Page 57 of Fake Shot

It’s not that I expect her to drop her own plans—I wouldn’t have even expected that if this was a real engagement. But standing there in the kitchen this morning, I’d known the perfect gift to get her, and I didn’t want to wait for some special occasion to give it to her. I’d gone to three stores after our pre-game skate before I found exactly what I was looking for, and I stopped by one of those fancy card stores to get a pretty gift bag that was big enough for it. I’djust wanted to see her face when she opened it. Instead, I left it sitting on the kitchen table with a sticky note that said, “Open me tonight.”

“Why are you in such a fuck-off mood?” Zach asks. But he looks like he knows the answer. “Not trouble in paradise, I hope?”

How do I even answer questions like that? Am I supposed to pretend to be a lovesick fool over her? Or should I be acting like everything is perfect?

“Just gearing up mentally,” I say.

“Dude, don’t take this the wrong way, but you play like shit when you’re pissed. I know Hartmann’s starting the game tonight, but you better get your head on right before you take the ice.”

“I’m sorry, Zen Master.” I taunt him in a way that has a few of the players closest to us looking over. Zach is our resident Aikido black belt, so-calm-you-can’t-shake-him guru, but at this moment, his advice is not wanted. “Am I not chill enough for you tonight?”

Zach just looks at me like I’m pathetic and snorts out a laugh. “Your funeral, man. I’m just trying to keep you alive.”

And then the music is blasting and the fans are cheering, and we take turns slapping our hands against the giant Rebels symbol on the wall as we head down the hallway and onto the ice. And when I skate past our bench, I glance up six rows where I know Jules will be sitting.

Holding up her phone, I can barely make out a picture of her rechargeable mug—the travel kind so she can take it to work with her, too—as she mouths, “Thank you!”

But that’s not the thing that has the smile splitting my face in half. No, that’s because, despite saying “only thisonce” before Friday night’s game, she’s wearing my jersey again.

Hartmann goaltends for the first two periods, and when I go in for the third, it’s because he gave up two goals in the last five minutes. Our 4-1 lead going into the second period is now a narrow 4-3 lead.

“Nothing gets by you.” Those are the instructions Wilcott gave me in the locker room between periods, and they hang heavy on me. Winning the game will be up to our other five players on the ice. Losing it will be up to me.

Florida’s getting sloppy and if we can just keep it together and play smart, we can prevent them from tying it up before the period ends.

With three minutes left in the period, Drew narrowly misses a goal. That’s when it gets ugly.

We’re exhausted. They’re exhausted. Tempers are high and so it shouldn’t be a surprise when the next face-off turns into a brawl that sends Drew to the sin bin for two minutes. With the power play advantage, Florida pulls their goalie so they have six players on the ice ready to score. They’re taking a risk to get the tie because they want that additional overtime period to give them a chance at winning.

I block four shots before the fifth goes wide, and I leave the crease to stop it with my stick. But there’s no one to pass it up to because Florida’s covering all our players, so I send it to the boards near the center line, hoping that if the puck advances into their neutral zone maybe one of our players can get to it on some sort of a breakaway. With an empty neton the other side of the rink and about twenty seconds left on the penalty clock, it’s our best shot at scoring.

But the puck ricochets off the boards at the perfect angle, and heads straight toward the wide-open goal. I hold my breath, even as I know how unlikely it is for a goalie to score. Somehow, though, even as two of Florida’s defensemen skate back toward it as fast as they can, the puck goes into the net. The sound of the buzzer fills the arena, and can barely be heard over the deafening roar of the home crowd.

It’s the first goal of my entire professional career. Our fans scream the Rebel Chant at the top of their lungs while they swing the white towels with the dark and light blue Rebels logo above their heads.

I take the moment to skate to the bench, high-fiving my teammates who are also losing their fucking minds. And then I continue on, stopping at the glass right past our bench. Jules is already in the aisle, running down the stairs toward me when I stop and point at her. She comes to a stop before me, blowing me a kiss before I yell, “That one was for you!”

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head at me like I’m crazy, so I wink at her before turning and skating back to our goal so we can finish the last few seconds of this game. And long after the game and the never-ending interviews with the press, I find her waiting for me in the Family Room even though she said she wasn’t staying until the end.

It’s close to midnight, and she’s clearly tired, but I’m thankful she’s waited. The team is headed to the airport in a few minutes, and we’ll be gone until Thursday unless we win our first game and close out the series. I’m having strangely mixed emotions about not seeing her for that long.

I stop short, leaving a few feet between us as I hold myarms out for her, because I need her to come to me. And she does, wrapping herself in my arms, saying, “I couldn’t let you leave for Florida without congratulating you.”

When her lips meet mine, it occurs to me that this is the first time she’s kissed me, and not the other way around. And I’m starting to wonder if the line between what’s fake and what’s real is getting as blurry for her as it already is for me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

JULES

The sun’s only been up for an hour and already my bag is packed and sitting by the back door. I rarely travel, so I don’t really know what I’m supposed to bring for a weekend with my fiancé’s family. It’s only one night away, but we have the party tonight, and then breakfast at his parents’ place tomorrow. And the weather looks unpredictable, with a forty-degree range in the daily temps.

I’m strangely nervous about the whole thing—about meeting his parents, lying about our relationship, staying in the same room as him at the inn. He’d called to ask if we could get a room with two beds because he’s “a big guy and sharing a small bed would be a problem,” and was politely told that they didn’t have any rooms with two beds, but that there was a couch in our room, too. I’ve offered to take that, but he only laughed and said he’d take it. I don’t know how he thinks he’s fitting his six-foot-four frame on a couch comfortably enough to sleep, but okay.

I think I’d be less nervous if he hadn’t been gone all week. Luckily, they’d won the series during Game 6 in Florida, so they didn’t have to play last night’s home game. I thought that might mean we’d have more time to talk about this weekend at some point yesterday, but he was booked up all day with practice, and the media, and an appointment with his massage therapist, then he went out with his teammates last night. He invited me to come along, but I’m a nervous traveler and was afraid I’d be a mess today if I didn’t get enough sleep. But I tossed and turned until I heard him come up the stairs anyway, so maybe I should have just gone out?

I’m headed out to get my sunglasses from the center console of my truck, busy thinking that I’m glad Colt’s driving today, when I hear a too-familiar voice. My shoulders stiffen and I press my eyes closed for a moment. Even though I’d been expecting this a couple of weeks ago, I guess I must have let my guard down because my father’s voice catches me by surprise.

“You’re headed out early for a Saturday morning.”

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