid decision like giving in to lust. “All I’m saying is you’re remembering it a certain way. You remember her being resentful, but I remember her being happy.”

“And I remember your parents trying really hard every second to keep it together, and you remember them fighting,” she says softly.

I mull that over as I drink my beer. She has a point, but also maybe not. “But isn’t it our recollections, more than the reality, that informs our outlook?”

“Possibly. But what if our recollections are wrong?”

“Speaking of wrong, sometimes I worry that Logan is too caught up in what went wrong with his marriage. On wanting to beat that guy who cheated with his wife,” I say.

“I think that too. But I’ve said it to him, and he doesn’t seem ready to hear it.”

“Maybe we only hear things when we’re ready.” My attention swings back to the ice, where Fitz slams the puck, sending it to the forward, who lobs it straight into the net. Setting my beer down, I thrust my arms in the air, cheering.

Summer’s up in no time, punching the sky, hooting and hollering.

The Jumbotron pans the crowd, capturing a raucous audience cheering. When it swings to us, the words “Best Kiss Ever?” blast across the screen.

And in seconds, the whole section is pointing at us.

Summer blinks, her face flushing pink.

She looks at me. I look at her. We look at the screen.

And the words “America’s Best Boyfriend” flash across it.

I don’t know if one of us goes first, or if we both just realize we have to.

I cup her cheek. She slides a hand around my waist. And we kiss not only for the camera, but for the entire arena. Twenty thousand fans cheer us on as I seal my lips to hers, kissing Summer for the fourth time.

And for the fourth time, tearing myself away from her seems impossible because I don’t want to stop kissing her.

Only this time, it’s because I know she likes it.

Judging from the way she slides closer, from how she skims her hands up my shirt, from the way she murmurs, we both like it more than we should.

In fact, when we finally break the kiss, our section is seated, play has resumed, and the Jumbotron screen is showing the game again.

I have no idea how long we were kissing.

Only that I didn’t want it to end.

And I know, too, that we’re going to have to sort out what the hell is going on—sooner rather than later.

When the game ends, her phone trills loudly, and after she answers it and listens, she shrieks in excitement.

25SUMMER

Things I never expected to happen in Madison Square Garden.

Getting a phone call from a dating site.

Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature.

Getting a phone call from a dating site asking me to be part of a feature that the magazine is willing to pay me for.

It would cover the rest of the financing I need for the gym, I mentally figure when the woman on the other end of the line tells me how much I’ll receive if I can deliver a bang-up piece.

“So, would you want to do it?” she asks.

Oliver is watching me with expectant big eyes, gesturing for me to hurry up and tell him what it is.

I cover the phone. “The Dating Pool asked me to do a profile on Top Five Best Dates in New York. They want us to go on them,” I whisper. “Do you say yes?”

“Yes.”

At Gin Joint with Fitz, we toast.

“To another win,” I offer.

Fitz clinks his glass to mine. “To the best fake engagement ever.”

Oliver taps his glass too. “To the money for Summer to fund her dream.”

Then we drink and chat, and this moment almost seems too good to be true.