Page 10 of The Fake Play

It’s always satisfying to knock a cocky man down a peg.

“Well, I'm about to race the new kid,” he tells me, his voice dripping with disdain. For me or the new kid, I’m not entirely sure. He goes on, “I don't think that's exactly PR-worthy, so feel free to leave.”

“I will be the judge of what’s PR-worthy and what isn’t,” I shoot back, adjusting the strap on my bag as we approach the benches. “Besides, this is the perfect chance for me to see how you handle pressure.”

His eyes narrow at hearing that. “I handle pressure just fine. You?”

“I’m sure you remember how I handled it at the bar. Today won’t be any different.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

We reach the rink, and Luke grabs his skates from a nearby bench, pulling them on with practiced ease. The air in the arena is far colder and drier than outside, and I shiver as I sit on the chilled bench, watching him step onto the ice. Tomorrow, I’ll wear layers. And a lot of lotion. My skin tends to dry out fast when I’m out of the humidity. Hours in the arena will surely leave me ashy.

He takes a few turns around the rink, his movements fluid and graceful despite the underlying tension in his shoulders. It’s a sight, seeing him skate. He moves like the ice is where he belongs, as if he was born with skates on his feet. How does a guy with that kind of body move so gracefully?

Luke may be a lot of things—a jock, a playboy, the kind of man who relies on his good looks to get whatever he wants—but he’s most definitely an athlete. He’s larger than most of his teammates yet he moves like a ballerina on the ice. Is he showing off to intimidate the rookie, to impress me, or is this just his usual warm-up? I have no idea.

Although I’m not thrilled to be babysitting an overgrown jock, I have to admit there is something magnetic about Luke when he’s in his element. He exudes confidence, the kind that comes from knowing you’re good at what you do. He reminds me of a few of the guys I dated in college—athletic, cocky, always surrounded by admirers, especially girls. And just like those guys, Luke was trouble.

He jumps and spins in the air, the lights glimmering on the faded blue streaks in his hair. Okay. Now, he’s definitely showing off. The other guys skate around but Luke is the only one throwing in jumps.

Cocky bastard. Still, it’s impossible to take my eyes off of him. He’s that good.

The rest of the team takes the ice, theircoach barking orders from the bench. I spot the rookie standing off to the side, looking deliberately unbothered. I know it’s him if for no other reason than none of the other teammates are speaking to him.

Tension thickens the air as the coach gathers the guys in close. “Alright, boys,” he calls out, clapping his hands. “Let's make this quick. Luke, Duvall, you're up. One lap, all the way around and back.”

Luke glides over to the starting line and Duvall follows, his posture loose and relaxed like he’s not worried at all. After seeing Luke parade around the ice, he should have been. I would have been, but maybe that’s because I didn’t have a frame of reference for this.

I lean forward on my knees as they take their positions. The rest of the team hangs over the boards, all of them cheering for Luke, all watching eagerly. Whatever animosity may have arisen from Luke’s shenanigans off the ice, the guys didn’t seem to have a grudge when they were on it. They were a team, all for one and one for all.

As soon as the coach blows the whistle, they’re off. They race down the rink, their strides long and powerful, their speed breathtaking. I’m completely on edge—going that fast is terrifying to me. Luke is quick, no doubt about that, but Duvall is not far behind. As they reach the halfway point, it looks like the kid might actually be gaining on him.

Everyone seems to hold their breath as Luke and Duvall push through the final stretch, neck and neck. The tension is palpable, and I find myself leaning forward even further, my heart racing along with them. I’m not sure who I want to win.

If Luke wins, it’s another feather in his cap, an expected conquest from his perspective. If he loses, it could bruise his ego. I find myself rooting for him anyway.

When they finally cross the finish line, it’s so close that I have no idea who won. Apparently, neither does the coach. He lets out a long whistle. “Too close to call,” he announces, grinning at the both of them. He slaps Luke on the back as he skates by. “You’d better watch it, Luke. If this kid outscores you the rest of the season, he may end up winning the name game after all.”

Luke's jaw clenches as frustration flames across his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He knew as well as I did that this was a ploy to make him work for the team’s respect that he had lost.

It stung, that much was clear by the look on his face. I think Luke feels he should have their respect by now and after reading about his career, I tend to agree. Luke had been integral to their wins last season, so for him to have to start from the proverbial bottom I’m sure felt like an insult.

Maybe we do have something in common, after all.

He skates off the ice and heads toward the boards where I’m sitting, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair. He looks tired but determined, his eyes sharp as he regards me. “So, what do you think?” his tone slightly sarcastic. “Does that count as good PR?”

I stand, re-adjusting my bag over my shoulder. “It was a good show sure, but not PR-worthy, as you said. But I'm not here for the race. We need to talk about the living arrangements.”

“What living arrangements?”

“I was hired to keep an eye on you. That means staying close, making sure you don't go off the rails.”

He folds his arms over his broad chest, his expression hard. “What's your point?”

“According to Whitney, you require a live-in nanny. That would be me.”

“Again? You've gotta be kidding me.”

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