The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(59)

My lungs expand, filling every corner of my chest, and I grin like a fool at my phone.





The next afternoon, I’m on the plane with the rest of the team, waiting for takeoff and debating whether to send Hazel the shirtless photo I took this morning.

I read over our text conversation and her response to the picture I sent last night, and hot possessiveness courses through me at the idea of her staring at my picture, getting turned on.

Ward claps me on the shoulder as he walks past my seat, and I slip my phone away.

“Nice work out there tonight, Miller,” he says with a nod and a quiet smile, and I straighten up. On his phone beside me, Streicher pauses, listening.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” His eyebrows bob before he keeps walking, and I watch his tall form disappear down the aisle.

Every game, my dad’s voice gets quieter. Instead, I picture Hazel giving me that proud smile. During games, I look to Ward on the bench, and when I pass the puck and help the other guys score, he always wears the same stoic expression, eyes glinting like he’s pleased.

“You weren’t in the gym this morning,” Streicher says from the seat beside me.

“Uh, yeah. I went for a run around the waterfront instead.”

He frowns. It’s unusual for me to skip a workout. “Why?”

I run a hand through my hair. I woke up to an incoming call from my dad but let it go to voicemail. I still haven’t checked it. “Hazel makes me go for runs sometimes with her and it’s, uh.” I shrug. “Nice. To not think about hockey all the time.” I swallow. “And just talk and stuff.”

He stares at me. “You miss her.”

I think back to the past few days, how often I wonder about her or have the urge to text her. How I can’t wait to see her again. “Yeah. I do.”

Streicher turns back to his phone, and I read over my conversation with Hazel. Before I think too hard about it, I send her the photo I snapped this morning, lying in bed with the light streaming in.

Stop teasing me, she texts a moment later, and I burst out laughing. Players look over and I clear my throat, stifling my laughter.

Your turn, I respond, grinning like a dumbass.

A photo pops up—she’s in her apartment, sitting on her yoga mat with her feet together, stretching, full lips curving up. She’s wearing a loose sweater and leggings, silky hair up in a ponytail, and no makeup.

My heart skips a beat. She’s gorgeous.

Not what I had in mind but still cute as hell.

I study the photo, desperate for any scrap of Hazel I can get. The dragon I gave her sits on her nightstand now. Does that mean she misses me, too? Her bed looks huge and comfy and I cannot fucking wait to get back to her and flop down on it.

My eyes land on Hazel again. The shoulder of her loose sweater has slipped aside while she stretched, revealing a pale purple strap.

The pale purple strap of one of the pieces of lingerie I bought her. Proud male satisfaction charges through my veins.

Hartley, are you wearing one of the lacy things I bought you?

Her response is immediate. Yes.





CHAPTER 40





HAZEL





I’m playing with fire.

I needed to make sure it fit, I text like a dirty little liar, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the bed.

First, it was the photo the other night of him in front of the mirror, looking smug and ripped and fuckable. I thought about that picture all goddamned day. I thought about it when I woke up this morning, aching between my legs, at work when I was trying to focus, and this evening during his game.

This fake dating thing? I suck at it, and my one-time-only rule? This is pushing it.

I’m not breaking the rule, though. I’m bending it. A shirtless picture of him isn’t sex. Wearing pretty lingerie isn’t sex. It’s fine.

I pull up the photo he just sent. He must have taken it this morning, because in the picture, he’s lying in a hotel bed, hair messy and eyes sleepy. The morning light makes his eyes glow, and he smirks like he knows I’ve been thinking about him. The sheets are rumpled, and I can practically hear the groan he’d make stretching out against them.

Pictures like this, where he looks intensely hot? They’re dangerous. I can’t look at them, but I can’t look away, either. Deep inside me, it feels like a new version of myself is waking up.

And does it fit? he asks.

Yes.

Prove it.

My eyes go wide and a thrill shoots through me. He wants another? No way.

Why are you wearing it?

I already told you. Plus it’s pretty. And I feel hot in it.

It’s not just that, though. I miss him. When I wear the stuff he selected, I feel closer to Rory.

I don’t know what to do about that, and I don’t know how it fits into this fake dating thing we’re doing or the one-time-only rule I have for myself.

Please, Hartley. Please send a picture. I’m begging here. Show me.

My breath catches, turning ragged, and heat spreads up my chest and neck. I’m quickly losing control of this situation, but the desperation in his texts melts my resolve.

A photo isn’t fucking. I’m still in control. We’re just playing around.

I let out a delirious laugh. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I pull my sweater off and lie down on the bed, heart pounding as I open my camera app and lift the phone.