Page 24 of Faking the Face Off

I skate a few laps to get my legs back under me, but it’s hard not to overthink every shift. My stick feels foreign in my hands, like I’ve never held one before.

The whistle blows, and we line up for the face-off. I force myself to zone in, keep my eyes on the puck, block out the noise. But then, somewhere between a quick line change and the puck getting dumped into our zone, I glance toward the boards—and that’s when I see her.

Anna.

She’s leaning forward, gripping the edge of the glass like her life depends on it, her eyes locked on the game. On me.

For a second, I think I’m imagining things. She doesn’t usually come to games—something about the crowds—but there she is. Then I remember that she said she’d be here, that it’s part of our strategy for her to “appear” by my side. Subtle moments at first, all part of the plan.

But is it part of the plan for her to show up looking as sexy as she does right now, looking amazing in a pair of dark brown pants that hugs every curve? Her hair’s tucked under a knit beanie, cheeks pink from the chill of the rink, and when she spots me looking, she smiles.

And way down in the deepest part of me, something shifts. It’s like flipping a switch. The noise fades, the doubts evaporate, and for the first time all night, I feel steady.

The puck drops again, and suddenly everything clicks. My skates feel lighter, my hands surer. I’m not second-guessing my movements or hesitating. I’m just playing—fast, sharp, in the zone. I’m playing for me, and a little for her, too. Okay, a lot for her. I’m a peacock and I’m showing her my feathers. Presenting, right?

All around me, I feel the energy building. The crowd’s louder, my teammates are feeding off it, and I’m dialed in like I haven’t been in weeks. I win battles in the corners, set up a perfect breakout pass that leads to a goal, and when the puck finds its way to my stick late in the third, I know exactly what to do.

I skate hard, cutting through the neutral zone with defenders closing in. I hear the shouts, the sticks slapping against the ice, but it’s all background noise. My focus is on the net, the opening between the goalie’s pads, and the weight of the puck as I draw back my stick.

The shot is clean, a laser that threads through traffic and buries itself in the back of the net.

The horn blares. The crowd erupts. My teammates crash into me, yelling, shoving, laughing.

We’ve won.

I glance toward the boards again, searching for her, and there she is, clapping and cheering like she’s just as invested as I am.

And maybe she is.

My chest feels tight, but not in the bad way—not like earlier when it felt like the world was closing in. This is different. This is the kind of pressure that makes me want to be better, to play harder, to prove I can be the guy who shows up when it matters.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

CHAPTER 9

ANNA

Ilean against the cool wall of the arena hallway, the faint hum of voices and the distant clatter of gear filtering through the space. My phone feels like it’s buzzing in my hand, though I know it’s just my pulse racing as I scroll through the comments underthepost.

Ollie’s Instagram photo of us is racking up likes faster than I can keep track of. Thousands already. And the comments? Oh, the comments.

“Finally! The Renegades star has a leading lady!”

“#OllieAnna is the real deal.”

“Cutest couple of the season!”

I snort at that one. Couple of the season. If they only knew.

A hashtag is trending.#OllieAnna. It’s surreal, seeing my name tied to his like that. I swipe up, refreshing the post again, and yep, the likes just keep climbing.

“You okay over there, Anna Banana?”

Ben’s voice snaps me out of my scrolling spiral. I look up to see him strolling toward me, his Renegades polo slightly untucked, his grin easy.

I slip my phone into my pocket, offering a smile I hope hides my nerves. “Hey, Ben. Yeah, I’m good. Just caught up in the madness, I guess.”

He nods, like he’s been there, done that. Which he probably has. “Your dad doing alright?”

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