The Fake Out

The Fake Out

CHAPTER 1

Rory

Blood pounds in my ears as I skate toward the net during my first game with the Vancouver Storm. We’re tied in over‐time, and there’s a crescendo of noise from the crowd as I rear back and slapshot the puck at the net.

It pings off the crossbar, and the Vancouver fans let out a collective groan of disappointment.

Stars score goals. My dad, Canadian hockey legend Rick Miller, has said it so many times over the years, and it’s what I chant to myself as I snag the puck out of the mess of players and skate backward until I’m open.

The whistle blows, the game stops, and I look over to the pretty girl who’s been catching my attention all night.

Hazel Hartley, one of the team physiotherapists—stunning and sharp-tongued, with long, dark lashes, a plush mouth the perfect shade of pink, and the most striking blue-gray eyes I’ve ever seen—sitting behind the net with her sister, Pippa, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Hazel Hartley, my high school tutor who had a boyfriend, who can’t stand me and doesn’t date hockey players anymore. Despite Pippa wearing a Storm jersey with the name of her fiancé, goaltender Jamie Streicher, on the back, and despite Hartley working for the team, I haven’t seen her in a jersey since high school. Tonight, my gaze catches on her chestnut hair pulled up in a ponytail, her pale purple puffer jacket. I bet she’s wearing the black leggings that always make her ass look incredible.

I wink at her; she rolls her eyes.

I grin; she pretends to yawn.

Something electric and addictive floods my veins at our back-and-forth. It’s always been like this with us, ever since high school.

The players line up for a face-off and I pull my attention back to the game. Around the arena, the fans are getting anxious, desperate for a win. The whistle blows and I’m off, hustling the puck toward the goalie again.

“Let’s go, Miller,” Coach Ward calls from the bench.

Determination fires through me. Tate Ward wanted the top scorer in the league, so I need to show him what he paid for. I’ve idolized him since he was a player.

Playing for him this season will fix whatever’s gone wrong in my head. It has to.

Hayden Owens, a Vancouver defenseman, is open. He has a clear shot on net, but stars score goals, and I’m not here to pass the puck.

I snap the puck toward the goalie; it hits the back of the net, and the arena explodes with noise at my game-winning goal. The goal horn bellows, the arena lights flash, and the rest of the Vancouver team surrounds me. Over at the bench, guys are cheering. Even quiet and serious Coach Ward is clapping. I wait for the consuming, proud feeling in my chest that this moment should bring.

Nothing. Fans rattle the glass and the team surrounds me, but I experience blank, silent emptiness.

Shit.

I used to care. Scoring goals used to make me feel on top of the world, like nothing could touch me. Now, I feel flat, like I’m checking a box. Playing professional hockey, being the best in the league, used to be my dream, but these days, it feels like a job.

Coming to Vancouver to play for Ward, to play with goal‐tender Jamie Streicher, my best friend—these things were supposed to change that.

“Look alive, Miller.” Owens grabs me by the shoulders and tries to put me in a headlock. “You just won the game.”

I laugh and shove him off, shove away all the weird thoughts as we skate past the net to the bench. When we pass Hazel, I give her the cocky, smug grin I know pisses her off.

Fans watch as I tap my stick against the glass and she lifts her gaze to meet mine, arching an eyebrow as if to say, what, asshole?

Do you want an autograph? I mouth, making the signing motion in the air.

I watch her lips curve into a cool smile. You wish, she mouths back at me as she stands.

My chest expands with a tight, excited feeling. No one talks to me like Hartley does. I’ve always liked that about her.

And these days, sparring with her? It’s the only time I actually feel something.

Beside her, Pippa grins at me, waving. “Nice goal, Rory,” she calls over the glass.

Owens pounds on the glass, waving at her, and she laughs, eyes lighting up as Streicher, her fiancé, skates up to greet her with a quiet smile.

Something tugs around my heart as I watch Pippa blow a kiss to him. Behind her, Hartley’s already halfway up the stairs that lead out of the arena, ponytail bouncing with each step.

She is wearing the leggings, and her ass does look incredible.

“I think Hartley likes me,” I say to the guys over the arena music, keeping my eyes on her retreating form.

Owens laughs, and even surly Streicher snorts.

“Not a f***ing chance, bud,” Owens crows, slapping me on the back as we skate off the ice.

My competitive, determined instincts roar to life, honed by years of hockey and training. I thrive on a challenge, and I hate losing.

Hartley not giving me the time of day sticks in my mind like a thorn. I like her, but I don’t know how to make something happen with her. I think, deep down, she likes me, too.

Hockey is everything, my dad always says. Hockey comes first.

Getting hung up on a girl is a dangerous game, but I can’t seem to forget about Hazel Hartley.

“Miller,” Coach Ward calls as I head down the corridor to the dressing room. “Stop by my office after postgame press.”

I nod and make my way to the showers, head still filled with thoughts of Hazel.