Page 36 of Faking the Face Off

“Eh,” I say with a laugh, “all in a day's work.”

“You’re the best,” he says, his tone genuine as his gaze flicks to where Ollie stands, very closely, beside me. If he suspects anything, which he must by now because I know he has at least an Instagram account, he isn’t showing it. He turns his attention back to my dad. “Ready?”

“Sure thing.” As he heads toward the locker room, my dad gives me a look.

“What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks heat.

“Nothing,” he says, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. He wags a finger my way before the two men disappear from sight.

I watch his retreating figure, my heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the adrenaline still coursing through me. I think it’s the man standing beside me.

“I’m glad you made it back safely.” I raise my hand to touch his cheek, a natural instinct really, only to waiver as I get close to his skin. As much as I’m starting to unravel some of these feelings inside, I’m also wary. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. I’m used to them,” he says, his eyes hooded.

“Care to elaborate on how it happened?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

There’s something in his tone that tells me to leave it alone, so I do. I incline my head toward the exit doors. “Molly’s sent me a list of things she needs me to do now that Ben’s back, including picking up the kids. I should get going.”

“Let me guess,” he says, pushing off the wall to join me. “Something about glitter, baking soda, and an emergency run for last-minute chaos?”

“Bingo,” I say with a sigh, slipping my phone into my bag. “The kids plan to spend their half day harnessing the power of science and sparkly explosions. Aided with some prescriptions for allergies, of course.”

He chuckles. “Sounds about right. I’ll walk you out.”

I blink up at him, surprised. “You don’t have to?—”

“It’s part of the show, remember?” he says, smirking. “Fake-dating and all that. Can’t have the world thinking I’m a terrible fake boyfriend who doesn’t escort his girl to her car.”

The way he says “his girl” sends a warm flush over my skin, and I hate how much I like it.

“Fine,” I say, pretending to roll my eyes as I lead the way out of the arena.

The parking lot is quieter than I expected, the cold air crisp and still. Ollie walks close beside me, his hand brushing mine just enough to make me hyperaware of every step.

“You know,” he says casually, “you’re really selling this whole thing.”

“Selling what?” I glance at him.

“Us,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You’ve got this whole ‘adorable and mildly exasperated girlfriend’ vibe down to a science.”

I laugh despite myself. “Oh, please. You’re the one leaning into the charming hockey player routine like it’s your job.”

He winks. “Because it is.”

As we reach my car, something catches his attention, and his expression shifts. “Hold up,” he says, his voice lowering.

“What?” I ask, turning to follow his gaze.

Across the lot, a man with a camera is standing by one of the arena entrances, clearly aiming it in our direction. My stomach drops.

“Press?” I whisper, a little bit surprised. I can understand them being here for marked occasions, but the team arriving back from away games shouldn’t be one of them.

“Maybe,” Ollie mutters, his jaw tightening. “Or someone trying to stir up trouble.”

Before I can react, he steps closer, his hand gently resting on my waist.

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