Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

The only person I know that is awake at this time of day is my mother. So when my phone rings on my walk to campus at six-thirty in the morning, I know it’s her without even looking. She claims she likes to get an early start on the day, but I know she just has a hard time sleeping now.

“Hey, mom,” I say, crossing the street. I take a sip of my ice coffee hoping the caffeine will jolt my brain awake.

“Walking to practice?”

“Yep.” Every Tuesday and Thursday, the rink is open for the guys that want to come in for some extra work. Since I’m the intern, Coach Green decided I’m the one that gets to supervise. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check in since I know you’ll be busy all day.” She pauses and I wait for whatever’s coming next. It doesn’t take long. “I was using the Find your Family app to see if your sister made it back last night and saw that you left the house.”

And there it is. My mother is obsessed with my social life. Or lack thereof. Other moms worry about their kids partying too much. Mine worries about us not partying, or being social, enough.

“Nadia wanted to meet one of the players on the team, so I took her to a party.”

“Oh!” In my mind I can imagine how big her eyes are, while she’s also trying to feign disinterest. “That sounds fun.”

“It was okay.” I spot the arena in the distance. “I didn’t stay long.”

“Oh.”

Yep, there’s the disappointment.

“I had to get up early,” I remind her. “And it was pretty lame. Just a bunch of stupid hockey players acting like idiots.”

“But are they cute idiot hockey players?”

“Mom…”

“I know, I’ll stop.” But she doesn’t. “I just know it’s been hard for you, but you can’t meet someone if you don’t put yourself out there.”

“I’m out here right now.” Literally. But I know what she means and the thought of it just makes me anxious. “I’m working on it. I promise.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you, Twy. I just know that you struggle with this. Going to that party was a good first step.”

I grunt, not willing to admit that it had been sort of nice to get out and do something other than watch TV. It wasn’t my first party, Nadia manages to drag me out on occasion, but I’m just more comfortable in a small group.

“Okay,” I say, walking up to the door of the rink, “I’m here and need to go.”

“Okay, sweetheart, have fun!”

“Wrangling a group of hungover players isn’t really fun, Mom.”

“Stop, you know you love it.”

Refusing to agree, I say a quick goodbye and hang up, tucking my phone into my pocket.

I don’t mind that Coach Green doesn’t come in until later. There’s something peaceful about the training center early in the morning. The smell isn’t so bad since the cleaning crew comes in overnight and douses the place with something lemony-smelling that manages to cut into the funk that permeates the locker room.

I like having a chance to work independently. I tape ankles and wrists, document any concerns in the player’s file, and then head out to the rink to prep for practice. Part of that is managing the water station. Each player has a bottle with their name and number on it, just like every other piece of equipment. The guys are particular about their things. A mixture of preference and superstition. Thank God that’s not my job. There’s a separate equipment intern, Jonathan, who handles that.

Thirty minutes later the guys start rolling in, bleary and half awake.

These extra practices aren’t mandatory, and the coach isn’t here, but the majority of the team exits the locker room and hits the ice. The guys are in better shape than I expected. I guess Reese managed to keep the party under control after all. Even Reid looks steady on his feet as he skates over to grab a water bottle.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, taking another sip of coffee. I know it’s counterintuitive to have a cold drink inside the rink, especially when I’m bundled up in sweats and a jacket, but ice coffee is my lifeblood.

“Good. Told you, I was just drunk.”

“Well, maybe next time you don’t get so wasted you can’t stay upright.”

“Maybe. But where’s the fun in that?” He squirts a stream of water into his mouth. “You should come to more of our parties.” His forehead screws up and he stares at me for a minute before saying, “And wear your hair down more. It looked good like that.”

Ignoring the hair comment, I retort, “Why? Because I hand-delivered a hot girl to you?” Nadia was home and in bed by midnight—a record for her. It’s a good sign she stuck to our deal.

He grins. “Nadia is hot, so thank you for that, but also because it’s pretty awesome to have a trained medical professional on hand.”

“Ah, I see.” I bring hot girls and provide medical attention. “Unfortunately, I don’t think my job description includes keggers, Wilder.”

“Just saying…open invitation,” his eyebrows waggle, “for you and your friends.”

He hands me his bottle and skates off.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

At the sound of Reese’s voice, a weird sensation rolls down my spine. Our interaction the night before was tense and awkward before I blew off his nice gesture to walk me home and made the comment about not being afraid of the dark. Why did I say that? Even though he’s cocky as hell, it’s obvious he cares about his teammates, and by extension, that includes me.

“Ignore him,” he adds. “He knows you saved his ass last night. He just doesn’t know how to say thank you.”

I glance out at the ice. “I’m not worried about Reid.”

Guys like Reid don’t rattle me like Reese does. Reid’s a goofball–serious about hockey and having a good time. He’s too caught up in his own energy to focus on me, and I like that.

I wait for Reese to skate off, but he was the last one to come out of the locker room, and from the looks of it, he’s still not quite ready. He leans his stick against the wall and tugs at his gloves. Finally, I ask, “Do you need something? Water?”

“Just wanted to make sure you made it back okay.”

“Ah, and they say chivalry is dead.” I start rearranging the water bottles just to give my hands something to do. “I made it home in one piece, just like I said.” And changed into comfortable clothing and binged a documentary on serial killers.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and out of habit I check.

Ruby: I heard you went to a party last night.

I roll my eyes. My mom tells my sister everything.

“Problem?” he asks, eyebrows arched.

“No.” I shove the phone away. “It’s just my sister, being nosy as hell.”

He nods. “She’s older?”

“Yeah. She graduated last year from State and apparently has nothing better to do than to text me at 7 a.m. about my social life.”

“She sounds intense.”

“You have no idea,” I mutter, focusing on the guys on the ice. The guys swarm around the area in front of the net, taking shots on Axel.

“Well,” he says, “you were right about your friend. She didn’t sleep with Reid.” Against my better judgment, I look over and see his helmet is askew on his head, not yet secured under his chin. His very sharp, chiseled chin. “Not for lack of trying on his part though.”

“Yeah, she was home pretty early.”

Reese snorts.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“Hooking up doesn’t only happen after midnight, you know that, right?”

The accusation of being naïve makes my cheeks burn. “Nadia has a pattern,” I tell him. “And coming home before midnight doesn’t fit it.”

A player skates up and asks. “Twy, got a towel?”

“Yeah.” I toss it over and he wipes the sweat dripping off his face. Reese watches me—waiting apparently for me to continue. Fine. “Normally, she vanishes all night, turns off the location app on her phone, and drags in looking like hell the next day.”

A strange expression crosses his face, and I can’t help but ask, “What’s that look for?”

“Just trying to figure out if I have a pattern,” he asks, at the moment Jefferson skates up.

“Probably a trail of used condoms and morning-after pill packets,” Jefferson jokes. “Come on, Cap, the guys are ready.”

Although I wrinkle my nose at the thought, my pulse quickens at the idea of his casual hookups. I’ve heard the rumors about Reese’s exploits. The talk in the locker room and I saw the girl waiting for him on the porch last night. It’s just so easy for him and Reese doesn’t even have the sense to look guilty at Jefferson’s comment, a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “If anything, that’s you,” he says to his best friend, securing his helmet. “And stop being gross in front of Twy. She’s not into it.”

“Sorry, Twy,” Jefferson says, pushing off with his skate. Without another word, Reese grabs his stick and follows.

I stare at his name stretched across his shoulders: CAIN, the number fifteen underneath. He’s a powerhouse, commanding both the ice and his team, which is probably why he makes me nervous. I don’t like feeling out of control, but every exchange with him sets me on edge, like he’s two steps ahead and I’m, predictably, falling behind.

I don’t like it. No, I don’t like the way he makes me feel.

But unfortunately for me, it’s Reese Cain’s world, and like everyone else, I’m just living in it.

Ever since the party, he’s everywhere.

Reese Cain.

It’s like the phenomenon when you’re shopping for a new car and then suddenly all you see is that brand of car on the road. Everywhere I go his massive frame looms. Between classes, always surrounded by a group of teammates or puck bunnies hanging onto his every word. Or he’s on the quad, sprawled out trying to catch a few of the remaining rays of sunshine before winter takes hold. Twice, I see him over in Shotgun. Both times I was walking out of my house as he was on the way to campus. I ducked back inside, peering out the window, and not leaving until he passed.

Why am I avoiding him? Fuck if I know.

There’s something about him that is a sharp reminder of how I’m perceived—uninteresting and unattractive. The opposite of people like him and Nadia. And the people who do take notice? They aren’t good for me anyway. That lesson has been learned.

I can’t avoid Reese at practice, but I’ve managed to ease myself to the background, helping Coach Green when I’m needed and luckily, he’s not one of the ones that needs trainer assistance at the moment. It’s outside the training facility that seems to trip me up.

“Twyler?”

My name is called by the barista, and I step forward to get my iced latte. I grab the cup and turn, crashing into a brick wall. No, not a brick wall. Reese Cain.

His hands stabilize my upper body, fingers tight around my biceps. It’s not enough to keep my drink from sloshing onto my shirt.

“Seriously?” I mutter. If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse him of stalking me. The problem here is that I do know better. I’m just cursed.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, reaching behind me for a wad of napkins. “Here.”

I take them, wiping the droplets of coffee off my hoodie.

“I didn’t see you,” he says, taking the trash and tossing it into the nearby bin.

Of course he didn’t.

“George!” the barista shouts.

“That’s me.” He steps over to the counter and grabs his drink. To my surprise he returns to stand next to me. On the side of his cup the name “George” is written in block letters.

I raise an eyebrow. “Having to go incognito?”

He shrugs those big shoulders. “It’s just easier.”

“Ah, the life of a celebrity.” He doesn’t respond to my jab, which is probably an indicator of how true it is for him, and takes a sip of his drink, wincing when it’s too hot.

“Damn.” His tongue flicks out, and my belly does a flip-flop.

“That’s why I stick to ice. No burned tongues.” I look at his cup. “So, who’s George?”

“My family dog. Chocolate lab.”

I should say something here. My mom and Ruby would tell me this is my moment to practice. I could mention my cat, Bertha, back home, or something silly about pets, but no words come. Outside of the locker room I can’t seem to complete a full thought, so I hold up my cup and say, “Alright. Later then.”

“Wait,” he says, voice raised.

“Yeah?” I turn to face him. His eyes dart behind me toward the door.

“Just…” his hand lands on my hip and he yanks me forward, “…don’t freak, Sunshine.”

“What are you talking—”

My question is cut off when he invades my space and pulls me flush against his hard body, dropping his mouth to mine. There’s zero time to react, and even if there was, I probably wouldn’t. I’m in shock. Complete shock when I feel Reese’s soft, warm lips press into mine.

What the fuck is happening?

But even that part of my brain shuts off as he deepens the kiss, tongue licking at the seam of my lips in gentle, hypnotic strokes. I part for him, taking him inside, aware that every inch of my skin is aflame, and my heart threatens to rupture through my ribcage.

The weight of his other hand settles on my lower back, fingers curled into my shirt. I’m still clutching my drink between us, one hand clinging to his forearm. Just when I wonder if I’ve truly, completely, lost my mind, he slowly withdrawals, pressing his forehead to mine.

“What the hell?” I whisper, already squirming away.

His hold on me is tight, the implication clear. He’s not letting me go. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and I wonder if he can hear how hard and fast my heart is beating. Am I having a heart attack? Is that what happens when you kiss a guy like Reese Cain? Your body overheats and implodes?

He asked me not to freak, but here I am, one second from a full-on freak out.

Again, I repeat, “What. The. Hell.”

He glances over his shoulder toward the crowded line and looks… well, seriously flustered. He eases his grip, but doesn’t release me. His eyes meet mine, filled with regret. “That was… I apologize. I know you’re not into me—guys.”

“Who was that for? I’m not dumb. Was this some kind of game?” I scan the room. “One of the guys on the team? A bet? Did Jefferson bet you to do that?”

I’ll stuff his cup with Icy-Hot.

He touches his lips with his index and forefinger and shakes his head. “No. My ex.”

I look around his massive body and see her. Shanna Wentworth. Everyone knows about her, or at least of her. She and Reese were high school sweethearts. Destined for the NHL and a perfect marriage. He gave her a promise ring for high school graduation that she wore in a profile of him in a Sports Illustrated issue about the rising stars of college hockey. That is, until last year when they broke up and Reese went full manwhore.

“So you kissed me to what? Make her jealous?” I’m still reeling as I take in her stick-straight hair with perfect makeup and lacquered nails shaped like talons. Her clothes are expensive, already looking like a socialite hockey wife. Me? Well, I’m in my ratty coffee-stained hoodie paired with track pants and running shoes. I look like… well, Reese’s twelve-year-old younger brother. “Me? You think I’m making someone jealous?”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you?”

“What–”

“Oh, shit. She’s coming. Play along.” His eyes dart over my head and he raises his hand in a small wave.

“I will not.”

“Please?” Is that desperation? Can someone like Reese sound desperate? I’ve seen him slam a two-hundred-and-forty-pound man into the wall while skating twenty miles an hour. Or once play with blood gushing out of his nose, and he still managed to score the winning goal. This man is fearless.

Or so I thought.

“Why should I?” Because there’s no way this ends up with me not looking like a fool.

 His jaw tenses and I think he’s about to give it up, when he says, “I’ll get Reid to ask Nadia out on a date. For real.”

The bargain comes in a rush, and I don’t have time to agree before he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and traces his fingers along my jaw. A rush of goosebumps spreads down my arms, and he lasers the full effect of his charm on me in one mega-dose.

“Fine,” I hear myself say over the rush of blood thrumming in my veins. As if I have a choice.

“Hey!” Shanna’s voice carries over the music and noise of the coffee shop. “I thought that was you.”

Yes, because there are so many six-foot-four, drop-dead handsome, ex-boyfriend hockey players roaming around campus. This bitch.

“Shan,” he says, the picture of ease, sliding his arm over my shoulder. “Didn’t see you come in.”

I guess everyone is lying today.

“Obviously not.” Her eyes dart to me—to us—and I see the question in them. Trust me, Shan, I have questions too. She thrusts out her hand. “Hi, I’m Shanna.”

“Oh,” I step forward to take her hand, or try to, but Reese’s muscular arm keeps me locked in at his side. I offer a tight smile instead. “I’m Twyler.”

“Twyler… that’s an interesting name.”

It’s a crazy name. Some family lore about the summer my grandmother, Twyla, lived in Tyler, Texas and met my grandfather and subsequently fell in love.

Her gaze shifts over and up to the face of the man next to me. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” he says a little too casually. “The season’s looking good. Coach named me captain…”

“I heard.” She gives him a grin. “So proud of you.” Again, she looks to me, or at me, my ponytail and hoodie. “And you two…”

“Twy’s the intern for the sports trainers,” is all he says by way of explanation.

“Ah, the sports trainers. Right.” There’s a glint in her eye. Something… troublesome. “Well, you make a cute couple. Hope everything goes great with the season. Good luck, Reese, you deserve it.”

“Thanks,” he says, followed by a beat of silence between the three of us. “So, we should go. Twy has class.”

“Well, it was good seeing you.” She smiles at me. “And meeting you.”

“Same,” I say, allowing Reese to lead us out the door. Once we’re outside and clear of the coffee shop entrance, I waste no time disentangling myself.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, running his hands through his hair. “I just panicked.”

“You panicked by assaulting my mouth!” Am I yelling? I can’t tell over the blood pounding in my ears.

He tilts his head and his lips quirk. “That seems extreme.”

“Whatever, Cain. Explain yourself.”

He stiffens and shrugs. “She gets under my skin.”

“So you decided to shove your tongue down my throat to make her ‘jealous.’” The finger quotes are my emphasis, because Jesus, that’s the most absurd plan ever. “If you want her back just go get her.”

“Getting her back is the last thing I want.” His expression turns hard. “I broke up with her.”

I stop short. No one knows what happened between Shanna and Reese. Their breakup was quiet and without drama. Even being privy to locker room chatter, this is the first I’ve heard that he’s the one that initiated it.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I ask, although the image of an endless line of puck bunnies seems like a good enough reason.

“It’s complicated,” he says easily, but his hand is tugging at his hair again. “I just don’t want to give her any openings.”

I don’t ask what that means, and I also don’t miss the way he’s looking at me. Weird. He’s looking at me weird.

“Again, I’m sorry. I appreciate the cover even if it did gross you out.”

Gross me out? That’s nowhere near what that kiss made me feel. My heart still feels like it may rip through my chest.

“Well, you did promise me something in return.” I smile, ready to collect on my bribe. I grab the ties on his hoodie and yank. “You owe me one date between Nadia and Reid.”

He looks down at me, an odd expression flitting across his face. It’s gone in a blink, and he nods, confirming. “I’ll make it happen before the end of the week.”