Page 72 of Faking the Shot
The next shift is all about defense. The opposing team is relentless, their passes crisp and their speed blistering. But we hold the line. I chase down a forward streaking toward our net, timing my poke check perfectly to knock the puck loose. Spinning on my skates, I fire it up the boards to Linus, who’s waiting at the blue line.
“Go,” I shout, skating hard to join him on the rush.
Linus takes off, his strides long and powerful. He’s learning. I trail behind, giving him space to work. He fakes a pass to the winger, then cuts inside, juking the defenseman out of position.The goalie shifts, anticipating a shot, but Linus sees the play before it happens.
He passes back to me at the last second, and I don’t hesitate. One-timer. The puck rockets into the top corner of the net, and the arena erupts.
Linus skates over, bumping my shoulder. “Guess we’re not so bad together, huh?”
I chuckle. “Keep up, kid. You might make a player out of yourself yet.”
By the time the final buzzer sounds, we’re up by three. The crowd is on their feet, chanting, screaming, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like we’re a team.
In the locker room, the atmosphere is light. Linus catches me before I leave, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Hey, Crawford,” he starts, hesitating. “Thanks for tonight. For, uh, everything.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work, kid.”
As I head for the showers, I can’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, this team is worth sticking around for.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kaden
What to Expect When You’re Faking It
“You know if we don’t get off this phone, you’re going to be late for your flight tomorrow morning.” Valentina laughs, her voice light and teasing, but it hits me in a way I can’t ignore. “Once you’re back, we can . . . try to see if we can come up with a schedule to see each other and not just for image purposes.”
That sultry voice she uses makes my cock stiffen in my pants for the dozenth time since we started this call. We’ve been on the phone since I got home, and every time I hear her laugh, it feels like a punch to my gut—equal parts need and frustration.
This has become our new ritual since I hired her to handle my PR. Every night, we start with business—how to salvage my image, what I need to do next—but somewhere along the way, the lines blur. We end up talking about things that have nothing to do with hockey or media or damage control. It’s personal. Intimate in a way I didn’t expect.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girlfriend—if I can even call her that. Sure, we agreed to this “relationship” for the sake of the media, but it doesn’t feel fake anymore. Not when she knows exactly how to push my buttons, calm my nerves, and make me laugh like no one else can. These nightly calls? They’re quickly becoming the highlight of my day. Hell, they’re probably the most real thing I’ve got going right now.
“I know, I know,” I say, finally dragging myself toward the bed. My body is exhausted from practice, but my mind is wide awake, hanging on to every word she says. “I think I can manage to drag myself out of bed in the morning.”
“You better. Did you think any more about what we discussed last night? Maybe invite the team to your place for some bonding time?”
I groan, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll see, but I don’t think they’re going to want to hang out with me.”
“You never know, Kaden. From what I can see, it looks like they’re starting to warm up to you.” Her tone is encouraging, but it stirs something complicated in me.
They are—little by little. I can see it in the way Linus doesn’t flinch when I call for the puck, or how the rookies don’t look like they’re bracing for impact when I give feedback. It’s not because I’ve softened or started sugarcoating shit. It’s because they’verealized I’m not on their asses to be an asshole; I’m on their asses because I want to teach them what I know.
And yeah, maybe I’ve changed the way I deliver those lessons. They’re not kids taking their first steps on the ice, but I’ve been too fucking harsh on them. It’s something I’ve been working on—not just with them but with myself.
This little trick I’m learning? It’s from my therapist. Yeah, I’ve been going for a while now. We’re talking about the fear I’ve carried since I was eight. And the way I don’t have patience for anyone, including myself. Getting out of my own head? Stopping the assumptions I make about people and their intentions? It’s fucking hard.
But it’s worth it, because the way I’ve been doing things? It’s not sustainable. I want to be more than just a good player—I want to be someone they respect off the ice too. And if that means unlearning decades of bad habits, so be it.
“You’re doing better than you think, Kaden,” Val says softly. “And it shows.”
Her words sink into me, not overwhelming, but offering a quiet reassurance I didn’t realize I was craving.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “But don’t think I’m suddenly some fucking saint. I’m still me—short-tempered-as-fuck and ready to call out anyone who’s slacking.”
Valentina laughs, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to my chest. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She pauses, and I know she’s about to wrap up the call. I don’t want her to. I want to keep listening to her talk, to the sound of her breathing as she gets ready for bed.
