Page 2 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

Thomas didn’t wait for a reply and instead stormed out of the room.

Well, this is going to be just swell.

The following morning, after a rather wonderful night’s rest in the east wing—the opposite side of the house from Thomas—Ihead downstairs for breakfast. I’ll admit, I’m relieved to find I’m eating alone.

Beatrice walks in with her short, determined stride and pours the coffee.

“Thomas not up yet?” I ask.

Beatrice gives me a knowing smile. “It’s past ten o’clock, Mr. Steele. Your brother has been up for at least five hours already.”

Of course, I knew that. But when I come home, Beatrice and I always like to tease each other.

“So, where is Mr. Perfect?”

“I imagine he’s working in his office, Mr. Steele,” Beatrice replies, placing pancakes on my plate.

“Good. Hopefully he’ll stay there.”

An hour later, Steve arrives at the house to pick me up. I texted my high school buddies that I was heading home just before I left the city yesterday. Soon enough, it’ll be all over the news, and then everyone will know where I am.

“Hey, man,” Steve says, jumping out of his truck and running around the car to get the passenger door. He glances down at the cane and then grins at me. “Nice stick. You swap it out for the old one?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” I say, clambering into the passenger seat. “You’re lucky I don’t have my hockey stick, or I’d wrap it around your neck.”

Steve bursts into laughter as he slams my door closed. A second later, he’s jumping back into the driver’s seat, still grinning. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my wingman, my best friend from high school. Of course, he follows my career, but traveling so much with the team, I just don’t have time to get home very often.

Besides, he runs a haulage company, so he’s home about as often as I am. At nearly six feet, just an inch shorter than me, and broad as a house, Steve fills the driver’s seat to capacity. We wereoften mistaken for brothers in the old days. Tall, dark, and crazy was our reputation. But while Steve has settled for the family life, I still haven’t grown out of my craziness.

We arrive at Thompson’s, the coffee shop in town, where I’m given a huge bear hug by John, my other friend. He wasn’t my wingman, but we were, and still are, pretty close. A little shorter than me, he’s a mass of muscle, and now running the local gym.

Maple Springs never had a gym, but with John’s savvy business mind—he was always the smartest out of the three of us—he filled the demand and built one.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” a soft voice comes from behind me. “Ryan Steele. Is that you?”

I know the owner of that voice all too well, and turning, I smile at Mrs. Thompson. The old woman has been running this coffee shop since I was a kid. All the kids used to hang out here back then. Of course, we were a lot younger then, but so was Mrs. Thompson.

Even as I give the lady a hug, I swallow down the fact that her hair is far grayer. I’m also pretty sure that she’s shrunk. Or have I grown? No. I was here a few years back. It has to be the first one, surely.

“I remember when you kids came in here for milkshakes. Now look at you. All grown up.”

I refrain from telling her that we’ve all been grown up for a while, and after we sit, Steve tells me that the old doll is starting to lose it a bit.

“I bring Lily and Daniel here on the occasions I’m home, and she can’t seem to wrap her head around the fact that I’m old enough to have children.”

I’ll be honest, I find that a little sad.

There’s a barista behind the counter, a young girl whose eyes widened at the sight of me. I flash her a wide smile. Clearly, she recognizes me. Either that, or maybe she’s just smitten with mydeep brown eyes. It’s the thing girls like most about me, or so a poll inFitness Weeklysaid.

“So,” John says, once our coffees have been brought to the table, “what’s happening? You’re all over the news. Did you really say what they’re saying you did?” John’s looking at me with both doubt and confusion.

“You know I never would, dude. It’s been taken completely out of context. The media just wants to crucify me. Besides, drama gets them views.”

John’s known me for a long time. He also knows I would never make a racist comment, but that’s what the media is trying to portray. It’s a lie, of course, but it sells their stories, right? I mean, who actually believes the news anymore?

They’ve spent weeks examining my words, twisting them into something they were not, and while my agent has been trying his best to put out the fires, the news just keeps dousing them with fuel.

But I need to get this out of the way, for John’s sake.

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