Page 25 of Faking the Face Off

The question softens my nerves a bit, grounding me. “Yeah, he’s home now and resting. He’s learned his lesson about managing his stress—or so he says.” I smile faintly, the relief still sinking in. “He’ll be back at work in a week.”

“Is he going to be fit enough to do it?”

“Funny you use the word fit. He told me just this morning he felt ‘fit as a fiddle.’”

“Good to hear.” Ben claps me on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on him, though. Old habits die hard.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say with a small laugh.

He gives me a nod and heads down the hallway. As he disappears around the corner, Ollie walks out of the locker room. He’s still in his Renegades hoodie, damp hair curling at the edges, and there’s a post-game glow about him that makes my stomach do a little flip. I’m also scolding myself for not being here for the team’s arrivals—it’s one of my favorite parts of game day. All of the guys dress up in their finest suits to come to the arena and boy, these guys clean up nicely. Especially Ollie. Is it a bad thing that I have a penchant for a man in a bespoke and perfectly tailored suit that shows off all of his muscles?

“You waited,” he says, stopping in front of me.

“Of course. All part of the plan, you know.” I glance around, lowering my voice even though no one’s nearby. “Thanks for posting the picture. It’s...working.”

“Hashtag OllieAnna, huh?” His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile.

“You saw that?” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help grinning. “You’re trending. How’s it feel to be part of a fake power couple?”

“We’retrending.” He chuckles, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Feels pretty real with all those comments.”

“Has anyone on the team said anything yet?”

He shakes his head. “Posting it on a game day was a smart idea. Everyone is too distracted.”

“That was my hope,” I say, holding out my fist so he’ll bump it.

He inclines his head toward the door at the end of the hallway that leads into the players’ parking lot. “You ready to fake-sneak out of here?”

“Sutton texted a few minutes ago and said some press are hanging around the back entrance,” I say, straightening up. “We’ve got a clear run if we time it right.”

He pushes off the wall, offering me his hand. “Shall we?”

For a second, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to, but because this is real. A quick post on Instagram can be explained, but what we do from this moment on means more. This is where it starts. The hand-holding, the sneaking around for show, the pretending. The world’s about to see us as something we’re not, and while I know it’s the right move, I can’t help but wonder if we’re about to knock over a fragile house of cards.

Still, I take his hand. It’s warm, solid, and for a moment, I know I can forget we’re faking anything. This is Ollie. My Ollie.

We weave through the hallway, a few players exiting the locker room and greeting us, and also doing double takes as their gazes land on our intertwined hands. Part of me feels a thrill from it all. Being on the arm of the popular guy isn’t something I’m used to, so having the extra attention because of what it looks like is kind of...seductive. But I digress. We’re here for other reasons.

We make it past a few other players, an agent I recognize (I think his name is Travis), and a group of the team’s sponsors without a hitch. Soon we slip out a side door and head toward the back of the building. The cold night air greets us, sharp and bracing, and I glance up at Ollie.

“Ready to sell this?” I ask, trying to sound lighter than I feel.

His fingers tighten around mine, and he gives me a lopsided grin. “Born ready.”

And with that, we step out into the night together. A sharp click-click-click cuts through the quiet, and I spot movement near the edge of the parking lot.

“There they are!” a voice shouts, and my heart leaps into my throat.

“Oh, this is happening,” Ollie mutters, his hand tightening around mine as we break into a jog.

“Over here!” another voice yells, closer now, and I glance over my shoulder to see two people sprinting toward us, cameras bouncing in their hands.

“Faster!” I say, laughing despite the chaos. My legs are burning as we race toward Ollie’s car, parked just a few rows away.

He pulls me along, his longer strides making it easier for him to stay ahead of the commotion. “This is not what I signed up for,” he says, though his grin suggests otherwise.

We reach the car, and Ollie unlocks it with a quick click of the key fob. I wrench the door open, diving into the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel.

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