Page 2 of Fake Out Hearts

“I’mfine,” I insist, and he throws his hands up.

“Alright, but it’s not me you need to convince. The press is waiting, so fix your face before you go out there. You don’t have to talk to me, but there’s no getting out of talking to them.”

“This face? Nothing to fix,” I say and flash him another grin before we stride out to face the swarm of reporters who have already gathered in the press room.

“Theo! Theo! What happened out there? How are you feeling after that last-minute steal by Kaplan?” a young guy from the local news asks.

My stomach twists and my fists clench at the mention of Kaplan, but I grin at the reporter and shrug.

“Not much to say. We played our best, but we got outplayed. Might be hard to believe, but even the Aces can’t win every game,” I say to laughter.

Noah catches my eye and nods approvingly, but all I see is the way he looked at me right before Kaplan checked me in the back.

“Anything you would’ve done differently?” another reporter asks from the rear of the crowd, clearly not getting the hint that I don’t want to talk about this.

“Having eyes in the back of my head might’ve helped,” I say to more laughter. “But in all seriousness, no. I’m proud of the way the Aces played tonight.”

Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel hollow. But what the hell am I supposed to say? I’m not about to give Kaplan the satisfaction of knowing he got to me, and I don’t want Noah sweating me any more than he already is, so I decide to cut things short.

“I don’t want the bus to leave me in Prowler territory, so I’d better get going. See you at the next one,” I say and push my way through the reporters and don’t stop moving until I’m out of the stadium and safely on the team bus with the rest of the Aces.

Noah follows not long after and I pretend like I’m listening as we do our usual post-game debrief on the way to our hotel, but I’m barely picking up any of it. None of it matters anyway because I know exactly where things went wrong and who’s to blame.

Thankfully, the guys leave me alone while they argue in the hotel lobby over which bar to go to. I don’t really care where as long as there’s plenty of stiff drinks and hopefully, a hot woman or two to take my mind off all of this crap.

Eventually, the concierge suggests a local sports bar called Pitcher Perfect that’s only a few blocks away, so we drop our stuff off in our rooms and pile back into the bus to head over. The whole drive passes in a blur without me noticing much of it until I’m standing at the door with the rest of the team.

From the outside, the place looks like every other sports bar I’ve ever been to, all low lighting, high top tables, and flat screen TVs. And I can see through the windows that it’s fucking packed with people wearing Prowlers jerseys, which is just great.

“Ladies first,” Reese jokes as he holds the door open for me, so I sock him on the arm on my way past. “Ouch! Someone’s feeling feisty tonight.”

“Gotta keep my shot arm strong somehow,” I say and stroll past him like I’m the most unbothered dude in the room even though I’d much rather be back at the hotel with a bottle of something from room service.

The roar of conversation washes over me as I stop in the waiting area and take it all in. Peanut shells crunch under my feet, and the place reeks of stale IPA, which makes me hate it even more, but I’m too far in to back out now. I glance around the room, scoping out the available talent, and freeze when I spot a head full of familiar, wavy dark hair across the bar.

The woman it’s attached to is thin and gorgeous, with a small but muscular body and toned calves shooting from her denimjeans that scream she’s a dancer. She’s got her back to me, and I cringe when I realize she’s wearing a Prowlers jersey too, but I can’t help staring at her anyway. Where do I know her from? I can’t place it.

Laughter erupts at the crowded table she’s sitting at, and I spot someone carrying a boom mic as they loop around the edge of the table to hold it over the head of a smug face I’d very much like to punch. Two goons with cameras on their shoulders follow, and my blood curdles.

Because Shawn Kaplan is here.

With his stupid fucking reality TV show crew.

And that means the woman I can’t take my eyes off must be Becca, his girlfriend.

We’ve met a few times before, most recently after a home game when I found them arguing outside a bar. Kaplan was a total dick to her, only worried about how she was making him look by wearing his jersey—like that’s anything to be upset about. I still think she’d look much better wearing mine, and I’m debating walking over to tell her that again when a hand clamps around my bicep.

“Relax, Camden,” Noah whispers in my ear, but I barely hear him. “Remember what I told you about Kaplan: he’s got it out for you. Don’t take the bait, especially not here.”

“Easy for you to say. He didn’t make a fucking fool out of you today,” I mutter back, but Noah squeezes my arm so hard that I wince.

“Exactly. So don’t let him do it again.”

“Fine,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I’ll play nice. For now.”

“Good. Come on,” Noah says and practically drags me to an open table on the opposite side of the bar, far enough away that I can’t start shit, but not far enough that I can’t see every irritating moment happening at Kaplan’s table.

The waitress comes a few seconds later, a young brunette with striking hazel eyes and a teasing smile.

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