Page 65 of Faking with Three

I hesitate at the edge of the arena. A part of me wants to turn around and leave. What am I even doing here? But then I see an opening on the small rink where a few guys my age are passing the puck around.

I inhale deeply and walk onto the concrete surface, every step feeling like crossing a threshold into a past I’m not sure I belongto anymore. The stick feels good in my hand, though—familiar, grounding. I take a moment to stretch, rolling my shoulders and bending my knees. My body remembers even if my mind doesn’t want to.

One of the guys notices me and waves. "Hey, aren’t you Jax?" he calls out, his voice carrying over the clatter of sticks and pucks. "You used to play for East Ridge, right?”

"Yeah," I say with a nod, forcing a small smile. It’s strange being recognized after all this time. "That was a while ago."

"You were a legend, man," he says, tossing me a puck. "What brings you out here?"

"Just restless," I admit, knocking the puck back to him with a practiced ease. "Thought I’d get some moves in."

He grins. "Well, you picked the right place. Jump in."

I spend the next few minutes skating and shooting, falling into a rhythm that feels oddly comforting. My muscles burn, but it’s a good burn—a reminder that I’m still alive, still capable. The guys are friendly, joking and ribbing each other, but I stay quiet, focused on the puck and the satisfying sound of it clattering against the boards.

"Hey, can you show me that move again?" A small voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I glance down to see a kid, maybe eight or nine, looking up at me with wide eyes. He’s holding a stick almost too big for him, his helmet slightly askew.

"Sure," I say, crouching to his level. "What’s your name?"

"Tyler," he says shyly.

"Alright, Tyler. Watch this." I stand and demonstrate a simple wrist shot, sending the puck sailing into the net. Tyler watches intently, his face lighting up.

"Cool!" he says, trying to mimic my movements. The puck wobbles and barely moves, but he looks at me expectantly.

"Not bad," I say with a grin. "Let’s work on that aim."

As I help him adjust his grip and stance, a strange feeling washes over me—something I can’t quite name at first. It’s not just pride or nostalgia. It’s deeper, more grounded. For the first time in years, I imagine what it might be like to teach my own kid something like this. To see that look of awe and excitement on their face. The thought catches me off guard, and I shake it off, focusing back on Tyler.

A woman calls out from the bleachers, and Tyler runs off, waving goodbye. I watch him go, my chest tightening slightly.

What would my life look like with a kid in it? It’s a question I’ve never let myself ask before. Hell, I’ve never been with a woman who made me want to. But Olivia—she’s different. She makes me think about things I’ve never considered. A life. A family. A future.

I take another shot, the puck slamming into the boards with a loud crack. My heart pounds, but not from the effort. I’m not sure what’s scarier—wanting something I’ve never wanted before or the possibility that it might not be mine to have.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking me out of my thoughts. I fish it out and see Olivia’s name on the screen. My chest tightens as I read her message.

Can you meet me at Ethan’s apartment? I have news.

News. That could mean anything, but in my gut, I know. She’s made her decision. My palms are sweating before I even finish reading. I flex my hand around my hockey stick, trying to settle the nerves coursing through me. This is it.

I grab my bag, toss it over my shoulder, and head out. On the way, I pass a flower stand and stop. Flowers. It feels old-fashioned, maybe even a little cheesy, but I can’t help myself. If this is the moment Olivia decides—if it’s me—I want her to know how I feel.

I pick out a bouquet of sunflowers and white roses. Bright and bold, just like her. My heart feels like it’s going a hundred miles an hour as I pay the vendor and head to Ethan’s place.

Ethan’s apartment door is slightly ajar when I arrive. I push it open, stepping inside, and immediately spot Ethan and Marcus sitting on the couch. They both turn to look at me, their eyes landing on the flowers in my hand.

Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Flowers? Really?”

“You know, flowers might’ve worked in high school,” Ethan says. “But Olivia? She’s not going to be swayed by some grand romantic gesture.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s not a grand gesture. It’s a sincere one.”

Marcus chuckles dryly. “Sincere or not, you’re underestimating her. Olivia doesn’t want showy. She wants real.”

“Like you’d know,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intend.

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