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

LATER IN THE WEEK, I’m lying in my hotel bed, scrolling through my text chat with Hartley. We played New Jersey tonight, and when our right winger scored after my assist, I felt another rush of that light, victorious feeling I’ve been chasing.

I should be sleeping or reviewing game tape for tomorrow’s game, but instead, I’m thinking about Hazel.

When she asked me to come with her for Christmas, she was doing that finger-twirling thing. She was nervous.

Keeping up appearances, my ass. She likes me. She isn’t ready to admit it, but I can be patient.

I scroll through our chat. She didn’t respond to the link I sent with a studio for rent.

Did you see the studio I sent?

The typing dots pop up, disappear, and pop up again. Yes. Thanks.

And?? She sends a shrugging emoji, and I frown. Too expensive?

It’s expensive but not outrageous.

Too big? Too small? The listing said the space has two studio rooms.

No. It’s a good size.

I shake my head at my phone, confused. Let’s check it out when I get home.

I don’t think I’m ready yet.

I remember what she said after the dinner with her family while tears rolled down her face, about how if she couldn’t help her mom, how is she supposed to help other people, and my chest hurts. The need to make this situation better for Hazel claws through me.

You’re ready, Hartley. What does Pippa think?

I don’t really talk to her about this stuff. She’s busy with her own career.

I let out a heavy exhale. I think you should talk about it with her, and I think you’re ready.

Hazel admitting these things to me has to mean something, though. This thing between us might be more than she lets on.

The typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again before her next message pops up. I seem to remember winning a bet.

I shake my head, laughing. I’ve been thinking about it all week, and the photos are ready to go, but…

I wanted her to ask. I wanted to see a little sliver of desire from her. I still get hard thinking about her saying I didn’t know it could be like that after I ate her pussy like my life depended on it.

She’s asking, though. I grin at my phone. You cheated.

Now who’s being the sore loser?

Put my jersey on, I text back. Christ, I love sparring with her like this. It’ll turn me on.

Wow. Your ego, Miller.

A laugh chokes out of me. I wish I was in her bed, watching her try not to smile. We had a game Wednesday, so I couldn’t attend her online yoga class. I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever.

The picture pops up in our chat. She has her back to her bathroom mirror in the photo, peering over her shoulder with a little smile, MILLER across her back in bold letters.

Possessive satisfaction curls through me.

You’re beautiful, I text.

Are you talking to me or the jersey?

My smile turns high-watt. I’m buzzing, warmth spreading through my chest and over my skin. Why can’t it be both?

Excitement and nerves thrash through me as I go to the last photo in my camera roll, a shirtless picture I took in front of the mirror yesterday. My phone makes a whooshing noise as the photo sends, and a moment later, she responds.

Wow.

I suck a breath in. Hartley, I seem to remember you saying I don’t have an eight-pack.

I can feel her cute little huff through the universe. I don’t remember saying that.

My eyebrows lift as I wait, smiling. She totally fucking does remember.

You’re shameless, she says.

My smile lifts higher. Say it.

The longest pause in the world stretches out, and I scrub a hand over my face with impatience.

You have an incredible body. Happy?

My lungs expand, filling every corner of my chest, and I grin like a fool at my phone.

The next afternoon, I’m on the plane with the rest of the team, waiting for takeoff and debating whether to send Hazel the shirtless photo I took this morning.

I read over our text conversation and her response to the picture I sent last night, and hot possessiveness courses through me at the idea of her staring at my picture, getting turned on.

Ward claps me on the shoulder as he walks past my seat, and I slip my phone away.

“Nice work out there tonight, Miller,” he says with a nod and a quiet smile, and I straighten up. On his phone beside me, Streicher pauses, listening.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” His eyebrows bob before he keeps walking, and I watch his tall form disappear down the aisle.

Every game, my dad’s voice gets quieter. Instead, I picture Hazel giving me that proud smile. During games, I look to Ward on the bench, and when I pass the puck and help the other guys score, he always wears the same stoic expression, eyes glinting like he’s pleased.

“You weren’t in the gym this morning,” Streicher says from the seat beside me.

“Uh, yeah. I went for a run around the waterfront instead.”

He frowns. It’s unusual for me to skip a workout. “Why?”

I run a hand through my hair. I woke up to an incoming call from my dad but let it go to voicemail. I still haven’t checked it. “Hazel makes me go for runs sometimes with her and it’s, uh.” I shrug. “Nice. To not think about hockey all the time.” I swallow. “And just talk and stuff.”

He stares at me. “You miss her.”

I think back to the past few days, how often I wonder about her or have the urge to text her. How I can’t wait to see her again. “Yeah. I do.”

Streicher turns back to his phone, and I read over my conversation with Hazel. Before I think too hard about it, I send her the photo I snapped this morning, lying in bed with the light streaming in.

Stop teasing me, she texts a moment later, and I burst out laughing. Players look over and I clear my throat, stifling my laughter.

Your turn, I respond, grinning like a dumbass.

A photo pops up—she’s in her apartment, sitting on her yoga mat with her feet together, stretching, full lips curving up. She’s wearing a loose sweater and leggings, silky hair up in a ponytail, and no makeup.

My heart skips a beat. She’s gorgeous.

Not what I had in mind but still cute as hell.

I study the photo, desperate for any scrap of Hazel I can get. The dragon I gave her sits on her nightstand now. Does that mean she misses me, too? Her bed looks huge and comfy and I cannot fucking wait to get back to her and flop down on it.

My eyes land on Hazel again. The shoulder of her loose sweater has slipped aside while she stretched, revealing a pale purple strap.

The pale purple strap of one of the pieces of lingerie I bought her. Proud male satisfaction charges through my veins.

Hartley, are you wearing one of the lacy things I bought you?

Her response is immediate. Yes.