Page 4 of Faking the Face Off

I freeze for a split second as the puck barrels toward me. Time seems to slow, my heart racing in my chest as I instinctively duck. The shot clips the top of my shoulder pads, skimming past my neck and flying mere inches from my face. My whole body jerks back in reflex, my heart pounding like I’ve avoided a speeding train.

The sound of the puck slamming into the boards behind me still rings in my ears as I take a breath, trying to calm myself. That was too close.

When I glance back at Henry, he’s the palest I’ve ever seen him. Henry’s been with us for a couple of years now, but he was on our B-string and was put in the position when Noah pivoted and became one of our assistant coaches. Trust me, Noah had a good run—onandoff the ice.

“What, am I not good enough for ya, Robbins?” I tease, trying to make light of what could have been a bad moment. “You want to make an impact, why don’t you wait until I’m taking my helmet off to get me?”

Henry’s by my side quick as a flash, stopping so hard he sprays me with ice. “Bro, my bad. I’m so sorry…”

I hold up a hand. “Par for the course. I’m fine, you’re good. Moving on.”

Henry nods, his eyes drifting to the floor. “Thanks, man, I really?—”

“Nope,” I say, reaching over and placing my hand over his mouth. “Zip it. Moving on means moving on, got it?”

“You’re good, man,” our goalie, Dixon Andrews, pipes in as he skates over to us, taking his mask off as he does. “Decker’s got his head in the clouds these days, being the poster child for the team. He needs to get knocked around a little bit.”

“Good luck taking my place,” Noah says with a laugh as he claps for me.

“Thanks,” I manage, taking a swipe at Dixon. “And I amnotthe poster child.”

“Who was the one interviewed for the local paper the other day?” Tracing the sound of this voice, my eyes wander to the bench where Campbell and Sawyer Stockton sit. I’m not sure who said it, but judging by the smug expression on Sawyer’s face, I’m guessing it was him. These two are a pain, but deep down they mean well. They’re not brothers, they’re cousins. Left and right wing, also known as Thing One and Thing Two if you ask my friend Anna.

“Yeah,” Campbell snorts, elbowing Sawyer. “And he was on the radio doing that commercial. How does it go? ‘Come on down to the Renegades this weekend…’”

“‘Where the ice is hot, and the action won’t end,’”Sawyer finishes, laughing.

While I’m cringing on the inside, I plaster on a fake grin. I can’t let them know that I am hating every minute of this new role as the “face” for the Renegades, and that it’s not going well. These guys have no clue that the PR team pulled me to the sidebefore practice and asked me to work on both “lifting my profile” as well as consider getting an acting coach…an acting coach? I play hockey, for Pete’s sake.

No one mentioned when I started playing hockey that part of the game, if you were to succeed, could be stepping into a spotlight you may not want. Some of the guys on our team are made for the light, they’re naturals. They have rizz (that’s charisma if you’re not up with the kids these days—which I’m not, as my nephew taught me) and they’re more sophisticated than I am, more suave, and cool. Rizzier, in fact.

Me? All nerd. I’m a record collector who likes watchingAntique Roadshowto wind down, and I also enjoy the occasional latch hook rug session. A pastime only my niece could teach me. While the guys on the team like to go out and hit the hot spots in River City, I usually like to peel away and head home to be by myself.

“Leave him alone, you guys,” Dixon says, coming to my defense. “Someone has to do it, and I don’t see any of you stepping up and offering.”

“That’s the difference,” I say, wagging a finger in the air. “I’m not offering, they’re making me do these interviews and be ‘the guy’ right now. It’s not like Beaumont is here to do it anymore.”

“Don’t blame him.” Henry parks himself on the bench and unlaces his skates.

“Yeah, Decker, if you wanna blame anyone, look in the mirror,” a voice pipes up from behind. I know this voice. I like this voice. This voice makes me happy. It’s Anna.

“You snuck in here.” When I see her, it’s like everyone else in the arena disappears and I develop a case of tunnel vision, and it’s only her. Anna Denault. The object of my unrequited affection since the day I met her. We can file my crush under things no one knows, but me. “Aren’t you usually off today?”

Anna’s head tilts to one side, her light brown hair spilling over her shoulder, and nutmeg-colored eyes widen ever so slightly with surprise. “Are you stalking me these days, Decker?”

Decker. She called me Decker. Not Ollie. I don’t know why, but whenever she does it stings a little, like a reminder to stay firmly in the friend zone. Still, the way she says it—casual but with a little bite—it’s almost...sexy?

“Not stalking, I pay attention,” I say, trying to sound casual. I don’t know why, but the banter with Anna always feels different, like she can make me forget everything else around here. And she gives the greatest hugs, they always feel like coming home.

Anna grins, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Paying attention to me?” Her hands fly to her shoulders and she starts to pat at her own body.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure I didn’t turn into a hockey puck, since you pay attention to them more than me.”

I laugh, thinking about how wrong she is, but I’ll play along. I hold my hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m a team player and I like to make sure we’re all accounted for.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dixon chimes in from behind me, his voice carrying the usual playful mockery. “He’s reallyconcernedabout the team. Totally not spying on you for other reasons.”

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