The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 4

TO MY EXTREME RELIEF, I’m no longer attracted to Connor McKinnon.

He’s always been handsome, but it’s in an ugly way, I realize, like a villain from Game of Thrones. Standing next to Rory, though, makes everyone less attractive.

My heart beats up into my throat as I run through the physio exercises with him, and I’ve never been more self-conscious.

If I’m rude to him, I’ll seem like the bitter, jaded ex. That’s exactly what I am, but I don’t want him to know that. My biggest fear is that he’ll know he had an effect on me.

If I’m too friendly, he’ll think I want to get back together. Another mess I don’t want to deal with.

So I’m treating him professionally, like I’d treat any other player, and internally freaking out. He lunges forward, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s not even watching his form; he’s just staring at his ugly-handsome face.

“Watch your knee,” I say as the joint caves in.

He adjusts and goes back to staring at himself with that stupid smirk.

He still hasn’t brought up the email he sent me this morning—Looking forward to our physio session. There’s something I’d like to say. Maybe he’s waiting until our session ends.

He’s going to apologize. What else could he want to say? I’m going to get the closure I need to leave the past behind. What he did and said was terrible, but if he feels remorse? That changes things.

In my mind, I hear the words he said to me in the middle of that party while he had his arm around another girl.

I never said we were exclusive. You did.

I’m bored.

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

I drag in a deep breath to quell the nausea. It was years ago. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who dissolved into her boyfriend’s life.

Glancing over to where Rory’s working with his trainer, I meet his eyes. He arches a brow at me as if to say everything okay? but I turn away.

Rory doesn’t care about anyone but himself, so I don’t know why he’s so hell-bent on helping. I’ve watched how easily he can break a girl’s heart.

As he completes the exercises, Connor winces and shifts his thigh back and forth, and I get a flash of unwelcome memory of massaging that muscle years ago. He’s had groin problems ever since he suffered an injury in our first year at university.

“Do we have time for you to give me a massage?” he asks. “My groin is sore from sitting on a plane all day yesterday.”

It takes all my effort not to show my revulsion.

Massage therapy is a normal part of my job. If he were any other player, I wouldn’t hesitate. These guys get the crap beat out of them on the ice, and I want to do anything I can to help them feel better and play longer.

This is Connor, though. I don’t want to breathe the same air as him, let alone touch him, but if I treat him differently than other clients, that will mean he’s gotten to me.

Just get through this, I tell myself.

“We still have a few minutes. I’ll work on it,” I tell him, gesturing to one of the tables on the side of the gym for the physios and massage therapists.

He follows me and lies down on the table, rolling up his workout shorts while I pull massage oil out of the cupboard.

He’s done this before. So have I. This is a normal thing. It won’t be weird.

I apply the oil to my palms, and when I put my hands on him, I try to focus on the way the tight muscles feel under my fingers as I press and glide, but my face is heating.

I’ve done this for him, years ago. When we used to do this—

Oh god. My skin crawls.

He’d get turned on, and then it would turn into sex.

Ugh. My stomach thrashes with discomfort. I hate everything about this, but I also hate how embarrassed I am. This would be a fantastic time for him to apologize.

I wonder if the other girls he slept with while we were together did this for him.

Our gazes catch, and my heart lodges in my throat the moment he notices my burning face. A slow smirk slides onto his face, like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t.

“So,” he starts, tucking his hands behind his head. “This is a good time to have a quick chat.”

My stomach rolls with nerves, but I hold my expression neutral. Under my hands, the muscle is loosening up, thank god. “Go for it.”

When he apologizes, I’ll be gracious. I won’t lord it over him. I just want to move on.

He laughs lightly, glancing down at my hands on his inner thigh with a conspiratorial grin. “Given our history, can you be professional this season?”

My hands pause. Yeah, he just said that. The sick feeling in my stomach starts simmering, a low boil, and I yank my hands back.

“What?”

He gives me a knowing look, like we’re sharing a secret. “Come on. You being my physio this year was a pretty big coincidence, and now this?” He gestures at his inner thigh.

A weird feeling loops through me, pounding harder with every heartbeat. It feels like I’m falling, like the contents of my stomach are in my throat.

He winces. “I just want to make sure it’s not going to be weird with us this year.”

Oh, Hazel. Wrong again. It’s almost laughable how wrong I am about guys.

He’s not going to apologize. He thinks I’m trying to get him back. After what he did and said, he thinks I’d actually be interested.

To him, I’m the person who walked out of that party crying while everyone whispered about her. I’m the girl who took summer courses so I could follow him to university, like a clueless, lovestruck fool.

I’m not that person anymore.

Rage drips into my blood, followed by an intense need to prove him wrong.

“I didn’t request to be your physio.” My voice sounds weird. Strained.

He arches an eyebrow. “No?” It’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

“No.” Shame squeezes my throat. Clingy, I remember him saying about me.

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me. God, even now, the words slice through me.

I want to prove him wrong so, so fucking badly.

Across the gym, Rory watches. He’s had one eye on me the entire session. His desire to help earlier pounds in my thoughts.

He lifts a weight, holding my gaze and flexing his biceps and triceps. My pulse stumbles, because even if he is a cocky dickhead, Rory Miller is wildly handsome. I can see why women fall all over him, even if I’ll never be one of them.

Wait.

They hate each other, Rory and Connor. They’ve never gotten along. They’re going to be at each other’s throats all season. Rory’s a better player than Connor, and even though Connor’s never admitted it, that’s why he doesn’t like Rory.

And Connor made it clear that I’d never do better than him.

Rory is the only player on the team whose ego surpasses Connor’s. He’s smug, arrogant, and competitive as hell, and best of all, he hates Connor almost as much as I do. Like he can hear my thoughts, Rory’s mouth tilts into a grin, one eyebrow lifting.

So cocky, so confident.

The back of my scalp tingles as I hold his gaze in the mirror. I’m about to do something very stupid, but I don’t care. I’d do anything to get rid of this ashamed, powerless feeling. The desire to spite my ex has me by the throat.

I summon the unflappable bitch-demon deep inside me and give Connor a puzzled smile.

“You know Rory and I are together, right?”

My heart races as I watch his reaction. It might be worth it, watching his expression flip from smug to confused to surprised before he finally looks to Rory and it turns flat-out pissed.

“Really?” Connor asks, glaring at Rory across the gym. “Miller?”

I’m a hurricane of female rage and revenge, and I’m totally fucking doing this.

Rory’s trainer says something, but he’s not listening; he’s just looking between Connor and me.

I give him a flirty, twiddly finger wave. His eyes light up with victory and amusement, and I fight the eye roll as he shoots that grin at Connor.

God, Rory’s going to be the worst about this.

“Mhm.” I hear the question he asked me moments ago—the one about being professional—and my blood rattles with anger again, but I continue to smile.

Worry flickers in my chest. Rory’s unfairly hot, and I’ve been able to keep my distance until now with sharp barbs and light amusement, but he’s going to be all over me, murmuring in my ear and putting his hand on my waist with that intense charm and doing whatever he can to press Connor’s buttons.

The soft, vulnerable part of me worries that I’ll catch feelings. That I’ll fall for him.

My fingertips rub against each other, and when I feel the massage oil on my skin, another serving of molten, furious anger tips into my blood.

Rory’s also a spoiled hockey player who’s had life handed to him on a silver platter. I’m not going to catch feelings. Connor’s a reminder of what would happen if I let that line blur.

With Rory’s help, I’m going to make Connor regret what he did.