The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 3

HAYES

Apparently, harder than I thought. It’s dawned on me that I have no idea how to be a good fake boyfriend. I mean, if you asked Macy, she’d probably tell you that I was the worst boyfriend in the entire world. I don’t know how I’m going to make this “relationship” seem real to the fans. I don’t even know what girl would be crazy enough to go along with this plan. I’m banking my reputation on the potential chemistry I might have with some stranger. And sure, my reputation basically has the value equivalent of a used condom on the grimy tiles of a gas station bathroom, but I need to believe there can be some way to turn my image around.

I’ve been too nervous to call Ethan Blythe, my agent, because I know all too well the verbal beatdown he’s going to unleash on me. Do I tell him about sleeping with Sienna? Do I add fuel to the already ceiling-high flames?

I’ve spent the entire morning locked away in my room, looking at media coverage of other NHL players and their significant others. I was miserable when I was with Macy. I don’t want to give someone else the same power she had over me for the majority of our relationship. I like my strings unattached, loose, with no chance of them ever being tied into an impossible sailor’s knot.

The sound of a knock peals from the other side of my door, and it nearly makes me throw my phone.

“Yeah? What?”

“You good in there? Or should I put on a gas mask before I have my nose hairs singed off by the stink?”

Thank God. It’s only Bristol. I don’t think I could endure Kit’s cynicism or Fulton’s idiocy this morning.

I glance around my room at the piles of dirty clothes and day-old dishes that I haven’t had the energy to clean, then I give myself a quick sniff test and actually recoil.

“I’m good. No need to come in or check up on me. Just…uh…getting ready for practice,” I shout at him, realizing that I probably should start getting my bag together. If I can replace it in this toxic wasteland.

There’s a long pause. Bristol has an expert bullshit detector, and right now, it’s going off and alerting everyone in a ten-mile radius.

“You know, H, we can always come up with another plan if you’re uncomfortable with the idea of a fake relationship,” he says.

“It’s fine, Bri. It’ll work. I’m just a little off my game.”

Even though I can’t see his face, I know skepticism is projecting off him like the Bat Signal.

A glob of nerves collides in my throat, and I just barely manage to choke them down before Bristol acquiesces and continues off down the hall. Crisis averted.

I change into a fresh shirt and a baggy pair of shorts, slather on some deodorant, and run a comb through my bedhead. I would’ve taken a shower, but I’m cutting it close on time. And judging by the lack of incessant yelling coming from downstairs, the guys must’ve already left. Gathering up my hockey bag, I contemplate if I should eat before heading to the rink.

As if to answer, my stomach rumbles, begging for sustenance. I guess waiting isn’t an option.

I clamber down the stairs and head into the kitchen to make myself a bowl of cereal. We only have Shredded Wheat since Kit’s on a health kick, but it’s better than nothing. I glumly look down at the tiny, pillow-shaped biscuits trying to drown themselves in overpriced oat milk.

I’m right there with you, little guys.

With a hefty sigh, I finish my entire serving of soggy wheats in complete silence, contemplating my life.

Then I hear it: the ringing of my phone. And I know exactly who it is without having to look at the Caller ID.

I immediately pick up, soldier through my nervous system trying to actively shut down my body, and I take a deep breath. “Ethan.”

“Hayes. I would say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that under these circumstances, it’s not.”

Ouch.

Embarrassment singes my cheeks as I stir the milk around in my bowl. Rip the Band-Aid off, Hayes. “Is now a bad time to tell you that I might’ve slept with Talavera’s daughter?”

“Excuse me?”

Put the Band-Aid back on.

“Press is already fucking abysmal,” he berates. “Do you know what would happen if the public found out you risked your team’s sponsorship? People already see you as an immature playboy who doesn’t know how to control his temper.”

My balls practically shrivel up at the bite in his tone.

“I know. Fuck,” I say, knotting my free hand in my hair, frustration crackling up each vertebra of my spine. “I think I can fix this. You just have to give me a chance.”

Ethan’s voice tinkles with laughter. “How? What brilliant plan have you concocted that’ll make the world fall back in love with you overnight?”

I don’t blame him for having doubts. This plan will either make or break me. And it sounds pretty ridiculous when I say it out loud.

My jaw pulses. “A fake relationship. I rebrand myself as the doting boyfriend. I put all my effort and time into building a relationship for the fans, and I stay away from getting into trouble. It’ll show I’ve grown up—that I’m not just some crazy party boy trying to relive his glory days.”

Ethan pauses, and it’s either because he’s actually considering my idea, or he’s putting me on mute so he can laugh his ass off.

After a painfully long few seconds, he speaks again. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard. Relationships are like catnip to the public. I don’t have any doubt that you’ll manage to pull in some good press if you focus on cultivating this fake relationship.”

Yes! Hayes: One. Press: Zero.

“That being said, however, this means no more partying, no more women, no more fighting. Do you think you can handle this? Change won’t happen overnight. It’ll take the public some getting used to you being in a relationship. You can’t just abandon the mission because you’re bored or you’re not seeing results right away.”

“I understand. I’m determined to see this through, Ethan. Not just for me, but for the team.”

I owe it to the guys. I owe it to myself. I’m twenty-three for crying out loud. I need to start acting like it.

“If you’re sure about this, then I’d get to work sooner than later,” he advises.

Hope cannons through me as I lug the strap of my hockey bag over my shoulder. “Don’t worry. This will be easy. Getting girls to fall in love with me is a subject I’m well-versed in.”