Page 24 of The Fake Out Flex

We need this win.

Even though the preseason scoreboard doesn't count toward the main season, that doesn't mean these exhibition games don't matter.

They do.

Coaches are keenly eyeing all the players to see who's strong, who's weak, and weighing up trade possibilities. I've played for the LA Swifts my entire pro career. Three years. It's my hometown team. I don't want to get traded out.

My back is drenched with sweat. With less than a minute remaining, we line up for the faceoff. Slater passes to Donovan, who sends the puck to me. The star forward. In theory, at least.

My performance hasn't been that stellar of late.

Until tonight.

Focus, Rademacher. You got this.

I weave through the defense, faking out two opposition players and drawing the goalie out of position.

Just as I'm about to be cornered by a third defender, I fire off a powerful wrist shot at the goal. The same wrist shot I've been working on during the offseason. The same wrist shot Evie pointed out I needed to work on.

Twenty thousand people in the stadium hold their breath.

I hold my breath.

The puck sails over the goalie's glove, sneaks in under the crossbar, and hits the back of the net. The goal light flashes, and the fans go wild, leaping to their feet, cheering and clapping.

Relief swamps through me as my teammates converge from all sides, burying me under a wall of hugs and back slaps.

The Suns regroup for one last attempt to equalize in the remaining seconds, but our defense holds strong. The final buzzer sounds, and the arena erupts in a deafening roar.

Through all the elation and the noise, all the pressure and doubt that had been smothering me for months finally shifts.

At least temporarily.

I scored twice, so I should be safe from getting traded.

For now.

Should be enough to get the media off my back, too. They've been having a field day with story after story about my form going south since Tori and I broke up.

I can't even look at a woman now without someone snapping a photo, posting it on social media, and beginning a relentless campaign to get me to bring her to the game to end my bad luck streak.

Which only ends up drawing more women who want the attention. It won't work because after dating Tori, I am done with publicity-seeking, fame-hungry women.

It doesn't mesh with who I am and the type of life I want to share with someone. I value privacy, not likes on posts of what should be private moments—like on a vacation. I still fume when I think about all the photos Tori uploaded from our time in the Med last year. What was she thinking?

But I don't want to stew over what happened in the past, I want to savor the win. I take a victory lap with the team, acknowledging the loyal fans who came out to support us.

As always, I bypass the media contingent and head straight for the locker room to cool down, shower, and change.

"You comin' to celebrate?" my teammate Culver asks, joining me by my locker, where I'm packing up my gear after a shower. "Everyone's headin' out for food and drinks."

"Can't. I'm heading home tonight. Got a red eye to catch in…" I glance at my watch. "Whoa. Soon. I need to get going."

"When's the wedding?"

The wedding of the guy who dumped Evie so brutally. So publicly.

Part of me can't believe she wants to go. The other part of me tells me to shut up, mind my own business, and do the one thing I said I'd do.

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