Page 52 of Faking the Shot
I lean against the wall, unable to look away. He’s good at this—really good. The kids hang on his every word, lighting up when he gives them a high five or a quick pat on the helmet. He’s patient when one of them misses the puck entirely, crouching down to their level and giving them tips.
My chest tightens. This is a side of Kaden most people don’t get to see. He’s not just a grumpy, foul-mouthed hockey player. He’s someone who gives a shit, even if he pretends he doesn’t.
He glances up suddenly, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. For a moment, everything freezes. His eyes lock onto mine, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, knowing smirk.
Shit.
I push off the wall, pretending to check my phone like I haven’t been caught ogling him like a teenager with a crush.
When I look back, he’s still watching me. His expression softens, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring me to look away first. I don’t.
Instead, I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow, silently daring him back.
He chuckles to himself and turns his attention back to the kids, clapping his hands to get them moving again. But I can feel the heat of his gaze linger, even when he’s not looking directly at me.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
Obviously, college, Kimmy, and all my previous jobs didn’t prepare me for moments like this. The ones where you have to lecture yourself about clients being amazing with children, looking hot, and making it impossible to think straight.
Not for Kaden looking like he’s actually enjoying himself with the kids. Not for the way my chest tightens every time he smiles or pats one of them on the helmet. And definitely not for what happens next.
After the coaching wraps up and the children leave with their parents, I notice a cameraman and a reporter lingering near the rink. I keep an eye on them as I gather my things, but when I see the reporter approaching Kaden with an overly eager stride, every alarm bell in my head goes off.
“Kaden Crawford,” the man calls out, his tone too casual to be genuine. “Can I get a quick word?”
Kaden stops mid-step, his shoulders tightening as he glances back. “Make it quick.”
Big mistake.
The reporter asks some trivial questions at first but then he goes for the jugular. “So, there’s been some talk about your upbringing—how you were raised by two homosexual parents. Some people believe you’re so hard on your teammates because you’re compensating. You fuck women around to prove how ‘manly’ you are.”
My mouth drops open, the shock hitting me like a slap. What the actual fuck? That was below the belt, not just unprofessional—it was vile.
Kaden freezes, then turns slowly to face the reporter. His expression is ice-cold. “Why are you bringing my parents into this conversation?”
The reporter doesn’t even flinch. “Well, it’s no secret that?—”
“Shut up.” Kaden’s voice lowers, dangerously calm. “Let me tell you something about my parents. They love each other. That’s all that matters in a world ruled by bullshit like sex and public perception. I don’t need to prove how much of a man I am to anyone. All I have to do is get on the ice and win games. That’s what I do. If you feel like you have to bring up my family into this conversation, I have no place in here.”
The reporter stumbles over his words, but Kaden doesn’t wait for him to recover. He storms past, his fists clenched, leaving the guy standing there like an idiot.
Before I can even process what just happened, the reporter turns his attention to me, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic malice.
“Are you just a prop?” the reporter demands, pointing his microphone at me. “A part of his PR strategy? Or is there something real between you two?”
Before I can even process the insult, Kaden steps forward, positioning himself between me and the reporter.
“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” Kaden says, his tone cutting through the noise around us. “She’s not a prop. She’s not a part of anyone’s strategy. She’s mine.” His dark eyes lock on the reporter’s, daring him to say another word.
The reporter stammers, retreating slightly under Kaden’s unwavering glare. Without another glance, Kaden guides me away, his grip firm but not rough.
It’s not until we’re safely outside, away from the chaos, that Kaden pulls his hand away and steps back. His calm veneer cracks instantly.
“Kaden, I’m so—” I start, rushing to catch up to him as he storms toward the exit.
He whirls around, his eyes blazing with fury. “What the fuck was that?” he demands, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You putme up to this, didn’t you? Some great PR stunt to humanize the big bad hockey player?”
“No, I—” I begin, but he doesn’t let me finish.
