Page 7 of Faking the Shot
His grin doesn’t falter. “You could try ‘The Guy Who Makes Your Coffee Dates More Interesting.’”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Points for confidence. But I’m going to have to pass.”
The barista sets my coffee on the counter, and I grab it quickly, relieved to have an excuse to end the conversation.
KC raises his cup in a casual toast as I turn to leave. “Until the next time, Trivia Queen.”
I pause for half a second, the corner of my mouth twitching before I force myself to keep walking. Maybe the embargo can wait just for one more cup of coffee. Then again, I can’t afford another failed anything.
Keep walking Val. Nothing is worth going through another heartbreak.
Chapter Four
Kaden
Teamwork on Thin Ice
Some guys have a way with women.
Me? I’ve got a way with ice. Both are slippery, sure, but one will break your heart, and the other? The other will break your damn collarbone if you’re not careful. Lucky for me, I’m not just careful—I dominate.
Every time I step on the ice, I leave it all out there. Because this game? It doesn’t forgive. One minute, you’re the golden boy, skating circles around the competition. The next, you’re yesterday’s news, face-planted on the boards while someone else takes your place.
I’ve known that since I was a kid, carving figure eights on the pond behind my house like my life depended on it. And maybe it did—at least, it felt that way back then.
Passionate.
Dedicated.
Focused.
Competitive.
Yeah, that last one? Probably comes from being a twin. Everything was a contest: hockey, school, even who could mow the lawn fastest. Spoiler alert—it was always me. But lately, what I can’t wrap my head around—what really makes me want to slam my stick through the plexiglass—is why no one else on my team seems to care. Sure, it’s just preseason, but that doesn’t mean we play like amateurs. And yet, here we are, down by one goal to a team we should be wiping the ice with.
The scoreboard looms overhead, glaring down at me like it’s personally judging my life choices. Boston Barracudas: 2. New York Vipers: 3.
Unacceptable.
If I were still playing for San Jose, this would be a different story. But no, I just had to ask for that trade, didn’t I? And so far, it’s been a disaster. Nothing good has come from it. My team hates me. They tune me out every time I try to give feedback. And to top it off, I don’t have a single friend in this city. Not one.
I push off, my blades cutting deep into the ice, the burn in my legs the only thing grounding me. I’m skating outside my line, I know that, but Linus is dragging ass again, and I’m not about to let him cost us this game.
“Get your man,” I bark at him, my voice slicing through the roar of the crowd.
Linus looks at me like I just asked him to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. Useless. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The guy’s capable—I’ve seen it. But he doesn’t have the fire. He’s coasting, and I’m seconds away from skating over there and lighting him up myself.
I shove forward, cutting him off before the other team gets a breakaway. The puck’s just ahead, glinting under the harsh arena lights like a prize in a rigged carnival game. My muscles scream as I stretch for it, but the sting feels good—like proof I’m still giving a shit, even if no one else is.
And that’s the thing about hockey. You don’t just play it; you survive it.
Some people don’t have what it takes.
Others don’t realize they had it in them until it’s too fucking late.
Linus shoots me a look, lips moving, probably mumbling some bullshit I couldn’t hear even if I cared to try. The roar of the crowd swallows whatever excuse he’s muttering as he picks up the pace.
Fine. At least he’s moving now.
