Page 9 of Faking the Shot
I can already tell this night can’t end fast enough. If it were up to me, I’d be at home right now, watching replays, dissecting every mistake we made on the ice. Because, let’s be real, we fucking sucked tonight.
It’s supposed to feel like a win. A W’s a W, right? But it doesn’t. Not when it felt like we barely limped across the finish line. Instead, I feel drained, irritated, and . . . restless. Like there’s this itch under my skin I can’t scratch, a gnawing sense that something’s missing. It’s as if I’m skating full-speed toward something I can’t see—something I’m not even sure exists.
The noise in the bar doesn’t help. It grates on my nerves, and even my whiskey—three ice cubes, no frills—hasn’t worked fast enough to take the edge off.
And then there’s Brittany, my . . . well, I’m still working on that one. We go on dates, sure. She’s basically the woman I’ve been seeing since I moved to Boston, mostly because it’sconvenient—and, according to my new PR company, “great for my image.” Apparently, after a few of our pictures went viral, it becamea thing. Jacob calls it a “strategic relationship,” which is just a fancy way of saying it makes me look approachable instead of like I want to throat-punch everyone I meet.
She’s perched next to me, as polished as a trophy wife at a fundraiser, her lips glossed to perfection and her nails tapping out a relentless rhythm on the table. To be honest, I don’t even know how she found me or why she’s here. It’s going to be pretty awkward when I head home and as usual don’t invite her. Listen, she’s pretty hot but she has a vibe that makes me not want to fuck her. At thirty-four and after so many one-night stands and fail relationships, you know when to keep your dick away. I glance at her, silently willing her to take the hint and tone it down. Of course, she doesn’t.
“Kaden,” she drawls, stretching my name like it’s a party trick. “Did you see my earlier text? I hit 100K followers today. One hundred thousand. I was thinking we should go live. Right now. Celebrate your victory and my milestone together. It’d be so perfect.”
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, wishing I could chug the whole thing and make the rest of this night evaporate. “I’m good.”
Her brows knit together, her perfectly sculpted face morphing into a pout that could break a lesser man. “Good? That’s all you have to say? You could at least pretend to be happy for me.”
“I am happy. Thrilled,” I reply flatly, because explaining how little I care about her follower count feels like an exhausting waste of time. Also, she lives for her social media, and I’m not stupid enough to poke that bear. Tell your girlfriend that what excites her is about as interesting as watching paint dry, andyou’ll spend the next week regretting it. “Just not in the mood to go live.”
Her pout morphs into a scowl, her voice cutting through the room loud enough to draw a few glances. “You’re never in the mood for anything. It’s like you don’t care about me at all. You don’t respect me one bit. I feel . . . I feel mistreated by your attitude.”
I grit my teeth, my jaw visibly tight as I try to keep my composure. “Careful with your words, Brit. You know that’s not true. I’ve always respected you.”
“Respected?” she spits, her phone lighting up her face as she flashes a tight, fake smile for anyone who might be watching. “You don’t respect anything. I’ve been trying to fix us—you. I’ve lent you my social media to make you look good, and all you do is reject me. Do you know how much I’ve invested into this relationship?”
My glass meets the table with a little more force than I intend, the ice rattling inside. “Didn’t realize our relationship came with a social media marketing team and an expense report.”
Her eyes narrow, her tone dropping to that pointed, deliberate pitch she uses when she’s about to make a scene. “Well, it does. Especially when you’re too busy being an asshole to the only person who cares about you. Do you even know how much people love seeing us together? I’m asking for one thing, Kaden. Just one. Can’t you try for once?”
I lean back, crossing my arms as her words settle in. “I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough?”
She shakes her head, her phone screen glowing as she types furiously. Probably another post about how great her life is, minus the inconvenient reality of me. “You give nothing, not even a little. How can you think that’s enough?”
And for once, we agree. It isn’t enough. But the difference is, I’m starting to wonder how I can ditch her.
Can I still keep her around even if it is just for the sake of my image? If I had a choice? I’d pick someone else. Someone like the Trivia Queen.
I still remember that coffee shop. It wasn’t like this—it wasn’t loud, polished, or staged. It was simple, comfortable, and undeniably real. She sat beside me, head bent over her little paper since she didn’t want to shout the answers, her pen darting across the paper with the same quick wit that came out of her mouth. And me? I leaned in, teased her about every answer, and she didn’t miss a beat firing back. No pretense, no agenda. Just her.
But that’s a story for . . . well, never.
Nobody knows about her, not even Killion, my twin who knows pretty much everything about me. Well, everything excepther.
“No, it’s not enough, Kaden,” Brittany snaps, her voice slicing through the bar like a knife. A ripple of whispers snakes through the nearby tables, hungry for drama.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
“Brit,” I say, keeping my voice low, trying to keep the situation from blowing up. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”
“Later?” She releases a brittle laugh. The kind of laugh that makes my skin crawl. “That’s your solution? Delay it? Just like you delay posting anything meaningful? Delay showing me you care? God, you’re such a selfish bastard.”
The eyes on us now are unavoidable. Half the bar’s watching like we’re some trashy reality show they didn’t know they signed up for. My teammates? They’re doing a piss-poor job pretending they’re not eating this up. Hemming actually looks like he’s enjoying himself.
“I’m not doing this right now,” I mutter, reaching for my glass, desperate for the burn of whiskey to drown this mess.
“Oh, you’re doing it, all right,” Brittany shoots back, her voice rising a notch. She stands abruptly, the scrape of her chair loud enough to make heads turn. “You know what? You’re not worth it, Kaden.”
Her hand flies before I register what’s happening. Crack.
The slap rings in my ears, my cheek stinging like hell, the heat spreading across my face as the crowd gasps.
