The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)

AFTER DINNER, I’m unpacking in the hotel room when McKinnon enters. I pull the framed photo of Hartley out of my bag and set it on the nightstand. It’s a zoomed in version of the photo from the engagement party, with me cropped out.

“You don’t mind, right?” I ask McKinnon.

His lip curls at the picture, and I fucking know he’s thinking about the other night at the bar, when I told everyone Hartley liked me while they were together.

“I don’t give a shit.” He turns away from me, pulling protein powder out of his bag and scooping it into his mixer cup.

“Good.” I take a seat at the desk, swiveling back and forth as he mixes his drink.

“Especially,” he adds, “because when you fuck up, I’ll be here.” He glances over his shoulder, wearing his own smug smirk, and mine drops a fraction.

A possessive feeling ricochets through me. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He leans against the counter as he takes a drink. “You think I don’t know you’ve always had a thing for Hartley? She might be having fun with you now,” he lets the last word linger, “but I had her first.” His smile turns cruel and cold, and rage bleeds through me as he shrugs. “Hazel and I aren’t done yet.”

“McKinnon, this is just sad.” My tone is condescending, but my heart pounds with protective anger.

“We’ll see.”

We stare each other down, but my phone alarm goes off, interrupting. I hit the button to silence it and send him an apologetic look that’s clearly fake.

“Now that I know you’re pining after my girlfriend, this is going to be awkward.” I wake my laptop up, pop my earbuds in, and join the Zoom call.

A moment later, Hartley’s face fills my screen.

“Hi,” she says into my earbuds, giving me a welcoming smile until it falls abruptly. “You’re Bert Randy? I knew that name sounded fake.”

I chuckle, leaning back in the desk chair, aware that McKinnon is watching over my shoulder. “I miss you, too. Send me more nudes like that one you sent last night.”

“Miller,” she says, horrified. “I’m working. Go away.”

“I’m going to be so good for you, baby.” I nudge my laptop so she can see McKinnon behind me. “And I’ll keep my shirt on so you don’t get distracted.”

Understanding passes over her features. “Can he hear me?”

“Nope.” I point at the earbuds.

“Good. Don’t call me baby.” Her nostrils flare, and I smile wider at her irritation. It’s like a drug to me. I love playing with her, firing her up. “I get that we need to pretend in front of him, but—oh my god. Is that a photo of me on your nightstand?”

Behind me, McKinnon starts moving around the room, making noise. “You know I miss you like crazy when I’m on the road.”

She flattens her palm over her mouth like she’s trying to hide a laugh. “Did he see it?”

“Yep.” I grin at her, and she snorts.

“Go into the hall if you’re going to talk all night,” McKinnon says.

Over my shoulder, I give him a disinterested, distracted look and point at my earbuds. “I can’t hear you. I’m doing Hartley’s yoga class.”

“No, you’re not,” Hartley says in my ear.

I ignore her, shrugging at McKinnon. “You’re welcome to join,” I lie. He’s not fucking welcome. “If you want to work on your flexibility.”

“I’m good,” he says, scowling as he picks up his phone and wallet.

I swivel my chair back to my laptop, smiling at Hartley as the hotel room door closes behind McKinnon. “That was fun.”

The corner of her mouth lifts.

“Admit it.”

Her smile lifts higher, and my knee bounces. “Okay. It was fun. Good night.”

“I’m staying for the class.”

“Miller. This is my job. We fucked with Connor, and now I actually need to teach a class.”

Something unpleasant stabs me in the gut. I’m not like McKinnon. I’m not going to make things difficult for her when she’s trying to work.

“Hey.” My voice turns sincere and coaxing, and I dampen my amusement. “I just want to get a good stretch in, okay? I’m not here to cause problems.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. “You cause problems whether you’re trying or not.”

I laugh. “You’re not wrong, but I’m going to mute myself. You won’t even know I’m here.” My brows lift. “Your website says everyone is welcome. You can’t kick me out just because I have a perfect physique.”

I swear she’s blushing. “You’re never going to drop that, are you?”

“Nope.” She’s definitely blushing.

“You can stay on one condition.” Her expression turns serious. “These students are not professional athletes. They’re normal people. They have normal bodies. My job is to make everyone feel welcome, regardless of what they look like or what their abilities are.” She gives me a long look, no trace of irritation or frustration on her face. “I teach fat people, skinny people, young people, old people, differently abled people… everyone. Everyone deserves to enjoy movement and feel good in their bodies.”

An ugly feeling whips through me. Does she really think I’m such an asshole that I would make fun of people for not being professional athletes?

“If you make anyone feel uncomfortable,” she says, and her voice is firm, “I’ll remove you from the class.”

I blink at her. “I wouldn’t, Hartley. I would never do that.”

She looks down, nodding. “Okay. Good.”

My eyebrows pinch as I study her. I just found an interesting part of Hartley, and I want to know so much more. And at the same time, I don’t like that she felt the need to lay out these rules for me. Treating people with respect is just common sense. I would never—

I think about last year, how Streicher and I fought. How I antagonized people on the ice. How everyone compares me to my dad.

A moment later, six more video squares pop up.

“Oh, good, we got new meat!” a woman in her sixties says as soon as she spots me. She has short, spiky platinum blond hair, big eyes, and is sitting on her yoga mat in her living room, bouncing with energy like a kid.

I grin wide. “Hi. I’m Rory.”

“I’m Elaine,” the woman says, and an orange cat walks by in the background. “That’s Archie.”

The others introduce themselves: Clarence, a man in his eighties who informs me he just got a new hip; Laura, a quiet, bigger-bodied woman about my age; Vatsi, who looks to be in the later stages of pregnancy; and Hyung, who looks about twenty and appears to be in a dorm room.

“What brings you to the class, Rory?” Clarence asks.

I glance at Hartley’s screen, where she’s setting up her mat and props. “I’m Hartley’s boyfriend.”

Elaine gasps in delight. “Hazel, you didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“She’s overwhelmed by her feelings for me.” Amusement dances up and down my spine as Hartley slowly turns to the camera, staring daggers at me. “It’s been a while since she’s fallen so hard for someone.”

Hartley stares at her camera, and I can just feel her attention on me, moving over my face.

Elaine raises her hand. “I have a thousand questions.”

“You were supposed to mute yourself,” Hartley says to me, arching a brow.

I click the mute button and throw my hands up with a grin, signaling that I’ll be quiet.

“Let’s begin,” she says, and I adjust the meeting settings so her video takes up my entire screen. “Take a seat however’s comfortable for you.”

I move to the floor, tilting my laptop screen so I can see her, watching as she moves into a cross-legged position on her mat.

“Take a few deep, slow breaths through your nose. Expand into your lungs, expand into your stomach, feel the floor or the prop beneath you. If you want, close your eyes.”

I suck a few breaths in and out, keeping my eyes on her.

“Find your breathing.”

Her voice melts into something smooth and calm. My heart rate slows as I count my breaths, in for five, out for five. Her eyes are closed, her dark hair up in a ponytail with a few pieces loose in the front. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says Don’t Touch Me and navy yoga leggings with constellations all over them.

The deplorable, horny part of me thinks about her telling me she doesn’t wear panties under her leggings.

“You get to do this class the way you want,” she adds. “You’re the boss of your body. Be a good boss and listen to it.”

The authoritative yet gentle way she speaks makes me smile.

I scan the background of Hazel’s screen. Behind her, a mini fridge sits on top of a counter beside a narrow oven and stove. Her laptop is on the floor so I can’t see much except for a pink kettle on the counter. On the left side of the screen, a dark mahogany coffee table has been pushed beside a couch, and on the right, it looks like the edge of her bed.

Jesus. Hartley’s place is tiny.

“Set an intention,” she goes on, eyes still closed. “My intention is to feel good in my body, to quiet my mind, and to get a good stretch in before bed.”

In a game, my intention would be to score more goals than everyone else. Impress the coaches. Work until my muscles burn, until my lungs are on fire.

Hartley leads us through the yin poses, and when we move into reclined butterfly, a low groan slips out of me. Thank god I’m muted. The stretch pulls across my tight shoulders and up my inner thighs. The warm, sluggish haze of relaxation flows through me, making my limbs heavy and my thoughts slow.

“Find your breath,” she murmurs, and I count in for five, out for five. “Relax your jaw.”

I unclamp my molars. She’s sprawled out on her back, belly rising and falling with her breathing.

You can relax when you’re dead, I hear my dad say. His brutal approach to sports is nothing like this.

“It’s okay if your mind wanders,” she says, and it feels like she’s whispering directly in my ear. A shiver rolls down my spine. “Invite it back. Find your breath.”

Finally, we end on our backs, palms facing the ceiling. My body is relaxed, and my mind hums with content stillness as I listen to her soft voice.

“To close today’s practice, I want you to think about what makes you feel worthy.”

Confusion rises inside me. Worthy. I repeat the word in my head. Worthy of what?

“For me,” she says, smiling to herself, “I love hanging out with my sister. Pippa brings out all the best parts of me and I always go home feeling so happy and grateful.”

I’m mesmerized. She’s so beautiful. I wish I could record this so I could listen to it again and again.

“I love running,” she goes on. “Even when I’m huffing and puffing, there’s sweat in my eyes, and my face is red like a tomato, I love feeling strong in my body. I love what my body can do for me.

“And lastly, my work makes me feel worthy. I love seeing what the human body can do. We’re all capable of incredible things, no matter what type of body we’re moving in. I love playing a part in that.” She pauses. “Now, your turn. Where do you find your purpose? What makes you smile? What makes you feel loved?”

Worthy. The word flings itself around in my head, searching for a place to land. My purpose is to be the best hockey player possible, and anything less is failure.

What makes you feel loved?

A memory flits into my head. I was eleven, and it was the summer before my mom left. We were walking through the trails near our home in North Vancouver. We stopped at a creek, and she bent down to flick a few droplets of water at me, grinning. Her deep blue eyes, the same as mine, glowed in the forest light. I laughed and flicked the water right back at her.

“I love you. I hope you know that.”

A longing ache fills my chest. I haven’t heard those words since I was a kid, since she lived with us.

And I was the one who didn’t want to live with her. I was the one who wanted to stay with Dad full time because I’m always chasing his approval.

When class is over, there’s a chorus of farewells as people sign out.

“Miller,” she says. The others have left the virtual meeting room and we’re the only ones here. There’s something different in her voice as she studies me through the camera. “Are you okay?”

I force a wry smile. “You think I’m so out of shape that I couldn’t endure a little stretching, Hartley?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and panic spikes inside me that she’s not taking my bait.

“I don’t think that at all. I just think for someone from the world of macho jocks and push-ups, my class can be jarring.”

“Macho jocks and push-ups?” I repeat, starting to smile.

She grins. “I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.” Her smile makes the tight, ugly feeling in my throat dissipate. “Thanks for letting me join.”

She nods. “Good night.”

“Good night, Hartley.”

She ends the meeting, and I sit there, absentmindedly swiveling.

My dad’s approach to discomfort is practice. Practice until you can’t anymore. Tackle it head-on. Beat it out of yourself. Don’t run from it; conquer it. Crush it. Be the strongest and the fastest. Anything but the best is failure.

I pull up Hartley’s website and sign up for all ten classes in this session.

We’re walking through the terminal to board our flight home when something sparkly in a shop window catches my eye.

I lean down to study the tiny crystal dragon. It’s a pale blue, so cute and chubby like a cartoon, but with red eyes that glow under the lights.

A big smile spreads over my face.

“Miller,” Owens calls. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll be right there.” I turn back to the dragon and walk into the store.

It’s about time I buy Hartley a present.