Page 15 of The Fake Play

“So you did read my file.”

I smirk. “I also have Google, you know.”

“Right. Yes, they’re my parents. I have an older sister, Evelyn, who goes by Evie. She’s a directoranddoes a lot of acclaimed indie work. His eyes light up when he talks about her. It’s sweet.

“If she doesn’t at least get a nomination for her work inJessica’s Flowers, I will be making myself a nuisance to the Academy.”

“You’re very proud of her, aren’t you?”

“Did you see the movie? She was amazing. Knocks everyone else out of the running, as far as I’m concerned.” He sighs.

A smile spreads across my face, unbidden. “You’re proud and protective, it seems.”

“Well, yeah, she’s my sister. I might be younger, but I’m still her brother. It’s my job to look out for her.”

The conversation was getting dangerous to the point it might convince me he’s more than just a fuckboy. “So, you left LA behind to come here and play hockey. Do you ever miss Hollywood?”

“No. Not at all. I never liked being under the microscope the way everybody is out there. It did not make for the easiest childhood, especially when my parents expected me to follow in their footsteps.”

“Why didn’t you? The glamour, the money?—”

“The stalkers, the paparazzi,” he cuts me off with a far too haunted tone. “What I get here is bad enough. Out there, being the only son of my parents, I had my first stalker before I was out of diapers.”

I cringe. “Really?”

He nods firmly. “There are parts of it I liked, but on the whole, it’s just not worth it.”

“You don’t like the spotlight, but you let them put you in front of the camera for the team interviews and on all the billboards. How come?”

“It’s for the team.” He rolls up his sleeve to reveal a phoenix tattoo on his bulging bicep, the Atlanta Fire’s logo. “This job means something to me,” he says before rolling it back down.

“I can see that. How did you get into hockey?”

He chuckles. “On set, of all places. Mom got me a job in a kid's hockey film. Underdogs vs. the bullies, the usual plot. We had to train on the ice to be able to get the shots we needed, and it just clicked. How to move, how to play the game, all of it. It was like I found the thing that had been waiting for me, what I was meant to do. You ever feel that way?”

“Once.”

“Public relations, right?”

I smile and shake my head. “Go on.”

Although marking my unwillingness to elaborate, to my surprise he doesn’t pry. “It's nice on some levels. The attention on behalf of the team, I mean. I’m one of two guys with media training so I’m good in front of the camera.” He shrugs. “But it can be lonely.”

“Lonely? You're surrounded by people all the time.”

“Yeah, but most of them don't know the real me. They only know the version of me they see on the ice or in the ads. The real Luke? Few people stick around to see that.”

I feel a pang of sympathy even though I don’t want to. I know this game, the way it tends to suck women in. Be charming, admit to something vulnerable, and boom. Panty drop.

Even though I’m familiar with the game, there’s still a part of me that’s into it. Into Luke. The part of me that is still emotionally immature and willing to be hurt by a guy. The stupid part.

What’s worse, I notice a camera phone aimed our way. The woman is pretending to be casual about it, but the running shoes she’s wearing give her away. No self-respecting woman would wear those shoes with that dress. She needs sensible footwear so she can make a quick escape.

Paparazzi.

If she wants something to report, I’m going to give it to her.

I lean in slightly, feeling the heat radiating from his body. “Maybe that's because you don't let people in.”

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