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

WE’RE STEPPING off the ice half an hour later when a guy in hockey equipment stops in front of me.

“You’re Rory Miller.”

My smile is easy and friendly. “Hey, man.”

He points at the ice with a confused look. “Were you skating out there?”

“I was teaching my girlfriend.” I loop my arm around Hazel’s shoulders.

It’s getting easier and easier to say those words. My girlfriend.

“We play pickup out here once a week.” He gestures at the ice, where a handful of guys are skating around, talking and warming up. “Do you want to join us?”

I give him an apologetic smile. “Thanks, man, but I’ve gotta get her home.”

The guy shrugs. “Alright, just thought I’d ask.”

He steps onto the ice and skates away, and I lead Hazel to a bench so I can unlace her skates.

“Hold on.” She puts a hand on my arm, watching the guys skate laps around the rink before her gaze lifts to mine. “You should play.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She pauses. There’s something sweet in her eyes. Affection, I think. “You had fun tonight, skating with me.”

“Yeah.” I grin. “With you. Not with some middle-aged guy named Steve.”

She laughs, and I memorize it. “I’m serious. I think you might have fun out there.”

On the ice, they’re passing the puck, calling playful jabs at each other. One of them misses a shot and another one laughs, but not in a cruel way. Something strums in my chest.

“I let you teach me to skate,” Hazel says. “You owe me.”

“Oh, really?” I arch an eyebrow at her.

I think she’s trying not to smile, from the way her eyes glow. “Yes. Not everything is a competition,” she adds, softer. “Some things are just for fun.”

I think about what I decided earlier, how I don’t want to be anything like McKinnon. I want to be someone who Hazel’s proud to be dating, even if it is pretend.

Twenty minutes later, I score another goal to total silence. The back of my neck prickles as Hazel watches from the stands, and I skate with the guys back to center ice for the next face-off.

“What’s the score now?” one of the other guys calls to the ref.

“Twelve-zero.”

“Jesus fuck,” another guy mutters, and my gut tenses. “Miller, you’re steamrolling us.”

He’s joking, but there’s an edge to his words. These guys don’t play like I’m used to. They’re not nearly as competitive and cut-throat, and now there’s a downtrodden energy among them. A knot forms behind my sternum. This isn’t fun, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m scoring goals. I’m playing like I always play. I don’t know why I thought this would be any different.

My gaze goes to Hazel, watching. A few feet away, Ward surveys the ice with his arms crossed, leaning on the wall with an unreadable expression. Our eyes meet before he turns and leaves.

Fuck. Some fucking captain I am.

“Guys, I need to go,” I tell them. “Thanks for letting me play.”

The mood lightens immediately, and they all say their goodbyes as I skate away, dropping the stick they lent me on the bench before I head over to Hazel.

“Hey.” Her eyes search my face when I approach. “You’re done?”

“Yep.” That kernel of shame and embarrassment that I felt earlier during our argument lodges in the center of my chest. I kneel and unlace her skates, aware of her gaze on my face.

“Are we still good for the team dinner on Friday?” I ask.

“Oh.” She blinks like she forgot. “Yes. We’re on.”

“Good.” I pull her other skate off. The tight, ashamed feelings in my chest fade away the longer I talk with her. “The stylist is going to contact you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You need a dress. It’s a black-tie dinner.”

I take her socked foot between my palms. She glances at my hands, distracted, and as I press my thumb into the soles, her jaw goes slack.

I grin. She likes that.

“I have a dress,” she says, still frowning at my hands rubbing her foot.

“You can’t wear an old dress, Hartley.” I work the ball of her foot and her eyelids droop. “Remember what I said? If you really were my girlfriend, I’d be spending money left and right on you. That’s what Streicher does for Pippa.”

I start on the other foot and she makes a noise that’s half protest, half sigh of pleasure.

“Um,” she says, blinking as I dig my thumb deeper. “Wow.”

“Say yes, Hartley.” Her eyes are hazy and soft. “Let me get you a pretty dress so you can feel good.”

The spot I’m working on must be sore, because when I press into it, her eyes fall closed. “You’re not going to make me wear something see-through, right?”

I chuckle. “No. I don’t think I could make you wear anything.” I picture her in something flimsy and transparent, looking hot and painfully fuckable as McKinnon leers, and sharp jealousy twists in my gut. “I like showing you off, Hartley, but no one gets to see your tits but me.”

Her eyes open. Is that a flush I detect across her cheeks? “You wish.”

My blood courses with pride and pleasure at seeing her flustered. I do fucking wish. “I’ll set everything up. All you have to do is be there.” My expression turns wicked. “And stand still when I make out with you.”

She rolls her eyes, and her cheeks are absolutely going pink.