Page 1 of Faking the Face Off

CHAPTER 1

ANNA

There are certain phrases every daughter expects to hear from her parents:

“Get good grades.”

“Be home by ten, or you’re grounded.”

“Say please and thank you.”

These are the staples—the rules meant to set boundaries. Then there are the other ones, the affirmations that make us feel special:

“Of course you’re my favorite.”

“You’ll always be number one in my book.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Little soundbites of love and encouragement, tossed out by adoring parents across the globe almost daily, no doubt.

And then, there’s my dad.

“Did you know you can freeze your eggs?”

I stare at the back of the refrigerator and shake my head. I have no idea where this is going. I wish I did, but this man can be a wild card on the best of days.

“Are we talking about my eggs or eggs in general?” I ask while rooting around my vegetable drawer looking for some leftoverchocolate. Because, of course, that’s where I keep it and IknowI didn’t eat both of those Reese’s Cups last night.

When he doesn’t answer me right away, I know it’s my cue to turn around and give him some attention. It’s been me and my dad, just us against the world, for as long as I can remember. My mom is still in the picture, but she’s in Europe, where she’s lived with her second husband for the last five years.

“So,” I start to ask, looking over at where he’s parked himself at the kitchen table. “The eggs?”

He flips the magazine he’s reading around so I can see the article headlined, “The Secret Lifetime of Eggs,” and explains. “Eggs from the store, from chickens. You can freeze them and they’ll still be good if you use them within a year.” He shrugs, but his eyes are wide with wonder and what I’m hoping is amusement. “Who knew?”

“Not me,” I say, my eyes landing finally on the lone Reese’s Cup wrapped in its package and hidden at the back of the veggie drawer. Right under the lettuce, exactly where I meant to put it so I could think about my food choices.

“Well, you’re welcome. Seems I saved future you from FOMO,” he says with a chuckle.

“Did you really just say ‘FOMO’ to me?” I shake my head as my eyes land on a bag of apples I’d forgotten about in the produce drawer. Opening it, I swipe an apple, fighting the urge to groan at the irony. In one hand, folks, she holds a sugary treat. In the other, a piece of delicious fruit—which will she pick to eat?

It’s an easy decision, really. I put the apple back and turn off my internal guilt-ridden monologue. Instead, I take a moment to stop at the sink and turn on the faucet so I can wash my hands and enjoy my Reese’s Cup with clean hands. Only as I do, the clanking sound that comes out of it tells me there’s an issue. As water spurts out in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spray ofconfusion, I almost drop my beloved chocolate treat as I jump away from the sink. “Hey!”

“Not again,” Dad grumbles as he hops up and joins me. In seconds, he’s dropped to the ground and has ducked his head inside the cabinet, looking around. A few expletives later, the water stops.

“Better?”

His voice is muffled, but I can hear him. Blinking through the droplets of water that are left streaming down my face, I look down at my top, which is now soaked through.

“That’s up for debate, but the water’s stopped at least.”

I toss my Reese’s Cup on the table and head back to my bedroom. Once there, I strip off the ridiculously wet shirt I’m now burdened with, grabbing one of my sweatshirts and pulling it on over my head. It’s an oldie, but a goodie, so it’s worn down just right in all the perfect places. I’ve had this sweatshirt since I got my job––Dad bought it for me the day I got my position as the assistant for the coach of the city’s ice hockey team and his family. So, technically it could be considered a ‘work’ shirt since Iamkeeping their main man organized and running, right?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn around. The Renegades teal looks nice against my skin tone. The River City Renegades are an AHL hockey team based in River City, Virginia. We’re the farm team for an NHL team in Washington D.C. mainly, but we’ve had our players end up on teams in Chicago, in the Carolinas, and even in Canada.

Straightening my hair, I do a fast double check in the mirror. I inspect my pants to make sure nothing sprayed them as well before I grab my phone out of my pocket and start a search for a local plumber.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as I walk back down the hall to the kitchen, “do you want me to line someone up to come out tomorrow, or should we do an emergency callout?”

---