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

WHEN THE SERVER starts clearing the table, I scan my mom’s plate. She barely ate anything. A rock forms in my throat, and my mind keeps snagging on that, even as the conversation moves on.

“Rory, what are you doing for Christmas?” Donna asks.

It’s early December, and holiday decorations are starting to pop up around the city.

My heart jumps. Rory and I haven’t talked about it, but Pippa, Jamie, and I are heading to Silver Falls for a couple days. Jamie needs to be back for the League Classic game on New Year’s Eve. So do I, since I promised Rory I’d go with him.

His eyes meet mine. “I’m not sure yet.”

He doesn’t speak to his mom, and I suspect gruff Rick Miller isn’t the kind of guy to dress up like Santa.

My mom gives me a look, lifting her eyebrows, eyes bright. Invite him, she’s saying.

Here? In front of everyone? My pulse quickens. He wouldn’t say no. He’d jump at the chance.

My heart leaps at the idea of Rory hanging out with the family, watching old movies and drinking apple cider while we put up decorations my parents bought before we were born.

I’ve never brought a guy home, though. It would be another first of mine that we cross off the list together. Rory coming home for Christmas would mean something. We’d make memories together, and it would be another tether to him, another difficult thing to let go of when it’s over.

“How are you liking being back in Vancouver?” my mom asks, and I’m grateful we’re moving on.

“I love it.” His hand slides to mine in my lap and gives me a squeeze. “Hazel and I went for a run in Stanley Park the other day.”

My mom sighs. “I need to get back into running.” Her hands come to her waist and she widens her eyes at me. “It’s hard to keep the weight off in the winter.”

My shoulders tense, and that old, familiar pain of hearing my mom insult herself rises. This weight she’s apparently gained isn’t even visible, but I know from growing up in her home that she weighs herself every morning and keeps a logbook.

“So don’t keep it off,” I say lightly, playing with my water glass. “Why force yourself to fit someone else’s idea of what you should look like?”

Like always, my words ping off her hard shell. She’s had a lifetime of our culture’s views on how women should look to fortify her beliefs. She waves me off.

“As soon as we get home to Silver Falls, I’m doing a cleanse.”

My teeth grit. I can feel Rory’s eyes on my face but I stare at the table. I’m a swirling storm of emotions—frustration that my mom bullies herself, that she can’t be enough for herself, and embarrassment that Rory is seeing this glimpse into my personal life. All these things I’m trying to keep from him to no avail.

“Lemon, water, honey, and a pinch of cayenne,” she continues. “Three days of that and the weight melts right off.”

My exhale is shaky. I look to Pippa but she’s in conversation with Donna.

“That’s not healthy, Mom,” I tell her. “You need protein and vegetables and carbs. Real food.”

“The cavemen used to go days without eating,” she scoffs. “It’s good for us. It resets my metabolism.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your metabolism,” I insist, heart pounding. “And then once you start eating real food again, you’ll just gain the four pounds back.”

My voice is coming out sharp, and I’m aware that Rory is sitting beside me, watching this.

The server appears at our table again. “Are we interested in the dessert menu?”

“No,” my mom says.

“Yes,” I bite out at the same time, staring at my mom. “They have tiramisu.”

“No.” Her hands fly up, like she couldn’t possibly eat a single bite of dessert.

In my mind, I order the tiramisu. I order all the tiramisu in the entire restaurant, and when it arrives, I make her eat it and enjoy it. And then she says you’re right, Hazel. I love my body as it is, and I deserve to eat the things that make me happy!

“Fine,” I say instead. “We should wrap up. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

Shame forms in my throat because Rory saw all of that. He saw me lose my cool. He sees that my passion is helping people feel good in their bodies but I still can’t get through to my own mom.

How am I going to have my own studio if I can’t help the person I love more than anyone?

Rory excuses himself from the table and when the server returns, I ask her for the bill.

She smiles at us. “It’s been taken care of.”

Rory slips past her, taking his seat, and some of the anxiety from this dinner eases in my chest at his kindness.

“Rory.” My eyebrows slide up.

He gives me a cheeky grin. “Hazel.”

“You didn’t need to get dinner.”

“I wanted to.” To my parents, he smiles. “Next time you’re in town, I’d love for you to come to a game.”

“Absolutely.” Jamie invites my dad all the time, but my dad looks like Rory just made his whole year. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and gestures at our table. “Let’s get a photo of all of us.”

“I’ll take it,” my mom says quickly.

I shake my head. “We can get the server to take it.”

“No, no.” She’s already pulling the phone out of my dad’s hand. “No one wants to see my wrinkles next to you two.”

My breath chokes out of me, and I’m either going to scream at the top of my lungs right here in this restaurant or combust into a million particles of dust out of sheer frustration and anger. Nothing I’ve said has even made a dent.

We take the photo, and even with Rory’s warm, solid hand on the sensitive part of my shoulder, my smile is wooden and forced. There’s an uncomfortable lump in my throat as we leave. Outside, everyone hugs each other goodbye and we wish my parents a safe trip home before we all split up.

The entire conversation with my mom replays as I stand on the sidewalk. An angry throb pounds behind my forehead, and my eyes sting.

No, no, no. Shit. I’m about to cry.

“I’m not feeling good, so I’ll see you tomorrow.” My voice is high and strained.

If I look at Rory, he’ll see I’m about to cry, and he can’t. I don’t cry in front of guys. I don’t let guys come to dinner with my parents, I don’t let them sleep over, and I sure as shit don’t let them see me break.

I don’t do any of these things with guys.

“Good night,” I say without looking at him and walk away fast.

A hot tear falls and I swipe it away.

“Hazel.”

I can’t get enough air, and stupid, stupid tears spill over as I think about my mom and how frustrated I am with her. With myself. I’ve failed her, and she hates herself. She hates her body. She thinks she isn’t good enough.

And I look just like her, so what does that mean about me? That I’m beautiful now, but when I’m her age, I won’t be?

“Hazel.”

He steps in front of me, hands on my arms, peering down at me.

My name rings in the air, strung between us like a taut wire, and I wonder if calling me by my last name was not just his way of being playful, but of keeping a wall between us, because right now, with my eyes all red and puffy and my nose running, I’m totally exposed.

“Look at me.”

I clench my eyes closed. “No.”

“Yes.” The word is so soft, and his fingers tilt my chin up.

I open my eyes, and he’s never looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now, so openly concerned and careful, like I might shatter. Like he’s desperate to make my hurt feel better.

Like he cares.

Maybe that’s why I call him by his last name, too. I don’t want to care about him.

I swallow. “I’m fine.”

“Tell me.” His words are gentle, but they’re a sledgehammer against my resolve. I’m scrambling to hold the wall up against him, and he’s bulldozing it with this sincerity, this sweetness.

His deep blue eyes search mine, and then his hand is on my cheek, resting soft as a butterfly.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, and I’m fucking toast.

“It’s my mom.” My voice is rough with emotion. “She, um. She says these things about herself that I don’t like. She doesn’t have very good confidence.”

He takes a deep breath. “That must be hard to watch.”

My eyes blur but I blink the tears away.

“I hate that our society has made her feel so horrible about herself. I hate that she can’t just exist in the body and face she has without feeling like she needs to change everything.” I swallow past the gravel in my throat. “And what does it mean about me if I can’t help her?”

Rory’s expression is so pained, so earnestly concerned, that my heart gives a sharp twist. He drags a thumb across my cheek, wiping the tears away.

“Come here,” he says quietly, pulling me into his chest.

My cheek presses below his collarbone, and he brushes his hand down my hair in calming strokes as I listen to his heart.

“It’s not fair,” he adds.

“It’s not.”

Another tear falls before absorbing into his shirt. His smell is so comforting, and the vicious pounding in my head is starting to fade.

“I wish I could go back in time and be her friend as a teenager. I’d make her into such a bad bitch.”

His chin rests on the top of my head. “I know you would.”

I’d tell her she was enough, if I knew her back then. And I’d make her believe it.

“That’s why you say all that stuff during yoga?” Rory’s breath tickles my ear. “That’s why you want to create a space for everyone?”

I nod against his chest, sniffling. “She likes yoga but says she’s not skinny or young enough. She says no one wants to see her in yoga clothes.” My voice breaks on another sob as pain racks my chest.

I just want my mom to love herself as much as I love her.

“I look just like her,” I whisper, even though I shouldn’t. Thoughts like that don’t belong in whatever Rory and I are doing.

Outwardly, I’m so confident. Seeing my mom hate her body only fortified my hard shell, but the thought sneaks in through the cracks. One day, I’ll look like my mom, and will I still love myself the way I do now? Will someone like Rory still find me beautiful?

Connor didn’t, and I was nineteen. What about when I’m sixty?

Rory peers down at me, and I’ve never seen care in anyone’s eyes like this. “You’re so beautiful that it makes my chest hurt.”

My heart pounds.

“And even when we’re a hundred years old,” he whispers, “I’ll be flirting with you to get your attention.”

It’s funny, how he knows exactly what to say. How they’re just words, but they heal one of the cracks in my heart.

We stand on the sidewalk for a long time, wrapped tightly together while people maneuver around us.

“You’re incredible at what you do,” he murmurs into my hair, and the words sink right into my heart, dissolving into my blood. “Keep trying with her. One day, she might surprise you.”

I swallow, resting against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

I want to believe him so, so badly.