The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(49)

I’ve never even had the smallest desire to break my rule, but I can’t get that image out of my head.

That’s concerning.

“Let’s go to bed,” Rory murmurs, walking me to the bed with his lips on my neck, pressing soft, intimate kisses there.

This whole thing was intimate. I have the urge to make a joke like I suppose you’ll want to stay over now or would it be rude to ask you to leave? but nothing sounds funny, it just sounds mean and callous, and I don’t want to be that brittle version of myself right now.

And I want him to stay. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to think about it too hard.

“I’m just going to brush my teeth.” I step out of his touch and reach for a sleeping t-shirt, feeling Rory’s eyes on my body as I pull it over my head and walk on wobbly legs to the bathroom. In the doorway, I pause, heart hammering. “I have an extra one. A toothbrush.” I clear my throat, and his mouth tips up in amusement. “For you. If you want it. The dentist gives me a new one every time I go for a cleaning, but I like a different type, so I have a bunch of spares.”

God, get a grip, Hazel.

Without a word, like he can tell I’m seconds from freaking out, Rory follows me to the bathroom. I can feel his attention as we brush our teeth, and when he leans forward to rinse his mouth, his hand comes to my lower back like it’s an instinct.

I lean against his hand.

Don’t you dare get used to this, I warn myself.

When we head back to bed, Rory moves to his side, watching me with that smug little smile.

“Told you I could make you come.” He pulls me against him, spooning me, and I’ve never done this part before, either—the cuddling after part.

He should leave. I should make him leave. Instead, I reach over and turn out the bedside lamp.

“Don’t gloat, Rory.”

His low, pleased laugh rings out in the dark as I wonder what the fuck just happened.





CHAPTER 33





RORY





Sunlight streams into Hazel’s tiny apartment. When she’s awake, Hartley is sharp, confident, and guarded, but asleep, all her rough edges are smoothed over. She’s on her side, knee bent forward, hand tucked under her face.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl as pretty as Hazel Hartley.

I didn’t know it could be like that, she said last night, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. There’s something about Hazel telling me I’m doing a good job that sticks in my brain.

On the bedside table, my phone starts buzzing, and when I see who’s calling, my gut clenches.

“Hi.” My voice is quiet so I don’t wake Hazel.

“Rory.” It’s my dad’s usual no-nonsense, sharp tone. “Let’s talk about the game.”

For a split second, I think he’s going to tell me he’s proud of me. When I do well, he gives me a firm nod. That’s it. But it’s something, an acknowledgement that I’m not a waste of time and energy for him.

“I don’t know what the fuck you were doing out there,” he says, and my stomach hardens, “but you need to get your head in the game. They didn’t sign you to pass the puck.”

Why did I think he’d be pleased?

“Stars score goals,” he adds.

And yet, last night, hockey felt like fun. Flipping the puck to the guys and watching them sink it in the net felt like play, and I could enjoy the roar of the crowd instead of resenting it.

Awareness prickles on my skin the moment Hazel wakes up. She’s watching me, listening, but I don’t look over at her. I don’t want to see the look on her face.

He goes through my game, describing each missed opportunity, each assist like he was on the ice with me. He has a handwritten page of notes in front of him and he’s checking them off, line by line, because that’s what he’s always done.

“I don’t know what Ward thinks he’s doing, but if he keeps this shit up, the Storm aren’t headed toward the playoffs, that’s for damn sure.”

“Ward knows what he’s doing.”

A beat passes. “Why are you so quiet? You got a girl in bed with you or something?”

My gaze slides to Hazel. Her hair is messy and she looks so beautiful lying there in bed with sleepy eyes. My heart lodges in my throat, and I can feel the worry creasing my forehead. Protective feelings flood me. I don’t want my dad anywhere near Hazel. If he said something, even some small comment about how I’m wasting my time with her, I’d do something stupid and rash.

“Right,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re seeing that girl. The physio.”

My heart starts beating harder, and the hand not holding the phone is a fist tucked against my side. The photos are all over social media because we planned it that way, and Rick Miller watches my career closer than anyone.

“For all their shit coaching, the Storm have good PR. Get a nice girl on your arm and look like a good captain, and at the end of the season, move on.”

“It’s not like that.” Blood pounds in my ears. What if it is like that to Hazel and I’m getting swept up in a fantasy? What if she drops me like it was all nothing? Nausea rolls through me at the thought.

She doesn’t trust guys, and she thinks Connor and I are cut from the same cloth.