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

GOOD GAME TONIGHT, Hazel texts a week later while I sit in a bar with the guys, celebrating the game. She and Pippa are on their weekend away in Whistler.

We won the game tonight four-nothing, and not a single one of those goals was mine. I smile down at my phone. A half-full beer sits on the table in front of me after Owens shoved it in my face.

One beer isn’t going to ruin my career, and it’s so good. So fucking good.

You watched my game? I reply.

Her typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I hope she’s getting flustered on the other side.

It was on in the background.

My grin widens. You watched my game.

Christ, I miss her, but the photos we’ve been sending back and forth? My cock stiffens just thinking about them. Prickly, guarded Hazel, sending me glimpses of the lingerie I bought her. Every time my phone chirps with her text tone, my balls tighten in anticipation.

I haven’t jerked off this much since I was a teenager. I scroll up to the photo she sent this morning of her cream-colored lace panties stretched over the long line of her hip, and I scrub a hand over my face.

Hazel Hartley has me under her thumb, and I love it.

Something on the TV screen behind the bar catches my eye—my dad. He’s in the studio as a guest commentator. Replays roll of the Storm game, and a familiar weight settles in my gut. They replay me passing to another forward before he snaps it into the net.

That play was everything I love about hockey—speed, skill, and luck. Teamwork, too, I guess. Fuck, that was a nice goal.

“What a waste,” the captions read as my dad talks.

Pain rips through me. I hope Hazel isn’t watching this.

“I know he’s my son, but Rory Miller is a weapon on this team, and Ward’s using him to prop up other players,” my dad continues, and my molars grind. “Ward makes Miller captain but has him passing to other players like they’re at summer camp.”

“Don’t,” Streicher mutters beside me, staring at his own phone, probably texting Pippa.

“What?”

He tips his chin at the TV before meeting my eyes with his usual serious expression. “Don’t watch that shit. It doesn’t matter what they say. They’re not on the ice with us.”

“He’s right, though.” I rub the back of my neck. “I was traded to the team to score goals and win games.”

Streicher watches me for a long moment, frowning. “Why don’t you leave that up to Ward?”

“I just want to be a good captain,” I admit to my oldest friend. I blow a long breath out. “What would you do in my position?”

He shrugs his big shoulders. “I’d do whatever Ward thought was best. I trust him.”

“Me, too.” The urge to make Ward proud fights with my need for my dad’s approval. “I don’t understand him, though.”

Streicher makes a noise that sounds like a snort. “Me neither. I think he’s got a plan, though.”

My mind wanders back to tonight during the game, after my assist. Ward met my eyes and dipped his chin in approval at me.

“How’s stuff going with Hazel?” Streicher asks.

“Good.” Really good. I think about us racing to the sign on the beach, her shoving me, and me laughing. Falling asleep beside her. Her sending me the hottest pictures I’ve ever seen in my life.

Too good, actually. Better than I ever imagined it could be. It’s not just the photos we send back and forth, and it’s not just that I jerk off daily thinking about her and only her. It’s that I think about her constantly, and I can’t wait to get home to her.

A realization looms at the edge of my consciousness. My feelings for Hazel grow every day, and I’ve never felt like this. This could all be over in a heartbeat, though. Just because I’m trying not to be like Rick Miller doesn’t mean it’s working.

“Still pretending?” Streicher asks, glancing at my phone.

I’ve got a photo of Hazel from this morning pulled up. She’s wearing a toque, and her cheeks and nose are pink from the cold. My chest feels tight and warm.

The realization I’m avoiding starts pounding on the door, demanding attention. I don’t know what this is to Hazel. We still have a deadline on this thing between us.

“I don’t know.” I clear my throat as my chest pulls tight.

Streicher makes a noise of acknowledgment like he isn’t fucking surprised, and I have the urge to grab him by the shirt and shake him.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” I ask, keeping my voice low so the guys don’t overhear.

Streicher gives me a disinterested look. “Warn you about what?”

My mind goes to Hazel crying on the street after her family dinner and the unbearable pain of seeing her hurt and disappointed like that. The urge to fix things, the need to make everything better. I shake my head, at a loss for words. “That it was going to be like this.” I exhale a heavy, frustrated breath, meeting his eyes. “It’s different with her, you know?”

He watches me for a long moment. “Good.” He sets his phone down. “You mention this to Hazel yet?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.” If she doesn’t feel the same way, it’ll ruin everything we have. “It’s fake to her.”

We stare at the TV for a beat. “At least give her the option of rejecting you instead of doing it yourself.”

There’s a long, low whistle, and I look up to see McKinnon standing over us, watching the TV.

“Too bad,” he says as they show my goal stats this season compared to previous years. “Maybe if you spent more time training and less time crying and jerking off to pictures of Hazel, your stock wouldn’t be crashing.”

If Hazel said the thing about me crying and jerking off, I’d laugh, but because it’s her fuckface ex, I just stare at him, territorial anger simmering inside me.

“Need something, McKinnon?”

Streicher gives McKinnon a cold, intimidating stare, but McKinnon ignores it, dropping into the seat across from us.

“Nope.” He smirks, eyes red and bleary. “I can see the appeal of it, though.” He slurs like he’s drunk. Thank fuck Ward took pity on me and gave me my own room for this leg of the trip.

“What are you talking about?” Streicher’s tone is flat and unimpressed.

Connor just smirks right at me. “Miller will find out soon enough.” He catches the attention of a passing server. “Get me another beer, would you?”

My fist clenches with irritation before I give the server an apologetic look. “Thank you,” I tell her before shaking my head at him. “Use your fucking manners, McKinnon. Don’t make the team look bad.”

He scoffs, leaning back in his chair and staring at the server’s ass as she walks away. “She’s fine. She likes me. If you give them too much attention, they get clingy.” He burps into his fist. “But if you leave them wanting more, they work harder for your attention.” His gaze swings to me, eyes full of hate. “It worked for Hazel.”

Even as protective rage roars through me, I keep my expression relaxed and amused. “She’s moved on, and you should, too. It’s getting sad.”

Fucking asshole.

McKinnon winces and makes an exaggerated pained noise. “My groin sure is sore after the game,” he says, grinning at me. “I’ll need Hazel to work on it all week.”

The simmering rage in my veins boils over, and I clench my teeth so hard my molars hurt. “Watch it, McKinnon.”

His drunk smile pulls higher, and my blood pounds. Thank fuck Hazel isn’t around to hear this.

I lean in so only he and Streicher can hear me. “If you make her uncomfortable, I will fucking end you.”

My teeth grit. I’ve never hated someone the way I hate this guy.

McKinnon widens his eyes, pretending to be scared. “Wow. Someone’s got it bad.” He laughs to himself, and the sound makes me sick. “You always did have a thing for my girl, didn’t you?”

His arrow hits me right in the chest, and anger rolls through me like a storm.

“She’s not your girl,” I say in a low, deadly voice, on my feet with my fists clenching and my shoulders tight. “Hazel is mine.”

“Like I said.” His eyes glitter with ugly condescension. “You’ll see.”

On the edge of control, I drag in a deep breath and look around, making eye contact with Ward across the bar with the other coaches. The goalie coach is talking, but Ward watches us with interest.

I’m the captain, and if Hazel were here, she’d encourage me to be the guy Ward thinks I can be.

“Drink some water, McKinnon.” I nod good night to Streicher and he lifts a hand as a goodbye.

In the elevator, I pull in deep breaths, letting them out slow. Fuck, I hate that guy, but what I said about Hazel being mine?

It was the truth.

I scroll through our texts, all the fucking incredible photos she’s sent me over the past week. Hartley’s body is a dream, with smooth curves, swells of cleavage, the gentle dip of her hips—even her collarbones are gorgeous. She has a freckle right over her left breast that I think about licking every time I get a photo where it’s visible.

That she feels hot and desired while taking these photos is what makes me hard, though. Thoughts of McKinnon and my dad fade away as I send her another one.

Her response comes immediately.

It’s a picture of her on her front, hair falling forward and breasts against the duvet. The soft curve of her ass is visible, and need flows through me, making my balls tighten.

Is that all you’ve got, Miller? *yawn* Even with all your pretty muscles, I’m getting bored.

My smile curls higher. I don’t know whether it’s the two beers I had or the possessive feelings from tonight, but the urge to ramp things up with Hartley courses through me.

She may not know it yet, but Hazel Hartley is mine, and tonight? I’m going to show her.