Page 31 of Faking the Face Off

I brace myself. “Dad.”

“You guys are cutting it close, aren’t you?” he says, his eyes flicking to the trickle of players filing inside.

I check my watch. We still have plenty of time. “We’re good.”

His grin widens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Could’ve fooled me. After the way you’ve been playing, I thought maybe you guys were taking up knitting instead of hockey.”

There it is. Subtle as a sledgehammer and said loud enough as Dixon walks by to earn my father a growl.

“I’m more of a record aficionado, as opposed to knitting, but you’d know that if you asked one of these times.” I sigh, already regretting stopping to talk. “What do you want?”

“I came by to wish you luck,” he says with an innocent shrug that doesn’t match the sharpness of his words. “Saw your last couple games. Tough breaks. That turnover in the second period the other night…” He whistles low, shaking his head like he isso disappointed.

My jaw clenches. “Thanks for the reminder.”

A door behind me opens and I’m grateful when Noah’s voice breaks the air.

“Decker, let’s go.” Noah steps up in line beside me and crosses his arms. “Need you to get your head in the game.”

My dad’s eyes light up when Noah is in front of him. He holds his hand out, but if he sees it, Noah pretends not to as he spins on his heel and heads back inside. “You’ve got two minutes, Decker, or I’ll be back out to drag you in.”

“Well, there’s someone on the team with some cajones,” he says, spreading his hands like he’s some all-seeing soothsayer. “Clearly your coach has none. Nor your teammates. What’s your captain good for if he’s handing out pucks like candy to the other team?”

My blood pressure spikes, but I keep my face neutral. I’ve learned over the years that reacting only makes him dig in his talons harder.

“Anything else, or can I go now?” I ask, one foot pointed away already.

“Relax, Oliver.” He laughs, patting my arm like I’m a temperamental child. “I’m on your side, remember? Speaking of which…” His eyes glint with something sharper than mock concern. “I put a little money on tonight’s game.”

“Jeez. Dad.” I try to push past him, but he steps into my path.

“Not on you,” he adds, almost gleeful. “You guys haven’t exactly inspired confidence lately. Figured I’d hedge my bets with Chicago.”

“Are you kidding me?” I snap, the heat in my voice impossible to mask now.

“Hey, it’s nothing personal.” He holds up his hands like he doesn’t understand why I’m mad. “It’s business. You of all people should know how it is.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding harder than it should. He looks pleased with himself, like he’s delivered some kind of wisdom I’m supposed to be grateful for.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, finally pushing past him.

“Good luck, Oliver,” he calls after me, his tone dripping with fake encouragement. “Hope you prove me wrong!”

I pull the door open and don’t look back.

Inside, the air is warmer, the faint hum of the arena buzzing in my ears, but I can’t shake his words. They bounce around my head like a puck off the boards, impossible to ignore.

By the time I walk into the locker room, I feel like I’ve already played a full game.

The roarof the crowd is deafening, a wall of sound thudding in my chest as I skate into the neutral zone. My focus is splintered, my dad’s voice looping in my head, mocking me with every misstep. I barely have time to brace myself before the hit comes.

It’s a clean check—technically. The kind of hit I should’ve been expecting, but my timing is off. My shoulder takes the brunt of it, the boards rattling as I slam into them. Pain blooms down my side, but I barely have time to register it before I turn and see the smirk on the guy’s face.

I don’t think, don’t even hesitate. My gloves are off before I even realize it, and then my fists are swinging. Each point of impact a name rings out inside me: Danny. Jimmy. My dad. For a first fight, it feels really good. I’m starting to get why some of my teammates insist on engaging in one routinely, but it’s not my thing. Usually.

The crowd explodes as we grapple, fists flying in a blur of adrenaline and anger. I land a solid punch to his jaw, but not before he manages to clock me right in the eye. Pain flares, sharp and blinding, but I cannot find the energy to care. I want to wipe that smirk off his face.

The refs break us apart, shouting and gesturing us to the penalty boxes. My chest heaves as I skate off, blood pounding in my ears. The other guy has a split lip, and I hope it hurts.

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