HAYES
I try my best to ignore the warning signs of a colossal headache, but pain has already claimed its home behind my eyes. Anger is a quick-acting agent inside of me, and it short-circuits every nerve inside of my body.
My game is off today, and Coach can tell. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed during breakfast. This was the first practice I’ve ever been late for.
“Hollings, what the hell is going on with you?” Coach barks, his tone laden with aggravation.
Coach takes pride in his hockey team. His real name is John Labanowski. He was a center for the Tennessee Chasers, but he had to retire after he suffered an injury to his ACL during his sixth season in the NHL. Coach was good, probably one of the best players the Tennessee Chasers had ever seen. He was a big inspiration for me when I got into hockey.
I take my mouthguard out, skating to a halt. “I’m sorry, Coach.”
He crooks a finger, beckoning me over. Fuck.
My thumb runs over the bitten stubs of my fingernails, my knuckles losing more and more color as frustration furrows my brow.
“Please tell me your late night consisted of you finding a way to solve this hiccup with Talavera’s daughter.”
“It actually did.”
Coach’s hands form a steeple underneath his whiskery chin. “I don’t need to know the details, son, but I’m assuming your agent has already debriefed you on what to do?”
“We had a…rather long conversation about it,” I admit sheepishly.
“Look, I’m glad the team will start getting some good press, but the game is tomorrow, and by the looks of it, you’re not playing anywhere near your full potential,” he carps, and his voice slices into me like the snap of a hundred violin strings in an empty auditorium. “I get you have a life outside of hockey, but hockey should be your main focus. You know that. I’ve been patient with you, lenient. This is a privilege.”
He’s right. This is a privilege. I’m lucky to be here, and I have to convince the hockey world that I belong on the Reapers. I worked my ass off to get here. I can’t let some bad press deter me. I need to think about my reputation. If I want a long-standing career in the NHL, I’m going have to rebrand my image, just like Bristol told me.
I need to convince Aeris to be in a relationship with me. She’s my ticket to keeping my spot on the Reapers. She’s my ticket to gaining back my respect. But if I’m going to keep hockey at the forefront of my mind, I can’t get wrapped up in some pesky feelings for her.
“You’ve got my focus. I promise.”
Coach has been like a father figure to me, and all I want to do is make him and my team proud. Everyone on the Reapers is taking a chance on me, despite the bad publicity I’ve brought them. This is my life. This is all that matters.
His eyes scrutinize me, and I feel like I’m a specimen under his microscope. “I’ll believe it when I see it. I have no problem demoting you to fourth line, do you hear me? Not second, not third, fourth. If you’re gonna play like an amateur, I’ll make sure your playing time gets cut in half.”
“Understood, Coach,” I reply, the cavorting of my heart the only medium keeping me alert.
Determination feeds every step when I skate back onto the ice. Coach has us go through a series of shooting, passing, and defensive drills before calling practice.
Bristol sidles up to me, bumping his hip against mine. “Dude, the fans are going crazy,” he tells me, his speech slightly impaired by the hindrance of his mouth guard.
I cant my head, confused. “About?”
Bristol’s lips gather into a proud grin, and he whacks my helmet with his glove. “The girl you were spotted with last night.”
My jelly-like joints feel like they’ve just experienced a ten-story drop. Not even my skates can keep my knees from buckling. “Pictures are already out?”
“Not just out—trending. And not just pictures. I’ve seen some pretty intricate fan cams. My Instagram feed is full of your annoyingly attractive face.”
I skate over to the sidelines, picking up my water bottle and squirting water into my mouth, then dousing the rest of it over my face. Cold liquid ribbons down my neck and over the shelf of my collarbone. I need to cool down.
“I guess that’s good. The plan working, I mean.”
“It’s better than good, H. You looked genuinely happy talking to her.” Bristol takes his helmet off and shakes his sweat-drenched locks. “Are you going to tell her?”
My tongue plays along the bottom of my lip. “Tell her?”
“That you need to fake date her?” Bristol follows up, an imperceptible tic to his jaw.
I prop my chin on the end of my stick, letting it take a bit of my weight. “I mean, yeah, that’s the plan,” I disclose, but his uncertainty sets a flutter in my gut, like a loose cannon of confetti has gone off inside me.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice pipes up from behind me. It’s Kit.
“Why not?” I ask.
“It won’t be believable. People can sniff out a fake relationship from miles away, especially hockey fans. If they find out you’re putting on a show to get in their good graces, they’re going to have even more of a reason to hate you,” he explains matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If she knows, it might influence how authentic her actions are.”
My confidence gutters. “Shit.”
I didn’t think I was gonna have to lie to her about it. I don’t know if I can. Aeris is a good person. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to. She’s already suffered through so much, and the last thing I’d want to do is add to her suffering. But then again, if I don’t switch this narrative around soon, I can say goodbye to my life with the Reapers when I get traded.
Bristol is just as stunned as I am, because he’s giving Kit a what the hell? look.
Kit doesn’t seem fazed by either of our reactions. Then again, he’s not really the most empathetic person.
“I don’t know, Kit…” My heart presses painfully against my ribcage, threatening to burst out Alien style.
“You don’t have to, but if you really want to make this stunt believable, I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“I feel guilty for not being upfront with her.”
Disgust contorts Kit’s features. “Why? You just met her, right? You don’t owe her anything.”
“You don’t have feelings for her, do you?” Bristol probes, hoisting an eyebrow.
My stomach migrates to my throat. “I barely know her.”
It’s true: I don’t know Aeris that well. I guess I feel connected to her because we’re both familiar with death. But I can’t let that connection get in the way of everything I’ve worked so hard to attain—my career, my reputation. This is a means to an end. I’m not emotionally prepared to get hurt again, and I’d be damned if I let Aeris know she was the first girl in a while to have pierced the tiniest hole in my armor.
“Good. Feelings make stuff messy. Think of this like a business transaction. You dote on her in public, the fans go wild for this soft side of you, and you remake a name for yourself. They’ll forget all about how badly you’ve fucked up in the past. Now you have them rooting for you instead of praying for your downfall.”
My nerves scream at me to reconsider, probably wanting to grab me by the collar of my jersey and shake until some sense lodges itself into my brain. “What if things turn real?”
The crease in Bristol’s forehead deepens. “On your end or hers?”
“Both? I don’t know.”
“Then they become real,” Kit replies. “But if I know you, H—which I do—I know that’s the last thing you want right now.”
Kit’s words ring through me like alarm bells. I shouldn’t have even spoken that into existence. I won’t allow things to turn real. This is a fake relationship. Aeris will be my pretend girlfriend, and nothing more. I’ve dealt with plenty of girls during my time with the Reapers. I’ve trudged through heartbreak and revenge and the occasional attempted break-in. What’s a sweet little thing like Aeris going to do to me?
