Page 8 of The Pucking Fake Boyfriend

Of course, this was before she started to lie.

Now, I’m not certain how much longer I can stay quiet.

“It can’t wait,” Coach says, shooting me an uncharacteristically stern glance. Tanner is my favorite of all our coaches, and I liked to think I was his favorite player.

Until now.

I stalk after him, still in my full gear, and we head off for a spot in the opposite direction of the changing rooms. I expect us to go to his office, but he merely walks past it and turns into the small clinic equipped to treat minor wounds during practice.

“To the right.” He stops short in front of the door and turns around. “We need your urine sample.” He produces a small jar and holds it out. “There’s a toilet inside. The attending doctor said we could have the results within a few minutes.”

“What?”

Tanner has the decency to look embarrassed. “While you were at practice, your . . . um . . . ex—”

“She’s not my ex,” I spit through gritted teeth.

“Whatever,” Tanner says with a wave of his hand. “She put out some tweets that talked about you doing drugs with her before you got down to business. Claimed you had erectile dysfunction, and you needed hard drugs to perform. The Shade Room picked it up, and . . .”

My fists are trembling with anger. I don’t know what lie is more outrageous: the one that threatens my career or the one about my sexual performance.

“You know I’m clean,” I spit at Tanner. “Why the hell do I need a drug test? We get tested every other month.”

“Consider it a precaution.” He’s not the least bit sympathetic. “Everyone out there now thinks you’re a casual coke user. It would look irresponsible if we didn’t check. Our first game of the season is coming up in a few weeks, and Furman has stretched himself thin trying to get this woman to back off. If she keeps throwing random drug accusations at you, you’ll be benched for the rest of the season.”

I quell the urge to slam my fist through the nearest wall. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Unfortunately, not,” Tanner says, deadpan. “It was all well and good when all she was doing was accusing you of being the asshole who dumped her, but the NHL will not turn their back on the suggestion that one of their players is using. Unless we find a way to shut her up, you’re going to have to expect more of these random drug tests.”

Furious, I snatch the jar out of his hand. It takes about twenty-five minutes to submit the sample and be declared clean. I storm back to the changing rooms, slightly mollified when I see that the only person that’s still around is Blake.

“Waited for you.” He looks half-amused, half-sympathetic. “My dad told me what happened. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say gruffly, taking off my jersey. “She’ll regret this when I hire a team of lawyers to sue the fuck out of her for libel.”

Blake looks like he’s on the verge of delivering more bad news.

I glare at him. “What?”

“Well, I saw the tweets. She didn’t specifically mention your name when talking about the drug use. According to my dad, she could claim she was talking about someone else if you take her to court. She’s barely even mentioned your name throughout the whole debacle. Everyone just put it together after a while. You have no grounds to sue her.”

“Fuck!” This time, I cannot stop myself from punching the nearest locker. The smarting pain in my knuckles makes my anger ooze out, but only for a second.

“Sorry, dude,” Blake says, his amusement evidently growing. “You’ve got a bad dating rep. Made it easy for her.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The last thing I need is to be reminded of the fact that Janice was about the fifth “ex” of mine who was pulling this stunt. Two years ago, I’d even been named by some shoddy magazine as the most promiscuous hockey player.

Blake isn’t even the least bit offended at my tone. “She’s going to wear herself out eventually, you’ll see.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, shoving my dirty gear to a corner of the room. ‘Would that be before or after she gets me benched for the whole season due to her ridiculous accusations?”

Every trace of a smile vanishes off Blake’s face. “What? They’re thinking of benching you? I didn’t think it was that serious.”

My head buzzes with rage, and I don’t want to keep snapping at what appears to be my only friend left.

“You know,” he says, sounding thoughtful, “I know itwould be futile to sue her, but there are several other ways to take care of this kind of . . . situation.”

“I hope you’re picturing an assassination,” I say darkly, reaching for my tracksuit. I would rather carry the stink of practice home than go to the showers and be met with another accusatory stare.

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