Page 82 of The Fake Play

I close the album, my mind racing. Seeing those pictures stirred emotions within me, emotions I didn’t know I was capable of. I’d been burned too badly to want to experience love, convincing myself that it’s just a word people use when they want something, a way to justify whatever fleeting urges they are feeling in the moment. I know Luke isn’t capable of understanding that.

How could he be? He was born and raised in a family saturated with it. Parents that love one another madly, despite his father being gay. Luke was surrounded by love and respect regardless, and his parents made sure he experienced it and knew how to give it.

I set the album back on the shelf, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in my head. Seeing him as a kid, seeing the lifehe lived, it was stirring up memories of my own childhood, of my own dreams.

I glance at the clock, realizing how much time had slipped by. I settle back at my desk, determined to focus on my work.

I type up notes as I work through social media strategies, combing through past interviews and articles to pinpoint any weak spots we need to address. I could lose myself in this—work has always been an escape, and I need that now more than ever.

As I work, my mind keeps drifting back to the album, to those pictures of him on the ice. I wonder how often he thinks about that time, especially now that hockey has become more than just a childhood dream. Does he still feel that same joy? Or has the pressure, the demands, the politics of the league chipped away at it, turning it into something else?

I don’t realize how tired I am until my head begins to droop, my eyes growing heavy as I type. I fight to stay awake, to keep pushing through the work, but eventually, the exhaustion wins. I drift off, my thoughts tangled in memories of the boy in the pictures. Of the man he is now. Of the dreams he’d chased and the ones I’d left behind.

When I wake, the room is filled with the eerie glow of early evening, the light casting long shadows across the floor. I straighten, feeling the imprint of my keyboard against my cheek and a faint soreness in my back from hours spent slumped over my desk. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but a ringtone sounds, begging for my attention.

Phone.

Ugh. I pick it up, finding Whitney’s name on the screen. The moment I answer she frantically asks, “Where are you?”

“Home, why?”

“Why aren’t you at the game?”

I check the time. “I dozed off, I’ll be?—”

“It’s the last game before the playoffs, Keke. How can you be dozing off now?”

She had a point. “Sorry, I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry. Lucas has been goading Luke the whole first period. He needs you here to help keep him calm.”

I jump to my feet, looking for my purse and keys. “On my way.” I end the call and head into the bathroom to do a quick freshening up. The arena isn’t far, but I need all my faculties after that bizarre nap.

I can’t believe the game slipped my mind. After looking through the album then getting lost in work I completely forgot about it. I was here to do a job, to keep things professional. But as I look around Luke’s condo before heading out the door, I know staying detached is going to be harder than I imagined.

His condo looks as empty as I feel without him.

Chapter 35

Luke

The weight of my career rides on tonight’s performance. I’d trained harder than normal for one day, so I wasn’t expecting a miracle, but tonight’s match still feels like a promise of things to come.

As I skate, the adrenaline hits hard—my drug of choice. There’s nothing like it. I’m not thinking about trades or anything else, my mind is focused only on the game. And for the first time in a long time, I play like my life depends on it. Every shot, every pass is sharper, more focused.

My team feeds off the crowd’s energy, rallying around each other as we fight for every point. Even when Lucas gets in my way, I stay lasered in on the puck. Nothing is going to stop me tonight.

The energy in the arena is electric, buzzing like live wires in the air. This is the last game before the playoffs, the one that determines our future. I feel the same rush I’d felt the first time I’d ever set foot on the ice as a kid. There’s something special about tonight, and I think back to everything that’s brought me here.

It was all for this.

The roar of the crowd fades into the background, replaced by the sound of my own breath, the rhythmic pulse of my skates cutting across the ice. Nothing else matters when I’m out here.

Lucas skates right into my line, cutting across the ice like he’s in charge. I grit my teeth, trying to keep my head about me. The kid has a knack for making himself the center of attention, and tonight is no exception.

He’s been showboating the entire first period. He isn’t even supposed to be near me. We’d run these plays a thousand times in practice, and every guy knew where he belonged. But Lucas decided that tonight, of all nights, is his chance to show off. Coach has shouted at him multiple times to drop it, but the kid isn’t about to.

The old Luke would have taken the bait and given him what he was looking for—a fight. The kid was trying to pick a fight with me in front of everyone.

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