Page 107 of Fake Out Hearts

I’m not sure what’s wrong until I follow her gaze and find the last person in the world I want to see.

Kaplan.

He’s staring right at us, wearing the kind of shit-eating grin I’d love to punch off his face. I instinctively pull Becca closer to me, wrapping my arm around her protectively. It makes sense he’d be here, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

I’m even more unhappy about the fact that he’s coming our way.

Andrew notices both of us staring past him, and when he turns to see what we’re looking at, he quickly excuses himself. I don’t blame him for not wanting anything to do with what’s about to happen next. The most recent episode of Kaplan’s bullshit “reality” show is clearly the elephant in the room, and I’m sure most of the people here have been talking about it. How couldn’t they?

As Kaplan gets closer, I notice he’s bulked out more than usual. Maybe he’s on some new workout routine for the next time we cross paths on the ice? I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care. All I know is I don’t want him anywhere near me or Becca, but it isn’t like I can make a run for it. Besides, I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

I take a deep breath and stand as tall as I can to meet him. My heart pounds in my ears and my jaw clenches. He smiles smugly at us when he stops with his hands in his pockets.

“Nice to see you, Becca.” She glares at him without answering, and he scoffs under his breath. “As frosty as ever, I see.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps, and he narrows his eyes.

“Camden must really be rubbing off on you. In more ways than one.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Kaplan,” I growl. “Neither of us are in the mood for your shit.”

“Fine, play it your way,” he says, then locks eyes with Becca. “But we all know you’ll come crawling back to me one day when you eventually get bored with Camden.”

“That willneverhappen,” I say through gritted teeth, pressing Becca against my side.

“You sure about that? Once a cheater, always a cheater, or so they say.”

I lunge at him, but Becca gets between us, resting a hand on my chest.

“It’s okay, Theo. Don’t let him get to you. That’s what he wants,” she whispers, and it’s barely enough to calm the rage roiling in my veins, but it works. She’s right. This is a fucking charity auction, not a boxing match. So as much as I’d love to pound Kaplan into dust right here and now, I unclench my fist and step back.

“It’s a good thing you have your dog on a leash, Becca.”

“Leave. Now,” she orders, and he frowns at her.

“Fine. I just wanted you to know I miss you,” he says with a smirk and turns to disappear back into the crowd. I glare after him, one arm still wrapped tightly around Becca, fuming. It takes a few minutes for me to slow my breathing and calm down, but having Becca in my arms helps.

“Don’t believe a word he says. I’d never cheat on you. I didn’t even cheat on him. He’s so full of shit.”

“Oh, I know,” I say, but I let it go. The more I think about him or any of the crap that comes out of his mouth, the more I let him win. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

“That sounds fantastic,” Becca says, so I flag down the nearest attendant and pick two glasses of red wine off their tray.

“I’m proud of you for not losing it on him,” Becca says as she takes one of the glasses from me.

“So am I.”

She chuckles, although I wasn’t joking at all.

I take a sip of my drink as an announcement is made that the auction is about to start. There’s a small stage at the back of the rooftop, and more rows of chairs than I can count are laid out in front of it. Most of them are taken by the time we get there, but Becca and I manage to get a couple of seats toward the middle before everything fills out.

This is a typical auction, so there are little paddles at every seat with a number on it for us to use to bid on something we’re interested in. All the proceeds are going toward youth hockey programs in the city, but I don’t actually know what’s being auctioned today. It’s almost a guarantee that there will be a few lunches with players and that sort of thing, if I had to guess, and probably some game tickets too.

Becca and I take our seats, each of us holding a paddle, while a soft-middled dude I recognize as the head of the youth hockey program walks out onto the stage. “Thank you for coming tonight, everyone,” he says into the mounted microphone. “We have a lot of things to get through tonight, so let’s get this show on the road.”

The charity leader steps back, and another guy in a suit takes his place while an attendant brings out a hockey stick. It’s hard to see from here, but it looks like it’s been signed by an entire team. “First up we have a hockey stick from last year’s Stanley Cup, signed by the entire winning team,” the new guy says intothe mic. “We’ll start the bidding at five hundred dollars. Do we have five hundred?”

Someone in the front row throws their paddle into the air immediately, and the auctioneer launches into a classic rapid-fire stream of words to ask if there’s another bid. After several rounds, the stick ends up selling for just shy of five thousand dollars.

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