The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(51)

She slaps my shoulder, but she’s laughing. “Miller, shut the fuck up.”

I grin down at her before squinting at a building we’re passing. “I just saw a rat. Let’s go take a closer look.”

“Unbelievable.” She shakes her head, flattening her lips, but there’s laughter in her eyes. “You know why I like running and yoga and swimming? Because all the other shit in life just disappears. I’m just trying to breathe and not collapse, and nothing else matters. No family shit, no hockey, no McKinnon. Just this.” She looks out across the water. “Just trees and water.” She tilts her head behind us. “And that seagull eating pizza.”

We enter Stanley Park, and the noise of the city dies down as we run down the sidewalk between enormous fir trees. The air feels cleaner, crisper in here, and it’s the perfect temperature for running.

“Alright, fire-breather. I’ll do it your way.”

That nickname makes her glare at me. “Call me that again and I’m going to bully you.”

“You know what happens when you bully me.”

A huge grin spreads across her face and her chest shakes as she laughs, and the same feeling floods my body as when we were sprinting up the stairs at the team dinner. The feeling I was chasing when I tried playing pickup hockey. And last night, when I flipped the puck to Owens and watched him score.

We run around the park, and I stop caring about my pace or my heart rate. I just run with Hazel. Everything falls away, and it’s just us, right here.

“Come on,” I goad her later as the entrance of the park comes into sight again. She’s lagging a bit, but her pride would never allow her to ask me to slow down. “Is that all you got, Hartley? I thought you were strong.”

“I am strong,” she tosses back, picking up her pace.

I match her speed, and by the time we reach the entrance, we’re sprinting. She’s not wrong, she is strong. She’s a lot faster than I would have predicted, but I’m a lot taller.

My mind wanders, and I’m back in that forest with my mom fifteen years ago. My heart squeezes. Worthy, I think Hazel calls moments like these.

I sprint past the entrance sign, two feet ahead of her, and whirl on her with a gloating, victorious smile. “I win.” I poke her side. “A little more running and a little less napping on your yoga mat, okay?”

She laughs. “Prick.”

“Sore loser.” I loop my arm around her shoulders and pull her close as we walk. I’m sweaty, she’s sweaty, but neither of us seems to care as we work to catch our breath. “It’s okay. I have longer legs.”

Her elbow digs into my side. “Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s true.” I laugh. “If you were my height, you’d probably win.”

“Next time you sleep over at my place,” she says, “I’m going to test how long you can hold your breath with a pillow over your face.”

My head tips back as I laugh and laugh. “Next time, huh?”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, still smiling. “How come we never go to your place? Is it something embarrassing?” Her expression stills. “You don’t actually have a sex doll, right?”

I snort. “No, Hartley, I don’t.” I think of my apartment—so cold and empty and soulless compared to Hartley’s cluttered, lively shoebox. “My place sucks.”

“Worse than mine?”

“Come on.” I tighten my arm around her neck, jostling her. “No place is worse than yours, baby.”

Her elbow lodges in my ribs again, and I laugh. She didn’t tell me not to call her baby, though.





“You remind me of my mom sometimes,” I tell her later as we walk home, coffees in hand, my arm back around her shoulder. She must be tired from our run because she isn’t pushing me off.

Under my arm, she stills, but she turns to me with a curious expression. My focus goes to where her hand touches my side, arm wrapped around my waist, and it’s just like that day in the forest when I was a kid, when my mom threw her arm around me and told me she loved me.

When was the last time we talked? Last Christmas, I think. She sent me an email and I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say.

God, I fucking miss her.

“She loves doing stuff like this. Running, hiking, yoga even.” I look down at Hazel and wiggle my eyebrows. She’s watching me closely. “She’d be all over your woo-woo worthy shit, Hartley.”

I wonder what my mom would think of me playing pickup games. I wonder if she ever watches my games on TV.

“Do you see her often?” Hazel asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure of what to say. “She left us.” Hazel’s gaze flares with fury and compassion, so I quickly add, “I mean, she asked me if I wanted to go with her.”

My throat’s tight as I fight to stay here with Hazel and not go back there to that house, listening as the door closes behind her.

“And I said no. She didn’t like how hard my dad pushed me at hockey. Said he was obsessed and making me obsessed.” I clear my throat. “And I wanted to make him proud, so I told her I didn’t want to go with her. They tried to do split custody but it was hard with my hockey schedule.” My chest tightens. “And I didn’t make things easy,” I admit. “When I was with her, I’d ignore her or go play hockey until it was time for bed, and eventually I told her I didn’t want to live with her anymore.”