The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 3

“HARTLEY.”

Three days later, I’m in the team gym watching her set up for her first physio session with McKinnon.

She sets a weight on the floor, avoiding my eyes.

My trainer walks in the door, and I wave, making a one moment motion to him before turning back to Hazel and lowering my voice. “Just wondered if you’ve reconsidered my offer to go to Ward with you.”

Her shoulders tense. “You said you wouldn’t interfere.”

“I’ll back you up. He’ll probably listen, even if I’m not there.”

She lets out a heavy breath. That soft, plush bottom lip of hers is tucked between her teeth and a frown sits between her eyebrows. She’s nervous.

My hands clench at my sides. I’ve been going round and round in my head, thinking about how her expression tightened when I brought up McKinnon at the engagement party, thinking about the unusual protectiveness that surged through me at the thought of her having to work with him.

“I know you’re a tough little cookie, Hartley,” I tell her, crooking a grin at her to disguise the concern and jealousy. “I’m just trying to prevent you from killing the new trade.”

She doesn’t laugh, and my chest aches. Why won’t she let me help?

I take in her pretty ponytail that shows off the back of her neck. The fan of dark lashes around those beautiful blue-gray eyes. The lush curve of her mouth.

“Pass.”

So fucking stubborn. If I wasn’t so frustrated, I’d think it was endearing.

“He’s going to apologize,” she says as she places free weights on the floor in front of the mirror.

“Excuse me?” I haven’t seen the guy in years, but I know him. Guys like that? They never apologize. My dad’s the same way.

She straightens up, meeting my gaze. “He emailed me. He said he wants to talk.”

In my head, an alarm blares. “He probably wants to get back together.”

“I doubt it,” she says, making a face, “and even if he does, that’s not happening.”

The alarm quiets. That’s something, at least.

“He’s going to apologize,” she continues, “and I’m going to move on.”

She’s just going to put up with him this year? “He’s an asshole.”

“So are you.”

She’s not wrong. I cover the ugly feeling with a cocky grin. “Yeah, but I’m the kind you like.”

She’s about to bite back a smart retort that I’m sure I’ll think about all day, but McKinnon walks in the door, and her demeanor changes. She tenses as he spots her, and a sick, predatory smirk stretches across his face.

I hate this. She’s stuck working with him and I can’t do anything about it.

“Rory.” She turns to me, pleading with her eyes.

My gut drops. We never use first names. Never. Not even back in high school.

“Please,” she says, holding my gaze, worry written all over her face. This version of her is so different from the competitive, confident woman I love to tease. “I just want to do my job right now.”

McKinnon’s walking toward us, but my gaze is locked on her face, searching her eyes. We could solve this so easily if she just let me help. I have the urge to haul her over my shoulder and walk her straight to Ward’s office, but she’d probably bite me, and I’d probably like it.

Intrusive thoughts, I think those are called. And I told her I wouldn’t interfere, even if I’m right.

“Okay.” I suck a deep breath in, and I can feel my teeth gritting.

“There she is.”

McKinnon greets her like an old friend, but her shoulders hitch. My protective instincts surge, and I bring myself to full height, wearing my signature smirk.

His attention drifts to me, and his grin sours. I’ve always been a couple inches taller than him, and it’s so primal and stupid, but I get sick satisfaction from it.

“McKinnon.” I tip my chin at him.

Hartley may have said no to my help, but my body’s beating with possessiveness. I suddenly have an ugly understanding of how Streicher must have felt last year when I was hanging out with Pippa.

His cold gaze meets mine, challenging me. “Miller. Still sniffing around Hazel, huh? Some things never change.”

I fucking hate this guy. Something competitive curls in my stomach, coiling and expanding through me, and my jaw tightens. I look down at Hartley, giving her one last opening to accept my offer.

Her gaze flares with emphasis, and she glances pointedly over to where my trainer waits. “Rory was just leaving for his training session.”

Every instinct is shouting at me to stay here, stick by her side in case this asshole says or does something to upset her, but instead, I send my irritating smirk to McKinnon.

I’m going to bodycheck this asshole so hard in practice.

“See you later, Hartley,” I say while staring McKinnon down.

During my training session, I’m only half listening, keeping my attention on Hartley and McKinnon on the other side of the gym, watching for conflict, watching her body language to make sure she’s okay.

I don’t trust that guy for a second.