Page 3 of Faking the Face Off

“Yeah,” he says with a bitter laugh. “It’s where you think you’re investing in something legit, and they promise returns that seem too good to be true—because they are. But instead of actual investments, they’re just taking your money and using it to pay off other people, making it look like you’re getting returns. But eventually, the whole thing collapses, and the money’s gone.”

His eyes are filled with helplessness now, like he’s sinking under the weight of everything that’s happened.

“So, I’ve been feeding money into this thing for years, and instead of investing in something real, I’ve just been putting it into a black hole.” His shoulders slump, and it breaks my heart. “The guy who promised me security, stability—he’s disappeared. No one knows where he is. And all of my savings, everything I’ve ever put away, is gone.”

My stomach tightens with his words. I want to yell at him for falling for something like this, but I can’t. I can’t be angry with him. I don’t know that I wouldn’t have done the same thing, if we’re being honest.

Instead, I sit there, watching him deflate in front of me, as he exhales deeply.

“The bank says there’s some insurance coverage, but…” His voice turns hollow. “It won’t be enough. It won’t fix this. Everything I worked for is gone…”

I can feel my tummy hitch in anticipation as his voice trails off. Gone? Someone scammed my sweet father out of his savings? I realize I’m shaking, and I look down at my hands and see only red.

I feel helpless. “What can I do?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“There’s got to be something we can?—”

His hand slices through the air as he holds it up, dropping the words as they fall from my mouth. “Nothing. Just…I’m sorry. I need to go for a walk.”

My father, a man who does not react like this, is freaking me out. I watch as if in slow motion as he puts his hands on the table and pushes himself to an upright position, then walks over to the hooks on the wall by the door and grabs his coat, threading one arm into it at a time.

I can’t let him go alone, so I swiftly make my way across the room and grab my jacket off its hook as well, only he turns around and stops me.

“No, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to be alone right now. Please.”

Searching his eyes, I want to insist that I come with him, but it’s selfish. I can see he means it. He wants to be by himself. I stand back in understanding to let him pass, and as I do, my phone beeps from my back pocket.

Ignoring it, I hold the door open as he trudges across the porch and down the steps, making his way out to the street. I know better than to push anything more; if this is what he wants right now, then so be it. I can still worry, and judging by the bile rising in my throat, I won’t have any problems there.

My phone beeps again, signaling me, so I grab it and peer at the screen. On rare occasions, Coach Masters or his wife will message me on a day off and ask me to do something. I always have the option to say no, but they do pay me when I step outside of the box at times like this.

Reading the message, today is one of those rare moments.

Sorry to bother you today, Anna, but I’ve got a huge favor. Are you able to stop by the home office and grab some paperwork to drop off at the arena? Will pay you your day-off bonus if you can.

Coach Masters doesn’t get along with the General Manager of the Renegades. To be fair, not many people do. Heiscringey and I’m not a fan myself, but I can be a conduit and help pass along paperwork and information between the two camps if needed.

I don’t need to think twice. Normally, I do weigh up these requests, but my dad isn’t around right now and seeing Ollie will make me smile, so decision made.

You got it.

CHAPTER 2

OLLIE

The rink in the River City Arena smells like ice and sweat, the cold bite in the air making it feel like everything’s just a little sharper here—like the world outside doesn’t quite matter when I’m on this surface. The boards hum, the lights are glaring, and the sound of skates cutting through the ice echoes in my ears. I’m in my gear, feeling the familiar weight of it all—the shin pads, the gloves, the helmet. Everything is a little stiff after the long break, but it’s good to be back out here, even if it’s only practice.

I’m posted up on the blue line, focused, watching the play unfold in front of me. My teammates are moving fast, doing their drills. I’m on defense, always aware, always in motion—keeping my eyes on the puck, my body ready to react. Our assistant coach, Noah Beaumont, who is also a former Renegade himself, has us running a quick puck-moving drill, the forwards zipping in and out, trying to get a clean shot on net. I slide to the right as one of the forwards cuts toward me, trying to break past my coverage. I dig my skates into the ice, staying low, using my stick to push the puck to the corner.

“Keep it tight, Ollie!” Noah calls from the sideline, his voice cutting through the noise.

I nod, keeping my focus. The forwards are relentless, pushing, testing my limits, and I’m responding to every shift, every turn. One of the wingers, Sawyer, charges toward me, stick ready, looking to get a quick pass in front of the net. I close the gap easily, keeping my body between him and the puck. My legs burn from the quick movements, but I don’t back off. Not in a drill. Not with something to prove.

“Decker, heads up!” Someone shouts as a slapshot comes from the other end of the rink, with Henry, another defenseman, trying to send the puck up the ice. But I react too late.

The shot’s wide, but it ricochets off the boards and flies straight toward me. I reach out instinctively, my stick trying to bat it down. But it’s too high, the puck coming in at chest level, and all I can do is brace myself for impact.

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