The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 6

PIPPA’S already in her seat when I arrive before the game on Friday night. The arena is filled with excited fans, a sea of gray and blue Storm jerseys, and rock music plays, pumping everyone up. My body’s brimming with energy as I make my way to our seats behind the net, holding a pretzel in one hand and a beer in the other.

“Hi.” I drop into my seat. “Sorry that took so long. The line at concessions was ridiculous.”

A lie. I was stalling, circling the arena three times before finally getting in line.

Without a word, Pippa’s gaze goes to my jersey, and her eyebrows lift.

It was sitting on my desk this afternoon inside a gift box. Despite my aversion to wearing a jock’s name on me like I’m his property, Rory’s right. I have to wear his jersey if we want to sell this.

She’s still staring. “You’re wearing a jersey.”

I take a huge bite of my pretzel, choosing my words. It’s going to sound so stupid out loud.

“Hazel.” Now she’s really curious. “Lean forward.”

I swallow my bite. “When do you start working on the next album?”

God, I’m such a chicken. Miller’s name is practically burning on my back.

“Hazel. Whose name is on your back?”

My mouth is dry, and this pretzel tastes like glue. What, am I just going to sit here in this spot until she leaves the stadium?

I move so she can read it. “It’s not what it looks like.”

She blinks slowly. “Am I missing something?”

The lights in the arena dim, and a roar of cheers rises up as the players hit the ice. As he skates past, Rory winks at me, wearing a lazy, smug grin. Connor’s right behind him.

This is it. This is the faking it part. As much as I don’t want to do this, I made a deal, and it’s on me to play the part as much as it’s on Miller.

I give Rory my typical cool smile and wink back. He grins wider and skates off. When Connor does a double take at me sitting here, satisfaction pulses behind my sternum.

Fuck you, Connor.

Pippa sends me confused glances throughout the national anthems, and when we sit, I lower my voice as the players line up for a face-off.

“We’re not actually dating.” I clasp my hands together. This is going to sound so stupid out loud. My stomach lurches at the sight of Connor on the bench, and it all comes spilling out. I tell Pippa about Connor’s email the other morning, how I thought he’d apologize, and then what he actually said.

“What a fucking asshole,” she breathes, watching my face, and panic rises in me.

I don’t want Pippa to know the effect Connor had on me. She’s my little sister, and I’ve always been the strong one for her. When our parents wanted her to let music be just a hobby, I pushed her to follow her dreams. I’m the one she comes to with questions about life; it’s always been like that between us. I take care of her, not the other way around.

I don’t want her to know how badly I’ve been hurt. I don’t want her to worry about me.

“Miller and I came to an arrangement.” I explain how he wants to look like a better captain to Ward this year and he’s more than happy to help me stick it to Connor.

She studies me with narrowed eyes. “You hate Rory. Why do you care if he wants to be captain?”

I open my mouth to protest. After what he did to my friend in high school, I know he’s just like every other jock who can have whatever he wants without consequences.

I don’t hate him, though.

We watch the players scramble for the puck at the other end of the ice. “I care because I made a deal with him. It’s only until January, anyway. You can tell Jamie, but please ask him not to say anything.”

Pippa’s eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me before a teasing smile pulls up on her mouth and she tilts her chin to my jersey. “You wear it well.” She wiggles her brows. “Very cute.”

“Shut up.”

“He got the size right and everything.”

“I told you everything so you can be my support person.” I give her a pointed look. “Not so you can tease me.”

“I am your support person.” She pulls out her phone and opens her camera app. “But I like to tease you, too. Smile like you would if you were sleeping with Rory Miller.”

I laugh at the insanity of it, and she snaps a flurry of pictures. “Oh my god. I would never.”

As he skates past, our eyes meet. He grins and mouths hey before skating off.

“Oh my god,” a woman says behind us. “Was that at me?”

“No,” her friend answers. “It was to her.”

The back of my neck prickles.

“That’s Jamie Streicher’s fiancée beside her,” the woman whispers, and Pippa grins at me. They have no clue we can hear every word.

“Dad will be thrilled,” Pippa adds, peering over to Jamie at the other end of the ice. Next period, he’ll be in the net in front of us. “He likes Rory.”

I groan. Our dad’s a hockey nut. I didn’t even think about this element of our arrangement. “If Mom and Dad bring it up, tell them it’s not serious.”

“You haven’t had a boyfriend since Connor.” She cuts me a glance. “They’re going to get excited.”

There’s a flurry of activity on the ice in front of us. Rory sinks the puck, and noise erupts in the arena. The fans jump to their feet, cheering as lights flash and the Vancouver players surround Rory. Pippa’s hand comes to my elbow and she widens her eyes, pulling me up to standing.

“Clap,” she hisses. “Act like you’re happy that he scored.”

I start clapping awkwardly and Pippa laughs, which makes me laugh.

“I don’t want Mom and Dad getting attached to him,” I tell her when we sit down. “He has his own parents.”

Pippa’s frown makes me pause.

“What?” I press.

“Rory needs more good people in his life.”

I scoff. “With his ego? He probably grew up eating his after-school snacks off a gold platter.” I replace him through the glass, speeding up the length of the ice with the puck. “The guy doesn’t know the word ‘no.’ I’m sure he was spoiled rotten as a kid.”

Her mouth twists. “He doesn’t talk to his mom much, and I don’t think his dad’s like ours. Have you ever watched Rick Miller on TV?”

I don’t watch sports commentary. Rick Miller is a Canadian hockey legend, though. Everyone knows his name.

“Honestly?” She winces. “He’s kind of a dick. He’s Rory’s agent first and his dad second.”

An ache pangs through me.

“When I went home last month,” she continues, “Dad had framed the ticket from my first concert in Vancouver.”

Pippa and I grew up in North Vancouver, and when we moved out of the house, our parents retired and moved to Silver Falls, a tiny ski town in the interior of British Columbia.

My heart squeezes with love. “Ken Hartley is the freaking best.”

She nods, wearing a wistful smile. “Yeah. He is.”

My eyes replace Rory on the ice, and my chest feels tight. Pippa and I have the best dad, and maybe I don’t like Rory, but I don’t wish a bad dad on him.

“They mentioned a trip out here next month. Let’s invite Mom to one of your classes.” Pippa wiggles her eyebrows. Outside of physio for the team, I teach yoga, both on Zoom and in-studio. “I think it would be fun.”

My stomach sinks as I watch the game. Hayden bodychecks a guy from the other team against the boards in front of us. “That’s probably not going to happen.”

“What if we eased her into it? We don’t have to start with a hot class.”

The whistle blows as the ref calls a penalty, and people around us shout their disagreement. I exhale a long breath out of my nose, putting my response together for my sister as my stomach tightens in frustration.

“She doesn’t feel comfortable in yoga clothes,” I explain. “Being in a yoga studio reminds her of how much her body has changed since she used to dance.” Our mother was a ballerina in her teens and early twenties. “She won’t do it.”

I rub my sternum, dragging my palm over the front of my jersey as I think about her.

“How many times did she insult herself when you went home?” I ask. “How many times did she make a negative comment about her body or say she was on a diet?”

Pippa’s throat works. “A lot.”

“Exactly.” We stare at the ice, and I know Pippa’s thinking the same thing I am.

We want more for our mom. We want her to love herself. It’s why I’m opening my own inclusive fitness studio one day. Everyone deserves to move and feel good in their body. Everyone deserves to love themselves.

The fans roar, and I pull my attention back to the game. Rory nabs the puck, skating away from the mess of players like a bullet. He’s on a breakaway toward the net in front of Pippa and me. He’s moving so fast his skates barely touch the ice, deft and with complete control. My pulse stumbles at his expression, so powerful and focused, and around me, spectators brace themselves.

I don’t see the puck until it’s already in.

Noise explodes—fans hollering, music blasting, the horn they blare for every goal sounding—and lights flash around the net.

A strange, proud feeling moves through me as the players gather around Rory, celebrating.

“Admit it,” Pippa says over the noise. “That was incredible.”

I huff, laughing despite myself. “Don’t tell Miller.”

The players break apart for another face-off, and when Rory turns, I prepare to roll my eyes at his cocky grin.

His expression is flat, unimpressed, and tired. The emotional kind of tired, the kind that wears you down and makes you feel like things will never get better. He’s wearing the same exhaustion I feel after hearing my mom list her flaws, all the reasons her body isn’t good enough. A looming sense of dread gathers within me, and I feel a pinch of regret.

Rory Miller is supposed to be a cocky asshole who can have whatever he wants, not a burned-out hockey player with a crappy dad.

Before I can think more about it, the puck drops and Rory snags it. Just as he swings around the net, a player from the other team crosschecks him into the boards, smashing his face and helmet against the glass.

The fans loudly demand a penalty as the ref blows the whistle. Rory winces, rubbing his lip. It’s bleeding.

“Shit,” I whisper as my stomach knots. “Is he okay?”

Pippa’s gaze slides to me. “Why do you care?”

I think about how warm his hand was around mine the other day and the zinging trail of sparks his touch left along my skin.

“I don’t.” My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t want him to get hurt, though.”

Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve up. “Interesting.”

A knocking noise on the glass has us whipping our heads. Rory waits on the other side, his lip already swelling. I can feel a thousand eyes on us. He points to me, then taps his chin. His eyes glitter with teasing amusement.

“Oh my god.” My face burns, and I want to disappear.

“Kiss it better,” he says through the glass.

My skin is on fire. “No.” I give him a hard look.

“I need it,” he insists, still smiling. “And it needs to be you.”

I’m sweating under this stupid jersey. My face appears on the Jumbotron. That means it’s on TV. Oh god.

“Do it!” someone screams from behind me, and Pippa dissolves into laughter.

“Kiss him, kiss him,” the fans behind me start chanting, and my mouth falls open.

This is not happening.

“Hartley,” Rory calls with bright eyes, tapping his stick on the glass again. “Everyone’s waiting.”

He’s not dropping this. Behind him, Connor catches my eye, waiting with the other players with a disinterested expression like he doesn’t care, but I remember him going off about how much attention Rory got on the ice.

I think about the way he smirked when my hands were on his thigh, and rage bursts inside me, sharp and hot.

I’ll kill Rory later, but for now, I lean forward. He tilts his jaw so it’s pressed against his side of the glass. People start cheering and catcalling as I lean up on my tiptoes and press my lips to my side of the glass, praying it’s clean.

Cheers erupt as Rory clutches his heart. He shoots me a wink before skating away.

So, so arrogant.

The Vancouver team glances over at me with a mix of confused and entertained expressions. Hayden’s eyes pop out of his head. Connor skates past with a scowl.

That was mortifying, but it worked.

“Everyone knows now,” Pippa says, smiling.

The game resumes, but my mind flicks to later, when we’re going to meet everyone at the bar.

Rory’s a loose cannon. My stomach tumbles with nerves. He’s shameless and he’ll do anything to win.

The night’s just started, and I think I need that safe word after all.