Page 92 of The Fake Play

He smirks at me. “Yeah, I heard ya.”

“How are the Whitney-mandated anger management classes going?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “It’s a lot of touchy-feely bullshit, but it’s better than prison.”

“You’re lucky I was able to talk her down.”

“I fuckin’ know it. Thanks for that. And for not pressing charges.”

I shrug. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Even me?”

“Of course. You’re out in the world using my nickname, so you have to be a good example for all the Lukes out there.”

He gives me a rueful smile. “At least things are working out. After that little televised fight we had, I got an offer from an MMA league. Guess I have my next career lined up.”

I feel a genuine laugh rise in my belly, surprised by the news. “Well, at least you’ll be in a place where swinging at people is encouraged.”

“Figured I’d play to my strengths.”

“Keep the punches in the octagon, and you’ll be fine.”

The tension between us finally dissipates, leaving behind a strange sense of understanding. He wasn’t my rival. He was just a kid trying to find his way, just like I had been once. And maybe, in some twisted way, we’d helped each other find our paths. He found MMA, and I found out how Keke truly feels about me.

As we turn to part ways, Lucas shoots me a smirk. “See you around, Luke.”

Maybe it isn’t so bad after all to share a name with someone as tenacious as he is. So, I reply with, “Yeah, you too, Luke.”

Surprise makes him drop the smirk. Maybe it was the respect I’d shown him or the fact he was beginning to understand who I was. But he adds, “I guess, in the interest of sportsmanship, I should be honest about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I let you win.”

I laugh once, a grin tugging at my lips. “Is that so?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance as if he hadn’t just thrown the gauntlet one more time. “Figured I’d give the old man a break. I gave him a boo-boo, thought he could use an easy win.”

I can’t help the laughter that escapes me, and I shake my head as I skate back into position. “Well in that case, we’re going again. This time, no mercy.”

He laughs, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoes through the empty arena. In that moment, he’s just one of the guys, bullshitting his way into another race. If things were different, I might have proposed a friendship.

If Keke wouldn’t have rightfully killed me for it.

“Bring it, old man,” he shoots back, his eyes glinting. “Best two outta three.”

And as we line up at the starting point, side by side, I know this is a race I’ll remember—not because of the outcome, but because we’re just two athletes, connected by love for the game that goes beyond rivalry, beyond pride.

We were brothers on the ice.

That’s the magical thing about hockey. I’d tried other sports, but none of them fit me the way the ice does. No other major sport tells you to stick knives on your feet and glide over thirty miles an hour headlong into walls and people with meager pads and a helmet.

You had to be a little crazy to do that, and at our level, we were more than a little crazy.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” he replies, his voice steady, his gaze locked on the ice ahead.

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