Fake Skating(50)

I rolled my eyes, and then my stomach flipped all the way over when he bent at the knees so our faces were level, gave me a half smile, and said, “You look good in mine—you should keep it.”

My breath was stuck in my throat as he flirted so well that I had trouble remembering how to speak. I met his gaze and said, “Thanks.”

“You got it,” he said, tugging on a strand of my hair. His eyes were all over my face before he added in a murmur, “Danigirl.”

Sweet holy God.

It was confusing to stare up into the face of this incredibly attractive guy, an oversized specimen of a world-class athlete with a hard jaw, while getting a glimpse of the old Alec Barczewski when his mouth slid into a smile.

“What the hell is this?” Vinny said with a questioning smirk, and—God—I hadn’t even noticed he was there.

“Yeah, get a room,” Richie added, and it was wild the way I hadn’t noticed either of them because all I’d been able to see was Alec.

“So good luck tonight, you know, at your game,” I said like a dope, blinking fast in hopes that I wasn’t looking at him through pathetic heart eyes or something.

I was positive he got that from most human females because, well, damn.

Like, bravo, Mother Nature.

“Thanks,” he replied in a low voice, his eyes getting a playful squint as he raised my scarf to cover my chin, like he was helping me stay warm (again).

I felt a little hypnotized as his… bignesssurrounded me. Tall body, wide shoulders, big hands—he was obviously a very physical guy, always nudging with a shoulder or yanking on a curl, and it was going to take some getting used to.

Especially when he wielded direct eye contact like some kind of weapon.

I needed to start reminding myself to breathe or there was going to be a lot of passing out during the course of this fake relationship. I said, “Call me later?”

I could tell by the quick blink of his eyes that I’d surprised him, but he quickly recovered.

“Try and stop me, Collins.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Alec




I thought about her all the way to the arena.

Even with headphones on and my Pregame Calm playlist sending me chill shit like “The Black Dog” and “In the Kitchen,” I couldn’t shake the image of her big brown eyes blinking up at me from point-blank range.

This was going to be tougher than I thought.

I mean, I could handle it, but fuck. As much as I didn’t want to accept it, the truth was that there was still a part of me that saw her the way I’d always seen her.

The guys gave me shit the second she left us alone, because apparently I looked like a “lovesick little bitch” when I was around her, which made me defensive for a half second before I remembered that was how I wanted to look.

The clouds parted because, oh yeah—it was all an act.

She was playing her part, and I was playing mine.

Boom—no worries.

I swallowed down a few ibuprofen when I got to the locker room, then rubbed a shit ton of Icy Hot into my shoulder before suiting up.

And then everything else disappeared.

It didn’t make sense, really, that when I wasn’t playing hockey, I spent every waking minute stressing about it. The banners, the articles, the recognition—it all just reminded me that I was going to let down a lot of people if I wasn’t the best.

If I wasn’t better than the best.

I mean, I’d gotten a text from my agent already that afternoon, just checking in to see how things were going and to wish me luck for the game.

And to remind me that a couple of scouts were going to be there.

Forgetting was impossible.

Especially when there wasn’t just my post–high school career and everything that came with it to worry about, but also Southview—like, the town itself. The Packers had gone to the tournament more times than any other school in Minnesota, yet we’d never brought home the title.

There was no championship banner hanging from the Doug’s rafters, no championship trophy sitting on a glass shelf in one of the Doug’s trophy cases.

We’d made it to the finals last year but lost to St. John’s Academy (and fucking Ben Worthington), so even though I scored a goal at the Xcel Energy Center, it was the worst game of my life.

Because we’d come so damn close.

I’d cried like a fucking baby afterward, swear to God.

And now it was my senior year and I was playing the best hockey of my life. It was cool that the entire town was insanely supportive, but it also felt like everyone was counting on me to finally make it happen.

To lead the team to the historic thing that’d never been done before.

It kept me awake (when my shoulder wasn’t already keeping me awake) more nights than it didn’t.

But the second my skates connected with the ice—praise Jesus—all of that disappeared.

I forgot about pressure, pain, and curly blondes with brown eyes. My brain pressed pause on everything that wasn’t connected to my skates, my stick, the puck, and the ice in front of me.

“What the fuck is this I hear about you and Boche’s granddaughter?” Kyle said as I skated past him during warm-ups.

Fuck.

He was always lazy until game time, yapping about random shit, but I needed to get in some good laps before we stretched and didn’t need him messing with my focus.