Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

you in the morning,” I say, heading out of the conference room and toward the bank of elevators where several of our teammates are already gathered to get to their floors.

I turn early, heading toward the stairs, and take them two at a time up to the fourth floor where Poppy’s room is. I pass several doors before stopping at hers and knocking. Her key is burning a hole in my back pocket, though I don’t dare use it. That was mostly for show and also because it’s getting harder not to flirt with Poppy. It’s still new ground, yet it feels stable and strangely familiar. Sometimes her cheeks flush pink, other times, she laughs and cuts me down with her wit, and occasionally she flirts back.

The door opens, and Poppy appears, her smile hesitant and shy. “Hey,” she says.

I grin. “Hey.”

“I just need to grab my jacket,” she says, letting go of the door.

I step inside but hold the door open. “Aren’t you already wearing your coat?” I ask, looking at the black jacket she has zipped up.

She laughs, grabbing her snow coat. “It’s cold here,” she says. “I called the front desk because I don’t think my heater’s working. It’s not blowing.” Her eyes cut to me, “I mean, the fan’s not blowing air. Heated air.”

I release the door and walk into the room, trying not to smile as her cheeks color a light shade of pink. “Are you sure it’s on?”

“Pretty sure that’s what twisting it to ‘on’ was supposed to do.”

I smirk at her, appreciating the sarcasm that she pairs with a smile. Her room is meticulous, everything still in her suitcase that sits on the luggage rack.

I flip the cover of the unit open and hit a couple of buttons, but nothing happens. “We can stop by the front desk on the way out. Maybe they can get it fixed while we’re at dinner.”

Poppy nods, sliding on her puffy jacket. “Yeah.”

“What did you think of Spokane?” I ask as we board the elevator.

“Good candy,” she says, but before I can ask more questions, the elevator stops at the third floor, and a group of girls boards the elevator, sporting red and black Brighton gear. They’re giggling, likely on an emotional high because of the weekend away. It’s common that fans feel an energy when they come out on the road with us.

I take a step closer to Poppy to allow them more space.

“Oh my God. You’re Paxton Lawson,” one of the girls says, her eyes round and bright with enthusiasm as she turns from me to her friends and back again.

I grin. “Thanks for coming to watch the game,” I tell her.

“I’ve watched all of your games,” she tells me. “Every single game for the past three and a half years.”

“She’s your biggest fan,” her friend tells me as another girl nods.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Will you sign my shirt?” the girl asks.

I pat my pockets. “I don’t have a pen.”

“I have one,” Poppy says, digging into her purse. “But I don’t know if I have a marker.” She pulls a small handful of pens out. “Oh, this might work!” She hands me a thin Sharpie.

The girl pulls the fabric above her chest tight.

“It works best on your shoulder,” I tell her. “The fabric doesn’t bunch.” It seems like an easy excuse to avoid having my hand on her boob.

“I don’t mind,” she says, grinning.

I glance at Poppy, guilt and apologies stacking faster than my doubts, but much to my surprise, she’s holding back what looks like amusement—a polar opposite reaction to how Candace used to react when a fan approached me for an autograph.

I scribble my name above her chest, the pen stumbling and catching on the fabric, making it messier than my standard signature, but I don’t try to fix it as the elevator doors open.

“We’re staying here,” one of the girls tells me, eyes wide with insinuation and purpose. “Is the entire team staying here?”

I cap Poppy’s pen and hand it to her as I move closer, placing my hand on her back. “Yeah, but we’ve got a curfew. It’s a big game tomorrow, being the last game of the season and all.”

“Can we get a picture?” The girl whose shirt I signed asks as we collectively step out of the elevator. The lobby is full. Loud voices and cheers ring through the space.

“Sure. Let’s get one, but then I’ve got to get going. My girlfriend and I have reservations.”

The girls release a chorus of coos that has Poppy’s cheeks burning and me grinning. Fans are the backbone of my career. When the fans love you, the school loves you, and when the university loves you, so do the coaches, and I’ve been lucky to receive a lot of support—an increased amount since the rumor site published my photos.

“I’ll take the picture,” Poppy offers.

One of the girls hands their phone to Poppy, and they gather around me, their grips tight as Poppy does a quick countdown.

“Thanks again, you guys,” I say, then pull up my hood and wrap my arm around Poppy.

“Are you trying to hide? I think you need some sunglasses and a mustache for this disguise to work,” she teases. “Maybe we can find some in the gift shop.” She peers at the small store next to the counter, where amenities and snacks are lined up.

“Just until we get outside,” I tell her.

“I figured fewer people would know who you were over here,” she says.

“These are our rivals since we’re both in Washington,” I tell her. “Lots of fans come over to this game when it’s here.”

I direct us to the front desk attendant who is on the phone, helping another guest. She smiles and holds up a single finger at us.

“Yes… Yes, sir. I understand. We’re trying to get the issue resolved as soon as possible.” She nods. “Yes. I will be sure to let you know.” She hangs up, and another call instantly rings, but she greets us with