The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 71

ON THE MORNING of the League Classic, New Year’s Eve, Rory and I meet with the owner of the studio space.

Laura’s family friend, Nadir, leads us on a tour, and I can barely talk, I’m so excited and nervous.

It’s perfect.

“Wiring looks good,” Rory murmurs in my ear, and I stifle a snort. I’m sure he’s never looked at wiring in his life, but last night, I spotted him googling what to look for when renting yoga and dance spaces.

“I’ll give you two a few minutes,” Nadir says. “Take your time. I’ll be outside if you have any questions.”

“And lots of room in the foyer for people to store their stuff,” Rory adds, gesturing at the lobby. “Do you think you’d need to do a lot of renos?”

Until the end of January, this space is a yoga studio. “Maybe a new coat of paint. Adding the ballet barre to one of the studios.” My mouth twists, and an urgent excitement hums in my chest. “The smaller rooms would need shelving and equipment.” I meet Rory’s curious gaze. “I like it,” I admit.

“Yeah?”

“A lot.” My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I bounce on the balls of my feet. Is this happening? It feels too good to be true.

It would be available as of February first, Nadir told us. On my first mentoring session with the woman from the states, we talked through how the next few months would work if I rented a space. I’d probably need a month for small renovations, and in the meantime, I could prepare the admin side of the business, like creating a schedule, doing the marketing, building a website, and hiring staff.

Until we’re ready to open, I could continue working with the Storm. I’d still have my other teaching gigs to bring in money. It would be incredibly busy, but I could make it happen.

My heart flutters as I gaze through the windows at the mountains. For this place? I could make it happen.

The situation with my mom wafts back into my mind, and I remember the phone call we had before Christmas. Can I do this? I want it to be so much more than a fitness studio, but what if I’m not ready?

What if I am, though? Bright, sparkling excitement bursts through me. What if it works out and it’s everything I want it to be?

Rory’s hands land on my shoulders, kneading the tight muscles, and I relax under his touch while my mind whirs.

If it was Pippa hesitating, I’d tell her to give the middle finger to imposter syndrome and get out of her own way. I rub my palm over my sternum, glancing around the space.

It really is perfect. Rent’s a little high, but manageable.

Rory believes in me, and his encouraging smile is the nudge I need. My hand slips into his and he gives me a squeeze.

“Hey, Nadir?” I call, leading Rory out of the rental space. “I’ll take it.”

Early that afternoon in Whistler, Ward sits across from us in the hotel meeting room wearing a curious frown. The team’s warm-up skate starts in half an hour, but I sent him an urgent meeting request.

This thing with Connor has gone on long enough. If it was happening to a colleague or friend, I’d urge them to talk to someone and put a stop to it. Between this and signing the lease, I’m doing all the hard things today.

“Thanks for meeting with me on short notice,” I tell him before taking a deep breath.

My heart pounds, but I remind myself that Connor kissed me. It was unprofessional and gross and went against everything the team promotes. I don’t know why this is nerve-racking.

Maybe because we egged Connor on all season. We purposefully made him jealous. A tiny part of me whispers this is your fault, but I squash that voice like a bug.

It wasn’t okay, even if Connor was jealous.

Rory’s hand slips into my lap, squeezing my fingers, and my nerves settle.

“The night of the charity event,” I tell Ward, “Connor McKinnon got very drunk and kissed me. I told him to back off and he wouldn’t.”

Revulsion climbs up my throat, putting a bad taste in my mouth. Alarm flashes in Ward’s eyes as he listens.

“I don’t want to be his physio anymore.”

Ward’s jaw tightens. “You’re definitely not his physio anymore.” His eyes meet mine, and I see fury and regret. “I’m so sorry, Hazel. McKinnon is benched until this is resolved. I need to think more about his future with the team.” His throat works. “What can we do to support you? Whatever resources you need, they’re available.”

I shake my head, letting a breath out of my tight lungs. Ward’s concerned reaction is already calming me. “I’m okay. Thank you for taking it seriously.”

“Of course. If you change your mind, you know where to replace me. I’ll back you up.” His brow furrows harder and he shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, again.”

“I know.” I give Ward a tight smile, squeezing Rory’s hand. “Thanks.”

In the hall outside, Rory puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me and searches my eyes.

“You okay?”

I nod, mouth twisting. “I wish the whole thing hadn’t happened, and talking to Ward wasn’t fun, but I’m glad we did.”

“Me, too.” He pulls me into his chest and gives me a tight, warm hug, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” I lean my head against his sculpted chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“You did the hard thing.”

I hum. “Thank you for coming with me.”

He makes a scoffing noise. “That’s what we do for each other, Hartley.”

The warm-up skate starts soon, so Rory heads down to the arena and I return to our suite, thinking about another hard thing I’ve been putting off. I flick the fireplace on in the living room and sink onto the couch, staring out the windows at the snow-covered mountains surrounding the ski resort.

My mom and I haven’t addressed things since we spoke before the charity event and I lost my cool with her. My parents phoned on Christmas, but Rory and I were on speakerphone with them, Pippa, and Jamie, so the conversation was about easy topics.

Before I change my mind, I’m dialing.

“Hi, honey,” my mom answers.

“Hey.”

“You must be at the League Classic by now.”

“Yeah.” On the suite’s patio, a bird hops around before flying off.

Keep being a safe place for her to land, Pippa said.

Everyone’s journey moves at a different pace, my mentor said during our first meeting.

“I’m really sorry about what I said,” I tell my mom, my throat feeling tight. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, and you’re right. You can feel however you want about yourself.”

“No, Hazel—” She cuts herself off, pausing. I can practically see her pained, uncomfortable expression on the other end. “I didn’t realize it had that effect on you. I forget, you know, that just because you aren’t little anymore doesn’t mean you don’t absorb what I say like a sponge.” She sighs. “I never want you to feel bad about yourself or think you’re anything less than beautiful.”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I really don’t feel that way.”

“Good.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, and for the first time, I feel like I haven’t failed her. I left space for her to feel what she’s feeling and I’m not making her feel like shit about it.

“If someone wanted to feel differently about themselves,” she starts, a note of reluctance in her voice. “What, um, or where would they start?”

Emotion rises in me and I blink it away. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “an easy way to start would be to only say positive things about myself. When I think I look good, I say it out loud.” I laugh to myself. “Even if I’m alone in my apartment.”

My mom chuckles.

“And maybe I’d keep a journal, and every time a negative feeling about myself or my body comes up, I’d tell my journal about it. I’d write down what triggered that feeling—what I was watching on TV, what I was reading or thinking about that made me feel like I wasn’t enough, so I can replace a pattern.”

She listens in silence.

“And maybe after a month or two of that, I’d make a list of all the things I secretly want to do but feel like I can’t, and why. Clothes I want to wear, places I want to visit, activities I want to try.”

I picture my mom dancing. Not at twenty, but now, in her fifties. Strong and tall and happy and beautiful.

“And when I felt strong enough, I’d list the reasons I can’t do those things and ask myself if they’re really true.”

I hit the brakes because I don’t want to overwhelm her.

“And I would remind that person,” I add, “they can go at whatever pace they want, and they’re not expected to be perfect, because no one is.”

“Well, I’ll let her know what you said,” my mom says lightly, and we both chuckle. “I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too.”