The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(11)

I groan. Our dad’s a hockey nut. I didn’t even think about this element of our arrangement. “If Mom and Dad bring it up, tell them it’s not serious.”

“You haven’t had a boyfriend since Connor.” She cuts me a glance. “They’re going to get excited.”

There’s a flurry of activity on the ice in front of us. Rory sinks the puck, and noise erupts in the arena. The fans jump to their feet, cheering as lights flash and the Vancouver players surround Rory. Pippa’s hand comes to my elbow and she widens her eyes, pulling me up to standing.

“Clap,” she hisses. “Act like you’re happy that he scored.”

I start clapping awkwardly and Pippa laughs, which makes me laugh.

“I don’t want Mom and Dad getting attached to him,” I tell her when we sit down. “He has his own parents.”

Pippa’s frown makes me pause.

“What?” I press.

“Rory needs more good people in his life.”

I scoff. “With his ego? He probably grew up eating his after-school snacks off a gold platter.” I find him through the glass, speeding up the length of the ice with the puck. “The guy doesn’t know the word ‘no.’ I’m sure he was spoiled rotten as a kid.”

Her mouth twists. “He doesn’t talk to his mom much, and I don’t think his dad’s like ours. Have you ever watched Rick Miller on TV?”

I don’t watch sports commentary. Rick Miller is a Canadian hockey legend, though. Everyone knows his name.

“Honestly?” She winces. “He’s kind of a dick. He’s Rory’s agent first and his dad second.”

An ache pangs through me.

“When I went home last month,” she continues, “Dad had framed the ticket from my first concert in Vancouver.”

Pippa and I grew up in North Vancouver, and when we moved out of the house, our parents retired and moved to Silver Falls, a tiny ski town in the interior of British Columbia.

My heart squeezes with love. “Ken Hartley is the freaking best.”

She nods, wearing a wistful smile. “Yeah. He is.”

My eyes find Rory on the ice, and my chest feels tight. Pippa and I have the best dad, and maybe I don’t like Rory, but I don’t wish a bad dad on him.

“They mentioned a trip out here next month. Let’s invite Mom to one of your classes.” Pippa wiggles her eyebrows. Outside of physio for the team, I teach yoga, both on Zoom and in-studio. “I think it would be fun.”

My stomach sinks as I watch the game. Hayden bodychecks a guy from the other team against the boards in front of us. “That’s probably not going to happen.”

“What if we eased her into it? We don’t have to start with a hot class.”

The whistle blows as the ref calls a penalty, and people around us shout their disagreement. I exhale a long breath out of my nose, putting my response together for my sister as my stomach tightens in frustration.

“She doesn’t feel comfortable in yoga clothes,” I explain. “Being in a yoga studio reminds her of how much her body has changed since she used to dance.” Our mother was a ballerina in her teens and early twenties. “She won’t do it.”

I rub my sternum, dragging my palm over the front of my jersey as I think about her.

“How many times did she insult herself when you went home?” I ask. “How many times did she make a negative comment about her body or say she was on a diet?”

Pippa’s throat works. “A lot.”

“Exactly.” We stare at the ice, and I know Pippa’s thinking the same thing I am.

We want more for our mom. We want her to love herself. It’s why I’m opening my own inclusive fitness studio one day. Everyone deserves to move and feel good in their body. Everyone deserves to love themselves.

The fans roar, and I pull my attention back to the game. Rory nabs the puck, skating away from the mess of players like a bullet. He’s on a breakaway toward the net in front of Pippa and me. He’s moving so fast his skates barely touch the ice, deft and with complete control. My pulse stumbles at his expression, so powerful and focused, and around me, spectators brace themselves.

I don’t see the puck until it’s already in.

Noise explodes—fans hollering, music blasting, the horn they blare for every goal sounding—and lights flash around the net.

A strange, proud feeling moves through me as the players gather around Rory, celebrating.

“Admit it,” Pippa says over the noise. “That was incredible.”

I huff, laughing despite myself. “Don’t tell Miller.”

The players break apart for another face-off, and when Rory turns, I prepare to roll my eyes at his cocky grin.

His expression is flat, unimpressed, and tired. The emotional kind of tired, the kind that wears you down and makes you feel like things will never get better. He’s wearing the same exhaustion I feel after hearing my mom list her flaws, all the reasons her body isn’t good enough. A looming sense of dread gathers within me, and I feel a pinch of regret.

Rory Miller is supposed to be a cocky asshole who can have whatever he wants, not a burned-out hockey player with a crappy dad.

Before I can think more about it, the puck drops and Rory snags it. Just as he swings around the net, a player from the other team crosschecks him into the boards, smashing his face and helmet against the glass.