The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 9

I’M WALKING out of the washroom later when I bump into Connor.

“Oh.” The hallway seems to shrink. “Hi.”

I keep walking but he clears his throat. “Hazel.”

I really don’t want to, but I have to work with the guy all year. “What’s up?”

“So?” He gives me an expectant look. “This shit Miller’s saying about you being into him while we were together?”

It takes every ounce of my energy not to smile in satisfaction. “What about it?”

The innocence in my tone is Oscar-worthy, and I’m queen of the world. From the way his eyes harden, Connor is seething. I may not like Rory, but he knows exactly how to piss people off.

Connor’s jaw ticks. “Really?”

“Connor, it was years ago. Who cares?”

“Do you ever think about us?” he asks, watching me intently.

These fucking hockey players. They’re so competitive.

“No,” I lie.

He keeps watching me, and there’s a tight, nauseous feeling in my stomach. I pray he doesn’t know the truth.

“Hartley.” Rory’s in front of us, and I relax.

His arm goes around my shoulder, pulling me against him, and without meaning to, I inhale a lungful of his fresh scent.

“Let’s go home.” He uses a low, seductive voice in my ear. My blood feels slow and thick like honey when he uses that voice. “I’ll do that thing you like.”

Warmth spreads throughout me, zinging between my legs, as I picture what he could mean by that, if this were real.

I need to get out of the bar, out of Rory’s charisma splash zone, and then I can think again. “Yeah. Home. I’m getting sleepy.”

His hand slides into mine and he pulls me out of the hallway without another glance at Connor.

After saying our goodbyes to everyone, we step outside, and he whistles. “Did you see his face, Hartley?”

“Yes. God, he was so pissed.”

We leave the alley and he walks in the direction of my apartment. “You live in the West End, right?”

How does he know that? “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

He smiles over his shoulder, slipping his hands into his pockets as I catch up. “In a match between you and the toughest criminals in the city, my money’s on you every time. You’re a tiny, terrifying dragon.”

“I’m not tiny.” I’m five foot six.

“I could pick you up and throw you over my shoulder.”

“You won’t.”

His eyebrow lifts in challenge, and I feel that urge to laugh again. “I might.”

I glare up at him, but the corner of my mouth is twitching. “Walk me home, then. We’re almost there, anyway.” My words are casual, cool, and indifferent.

As we walk, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His gaze is on the sky, at the stars floating in the inky darkness, barely visible with all the city lights.

“You were drinking water all night,” I say just to fill the silence.

“Yep.”

“Do you not drink?” As his fake girlfriend, I should know these things.

“I drink. Sometimes. Not often. I don’t drink much during the season.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Alcohol is inflammatory.”

“Oh.” That makes sense, I guess.

“I’m only worth as much as my body can do for me.” He pats his flat stomach. “This eight-pack isn’t going to maintain itself.”

His words pinch me, right in the chest. They sound like how my mom talks about food.

“One beer isn’t going to ruin your perfect physique, Miller. And you don’t have an eight-pack.”

He meets my teasing gaze with his own, and sparks jump around in my stomach. “You want to see? It sounds like you do. What was that you just said about my body? Perfect physique?”

“Shut up.” I huff with laughter. “Keep your clothes on.”

He chuckles. “I love beer, though. Maybe not as much as you do, but—” His gaze goes far away with a nostalgic, blissed-out expression I immediately want to capture. “I dream about drinking a cold beer in the summer, on a patio with dinner.”

He smiles at me, a genuine one without any trace of arrogance. Just pure enjoyment. I don’t know what to do with it.

We’re in front of my building. “This is me.”

As I dig my keys out of my bag, his eyes move with curiosity over the old three-story walk-up.

“Thank you for tonight.” I swallow, thinking about Connor in the hallway. “What you said about me liking you in high school pissed him off. This season would be harder if we weren’t doing this, so—” I glance at the sidewalk. “Thanks, Miller.”

There’s a beat of silence, and when I look up, he’s studying me with a soft, gently teasing smile.

“You can call me Rory, you know.”

“I know.” I smile down at my keys. “Miller’s fine.”

“Alright, Hartley.”

I smile again, and there’s something weird in the air between us. It feels a little like we’re friends.

Rory tucks his hands into his pockets, watching me. “Invite me up.”

I bark out a laugh. So much for friends. “No.”

“Come on.” He gives me his most seductive smile, and even though my expression says hell no, the spot between my legs twinges with anticipation. “I want to see your place.”

This back and forth we have going? We’d carry that straight to the bedroom. I imagine pushing Rory down on the bed and him flipping me over, fighting me for dominance.

“No,” I say again, laughing at his shamelessness. “What’s that smile? Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

“No.” Yes.

He gazes down at me with a smile less arrogant than usual, less amused. His eyes flick down to my mouth and the smile slides away. Longing and heat flash across his face. For a brief moment, I want him to kiss me.

His eyes drop to my mouth again and determination floods them. My heart pounds. Oh my god. Arousal blooms inside me. I should be freaking out as he steps forward, shoving him back as he enters my space, but I’m not.

The front door opens. Someone walks out, and we jerk, moving out of the way. I suck a deep breath into my lungs, trying to calm myself.

Rory’s going to have his hands all over me for three months, and I can’t lose my head every time it happens.

His eyebrows bob once. “We’ll be traveling for a week, so I won’t see you.”

“Okay. Safe travels.” I pause in the doorway. “Good night.”

“Night, Hartley.”

Later, I lie in bed, thinking about his hands on my waist, his mouth against my neck. Invite me up. I snort to myself. Never.

He’d be as competitive and determined in bed as he is on the ice, I bet. He’d call me Hartley in that low, teasing tone as he dragged his tongue over my skin, watching my reaction.

Never in a million years would that happen. Not even once. Because it would be so good, I just know it, and this thing we’re doing is fake.