Page 51 of Faking the Shot
Valentina: He said he stopped loving me. I was getting too old and he was falling for someone different. By different he meant someone in her early twenties, perky and naive.
Kaden: Fucker. You’re better without a manchild. You need a man. A man that treats you like a princess and worships you like a goddess in bed.
Valentina: Are you volunteering for the job?
Kaden: Baby, I’ll treat you like the goddess you are. Such a good girl—though I want you to be dirty too. A filthy little slut just for me. Do you think you can be that for me, baby?
Valentina: Kaden, stop texting me this.
Kaden: Fine. Then next time I see you, I’ll pin you against the wall, rip that cute little bra off with my teeth, and suck your nipples until you’re begging me to fuck you.
Valentina: You’re impossible.
Kaden: Impossible? Baby, you’re the one driving me insane. Every time you cross my mind—and let’s be honest, that’s all the time—I’m imagining how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around my cock.
Valentina: Kaden.
Kaden: What? You started this. You think you can send me one picture of those gorgeous tits and expect me not to want more? I need more, Val. I need all of you.
Valentina: I sent you that this morning.
Kaden: Yes, and that’s all I’ve had from you. Send me more.
Valentina: May I remind you that I’m at my parents’?
Kaden: Then later, when you’re alone, you’ll think of me—my hands, my tongue, my cock stretching you open—and you’ll come. And when you do, you’ll send me a message telling me exactly how good it felt.
Valentina: Goodbye, Kaden. And good luck in the game.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Valentina
The Game Within the Game
The Harbor Ridge Community Center comes into view as I pull into the parking lot. It’s a modest building, the kind you’d drive past without noticing, but the sound of skates slicing across the ice and the hum of excited chatter spilling into the cool afternoon air make it feel alive.
Parents and kids filter through the doors, some clutching hockey sticks, others dragging bags of gear behind them. I grab my bag, straighten my jacket, and take a deep breath. This is just another job. Just another client.
Except it’s not.
The chill of the rink greets me as soon as I step inside, the faint scent of ice and rubber padding filling the air. My eyes land on him immediately. Kaden Crawford. He’s on the ice, crouched slightly as he talks to a group of kids in hockey gear that’s a little too big for them. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends like he’s been skating hard, and his fitted athletic shirt clings to his broad shoulders and defined arms in a way that makes my stomach twist.
My client. My very fuckable client. The same man I definitely shouldn’t have let make me come in his kitchen.
I shake off the thought and force myself to focus. According to Kimmy, this is all about softening his image. A couple of photographers are stationed discreetly in the bleachers, cameras at the ready to capture the heartwarming sight of Kaden coaching kids. The PR strategy is clear: make him relatable, human, the guy people want to root for.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, thank God. It’s been a couple of weeks since we last saw each other. He’s been traveling for games, and I’ve been “working hard from home,” which is a very professional way of saying I’ve been avoiding him like he’s six feet of trouble wrapped in temptation.
It’s not personal. It’s just that:do not fuck with your clientis a very essential rule to follow. Even if that client happens to have a dirty mouth and a body carved by the gods.
I step closer to the edge of the rink, trying to blend into the crowd.
“Alright, everyone.” Kaden’s voice booms, gruff but somehow encouraging. “Let’s see those slap shots again. Remember, it’s not about how hard you hit the puck—it’s about control.”
The kids nod earnestly, some of them mimicking his stance as he picks up a stick and demonstrates. My breath catches as I watch him move, all power and precision, his dark brown eyes focused. There’s no arrogance in his expression, just genuine determination to help these kids improve.
And damn it, that’s almost worse.
