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

“THIS GAME IS FOR THE FANS,” Ward says in the dressing room that evening, moments before the game, “but it’s also for us.” His eyes land on me. “Remind yourselves of what matters and have fun out there tonight.”

He crooks a smile at me, and I grin back. The players head to the ice, and I’m the last one out of the dressing room when McKinnon calls my name from behind.

“Miller.”

He’s in street clothes. Players sent wary glances at him the entire time Ward spoke. By now, even the guys who weren’t at the bar that night know what he did.

“Your fucking girlfriend got me benched,” he snaps, stalking toward me. “Thanks a lot.”

“You got yourself benched.” I bring myself to my full height, staring him down.

He shakes his head, seething. “You know what my fucking problem is?” He shoves a finger in my face. “You. You’ve always been my fucking problem, Miller.”

He wants to fight. I take in the way he looks at me with hate in his eyes. Last year, or even two months ago, I’d take this opportunity to scrap.

What matters, Ward said.

Hazel matters. Streicher and Pippa and the team and hockey matter, but McKinnon? He’s nothing. He’s angry and selfish and bitter. I feel bad for him.

McKinnon doesn’t matter, and I don’t want to be anything like him.

Hazel would want me to walk away, and more than anything, I want to be the right guy for Hazel, and I want to be the captain the team needs.

“I hope you figure things out,” I tell McKinnon as I walk away. “Good luck.”

This is the captain and the guy I want to be.

The other team scores another goal in the third period, tying the game, and Ward calls for a time out.

We skate toward the bench. Above the outdoor rink, stars twinkle in the dark sky. It’s below zero in the mountain ski town, and the fans are bundled up in hats and gloves and thick winter coats. The pickup league is here, watching the game from the front-row seats I snagged for them. Under a plaid blanket, Hazel and Pippa huddle together, sipping hot cider.

And now the strategy I’ve been using on the ice with assists isn’t working anymore. Calgary’s ahead by two points. A weight settles in my gut.

“Calgary sees what we’re doing,” Ward says, eyes lingering on me. “They watched enough games this season to know you’re the decoy.”

I give him a terse nod. This game doesn’t count toward our season, but we’re still competitive, and we still want to win. I need to step into my old role and be the star.

Stars score goals. My dad’s watching, I’m sure.

“What’s the plan, Captain?” Ward asks.

I glance over my shoulder to Hazel, and she gives me a small smile.

You’re unhinged, she said, laughing, when she saw my tattoo that night after the pickup game.

The pickup game. You’ve got a hell of a wrist-shot, I remember saying to Owens that night.

Something clicks in my head, and I look to him.

“I think you should play offense again,” I tell him, and his face goes blank. “Center forward.”

He gestures at Volkov. “We always play together.”

“I know.”

Maybe it won’t work, but Ward watches with a curious spark in his eyes, and that night Owens played offense against the pickup league? He was so fucking happy, and good at it, too. I think about how his face lit up when he scored and how he might be in the wrong position. He’s probably been trained as a defenseman since he was a kid, just like I’ve been a forward since I was a kid.

“Let’s just try it this once and see how it goes,” I urge. “I’ll play defense.”

Volkov nods. “Worth a shot.”

“I’ve always played defense.” Owens looks reluctant. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“If it doesn’t work, we move on. But this is our shot to try something new. What matters?” I ask him before looking around at the rest of the team. Everyone is quiet. “This isn’t just a job, and we aren’t machines. It needs to be more than that.”

Owens looks uneasy, but he nods. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Ward runs through the play again, and as the guys skate off to take formation, Ward grips my shoulder.

“I knew you’d figure it out, Miller.”

I smile, feeling that weight in my gut dissolve into something light before skating to my position.

“Here we go, boys,” I call as the puck drops.

Owens steals it, and we run the play so fast the other team doesn’t know what’s happening. He passes between the other forwards and sinks it in the net, all within twenty seconds.

The fans are on their feet, cheering and screaming. The look of relief and pride on Owens’s face makes my heart soar, and this time, it’s me putting him in a headlock while he laughs and pushes me off.

“Knew you could do it,” I tell him, and he grins wider.

At the end of the third period, we’re up two points. It’s a matter of running out the clock at this point. They don’t need me to score, they don’t need me to be the star I used to be. I’ve done my job as captain.

When play stops, I look over to Hazel behind the glass, who winks at me. I pretend to yawn, rolling my eyes, and she laughs, light spilling out of her.

You deserve good things in your life, she said when we ran around Stanley Park.

I want to score a goal tonight. It’s not about the attention or the glory of winning the game; I just want the satisfaction of the play working out, of doing what I love.

“Let’s run an old play,” I tell Ward and the team. I swallow. I don’t want to come off as selfish. “I want to score one for myself.”

Owens flashes me a shit-eating grin. “Jealous of all the attention I’m getting, Miller?”

I shove him off as he jostles me, but Ward nods. “Run it.”

We line up for the face-off, me playing center forward again, and when the puck drops, I’m flying, skating hard toward the net before I slide it in. The stands erupt with noise and my heart lifts, but it’s Hazel I look to. She’s on her feet, clapping and grinning at me with a proud smile.