Page 37 of Faking It with the Forward

“Perkins!” Coach Green calls from the stairwell. “Wake up and help me unload the supplies.”

Reese steps into the aisle, and I grab my bag before climbing down the small staircase to the parking lot outside the arena. There’s a crowd waiting. Family, girlfriends, puck bunnies, and general fans. He pushes his hand in his pocket and pulls out my phone. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” I say, checking the notifications. Nothing from Nadia. “And thanks for being a big cushion.”

“You’re welcome.” He presses the phone in my hand. “Listen, we’re having some people over tonight. Feel free to drop by or I can come pick you up? People will be expecting us to be seen together anyway.”

“A party?”

“A gathering,” he clarifies.

“We’ll see if I can stay up that long.” I cover my mouth and fight a yawn.

With his bag over his shoulder, Jefferson walks up and claps his friend on the back. “Ready?”

“You want me to hang around? Wait for you to finish?”

“Nah, you never know how long it’ll take.” Coach Green likes for everything to be organized when we get back so we’re set to go for the next practice. “But thank you.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big. Isn’t offering something like that what a boyfriend would do?

Jeff looks at me. “Coming over tonight, TG?”

“Maybe.”

“Alright, see you then,” he replies as though I said yes. Hate to break it to them, but I’m going home, confirming my tickets, and going to bed. The last thing I want to do is hang out with a bunch of drunk hockey players. The two of them walk off and I head over to where Coach Green is dragging our kits out from under the bus.

It takes us an hour to unload and unpack before I’m dismissed. I call Nadia on the way home, but she doesn’t answer. I pull up the ticket sales page as I walk, confirming that the concert is sold out already. I don’t see the person sitting on the bench outside the student center who rises when I approach.

“Twyler?”

My head jerks up when I hear my name, dread inching down my spine. “Hey,” I say, hands getting sweaty. “Ethan. Hey.”

He gives me a smug grin, the piercing in his eyebrow glinting in the light like an evil wink. God, I hate that stupid piercing.

“It’s been… awhile.” I’ve managed to avoid him for months and when I did have the bad luck of running into him, I’d ducked and hid. It’s immature, but necessary. Unfortunately, tonight I’ve been so distracted by the ticket situation I’ve stumbled right into him. I look around. It’s quiet, but the student center has all kinds of activities going on. Movies, performances, special events. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting on a friend.” He steps closer. “I’ve been thinking about you. How are you?”

Shifting back, I say, “Good. Great, really. Busy with my internship.”

His gaze shifts to my team outfit—the uniform we wear for the games. The yellow badger sits above my heart. “You’re still doing that.”

“Yep.” Ethan didn’t like me working with the hockey team—or anything that took time away from him. “It’s going great. They just won their first game of the preseason.”

“Mmhmm.” His expression reminds me of how much he hates sports and the long rants he and his friends would go on about how jocks are nothing but pawns of corporate machines that profit off condoned violence. As if he has the right to judge violent acts. “I saw that picture of you and the hockey guy. What’s that about?”

“Reese?” I ask, surprised he saw it. He loathes social media. Or so he says. He’s a hypocritical shit. I know that now. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Sure,friends.” He says the word with exaggeration, but there’s no time for me to process it. His eyes skim over me. “Is that what’s up with the hair? Does your ‘friend’ like it down better?”

I force myself not to touch it—not to show how insecure he makes me feel. How he knows my insecurities and uses them against me. Choking back the bile threatening to rise in my throat, I grind out, “You know, I don’t have to answer that. We’re not together anymore. We’re not even friends. It’s none of your business one way or the other.”

“You’re right.” His fingers twist the silver rings on his left hand. My stomach drops seeing them. “Your decisions are your own, no matter how basic they are.”

Hell. No.

“If anyone is basic, it’s you,” I say, allowing the anger to roll through me, which is so much fucking better than sadness and tears. That’s how I used to feel around him. Desperate to please. “With your stupid piercings and lame tattoos and…”

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