Page 73 of Faking the Shot
“You’re going to be fine, Kade. Just keep doing the work,” she says finally
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back against the pillows, letting her words settle into the corners of my mind. “Thanks, Val, for everything you’ve done.”
“Goodnight, Kade.”
“Goodnight,” I reply, but I don’t hang up right away. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, replaying every word she said, her voice still echoing faintly in my head.
The next morning, I drag myself out of bed, my limbs feeling like lead, and shuffle to practice. By the time I’m lacing up my skates, I catch a few of the guys throwing me friendly nods and the occasional smile. Maybe Val’s right. Maybe they’re warming up to me. Or maybe they’re just buttering me up before I’m traded.
Practice is its usual brand of grueling—sprints that burn like hell and drills that leave me dripping—but the ice feels like home. It’s the one place where shit actually makes sense, where my brain can shut up for a minute. But today, there’s something different. Something lighter. After practice, the guys invite me to grab lunch.
I hesitate because, let’s face it, group outings haven’t exactly been my thing lately. But Val’s voice worms its way into my brain, and before I know it, I’m nodding.
Lunch feels easy, shockingly so. The banter flows naturally, like it used to before everything went to shit. For the first time in forever, it doesn’t feel like I’m dragging myself uphill to connect with them.
When I get back to my room, pleasantly full and honestly kind of hopeful, my phone starts buzzing like it’s on fire. Valentina. Of course.
“Hey,” I answer, unable to fight the small grin creeping onto my face.
“I knew it,” she exclaims, her voice practically bouncing through the phone. “You went to lunch with the team after practice, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, they invited me,” I admit, chuckling.
“I told you they’re warming up to you,” she gloats, clearly pleased with herself.
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it. “Alright, psychic, don’t let it go to your head.”
“It’s not psychic. Actually, it was the team’s social media director gossiping.”
“Of course it was her.” Val’s cockiness pulls a genuine laugh out of me. It always does. Everything about her puts me at ease in a way I can’t explain.
Still, something nags at me. Is this ease between us just part of our arrangement, or is there more to it? Only one way to find out: see how she handles herself in my world, away from the cameras and PR bullshit.
“So, I’ve got something I want to ask you,” I say, clearing my throat. My voice comes out a little gruffer than I intended. Damn nerves.
“Is it an organ? Because I’m sort of attached to all of mine,” she quips, laughter bubbling on the other end of the line.
Her ridiculousness disarms me completely, and I can’t stop the smirk stretching across my face.
“No, not an organ. Jesus, Val,” I reply, shaking my head. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about the Bright Futures Benefit coming up next weekend. My parents are big sponsors, so I have to go.”
Her end of the line goes silent. Just for a second. “Okay . . .” she says cautiously, clearly waiting for the catch.
“I was wondering if you’d come with me,” I continue. “It’s not part of your PR duties. There’s no media. Just people who actually want to make the world a better place.”
“No media? Ha, yeah right. There’s always media,” she says, though her laugh carries a nervous edge.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I add quickly, second-guessing myself for even asking.
“It’s not that,” she says after a beat. “It’s just . . . I’ve seen photos of that gala. I don’t exactly have anything to wear to something like that.”
And there it is. I don’t want to assume anything about her financial situation, but I know I’m in a very different tax bracket. “If it’s about the dress, I’ll buy it for you. No big deal.”
“No way, Kade. I’m a big girl. I can get my own damn dress. It’s more like, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve been living in Boston for several months, but it’s still new to me,” she explains, her tone light but honest. And I love that about her—how easy it is to communicate with her. No hidden agendas, no games, no fake smiles or sidestepping the truth. She’s all heart, even when she’s deflecting, and it’s disarming as hell.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, even though I hate feeling like I’ve stepped on a landmine.
“You didn’t,” she replies. “I just have this thing about not owing people.”
