Page 87 of The Fake Out

I suck a breath in.Hartley, I seem to remember you saying I don’t have an eight-pack.

I can feel her cute little huff through the universe.I don’t remember saying that.

My eyebrows lift as I wait, smiling. She totally fucking does remember.

You’re shameless,she says.

My smile lifts higher.Say it.

The longest pause in the world stretches out, and I scrub a hand over my face with impatience.

You have an incredible body. Happy?

My lungs expand, filling every corner of my chest, and I grin like a fool at my phone.

* * *

The next afternoon, I’m on the plane with the rest of the team, waiting for takeoff and debating whether to send Hazel the shirtless photo I took this morning.

I read over our text conversation and her response to the picture I sent last night, and hot possessiveness courses through me at the idea of her staring at my picture, getting turned on.

Ward claps me on the shoulder as he walks past my seat, and I slip my phone away.

“Nice work out there tonight, Miller,” he says with a nod and a quiet smile, and I straighten up. On his phone beside me, Streicher pauses, listening.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” His eyebrows bob before he keeps walking, and I watch his tall form disappear down the aisle.

Every game, my dad’s voice gets quieter. Instead, I picture Hazel giving me that proud smile. During games, I look to Ward on the bench, and when I pass the puck and help the other guys score, he always wears the same stoic expression, eyes glinting like he’s pleased.

“You weren’t in the gym this morning,” Streicher says from the seat beside me.

“Uh, yeah. I went for a run around the waterfront instead.”

He frowns. It’s unusual for me to skip a workout. “Why?”

I run a hand through my hair. I woke up to an incoming call from my dad but let it go to voicemail. I still haven’t checked it. “Hazel makes me go for runs sometimes with her and it’s, uh.” I shrug. “Nice. To not think about hockey all the time.” I swallow. “And just talk and stuff.”

He stares at me. “You miss her.”

I think back to the past few days, how often I wonder about her or have the urge to text her. How I can’t wait to see her again. “Yeah. I do.”

Streicher turns back to his phone, and I read over my conversation with Hazel. Before I think too hard about it, I send her the photo I snapped this morning, lying in bed with the light streaming in.

Stop teasing me, she texts a moment later, and I burst out laughing. Players look over and I clear my throat, stifling my laughter.

Your turn, I respond, grinning like a dumbass.

A photo pops up—she’s in her apartment, sitting on her yoga mat with her feet together, stretching, full lips curving up. She’s wearing a loose sweater and leggings, silky hair up in a ponytail, and no makeup.

My heart skips a beat. She’s gorgeous.

Not what I had in mind but still cute as hell.

I study the photo, desperate for any scrap of Hazel I can get. The dragon I gave her sits on her nightstand now. Does that mean she misses me, too? Her bed looks huge and comfy and I cannot fuckingwaitto get back to her and flop down on it.

My eyes land on Hazel again. The shoulder of her loose sweater has slipped aside while she stretched, revealing a pale purple strap.

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