The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(60)

The photo doesn’t even show my face, just my shoulder, the top of my cleavage, and my hair spread across the pillow, but still, it’s the sexiest picture I’ve ever taken. Hesitation rises in me, but I picture Rory’s expression when he sees the photo—a slack jaw, pupils blown wide—and I send it.

His text appears immediately. Jesus Christ, Hartley.

I bury my burning face in the pillow, smiling.





The next evening, I receive another photo.

He’s shirtless in the mirror, clad in just those tight black boxer briefs. My eyes linger on the sharp V cuts above his hips, the trickle of hair into the waistband, and the toned flex of his arms. He’s smirking like he knows how hot he is.

Heat twists low in my belly, and I head to my closet to pull out another piece of lingerie—a baby blue balconette bra with a matching lace thong and garters.

It’s just a picture, I tell myself as I set my phone up and snap the picture of my back, hair draped across my shoulder, lacy strap visible. It’s just for fun. I’m always telling my students that they deserve to feel good, so why can’t I? Sending sexy pictures to Rory and seeing his admiration of my body makes me feel hot. That’s all.

I won’t let it get away from me. I know what I’m doing.

My pulse jumps when his response arrives, and I flush with pleasure.

Holy fuck, Hartley.





CHAPTER 41





RORY





Good game tonight, Hazel texts a week later while I sit in a bar with the guys, celebrating the game. She and Pippa are on their weekend away in Whistler.

We won the game tonight four-nothing, and not a single one of those goals was mine. I smile down at my phone. A half-full beer sits on the table in front of me after Owens shoved it in my face.

One beer isn’t going to ruin my career, and it’s so good. So fucking good.

You watched my game? I reply.

Her typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I hope she’s getting flustered on the other side.

It was on in the background.

My grin widens. You watched my game.

Christ, I miss her, but the photos we’ve been sending back and forth? My cock stiffens just thinking about them. Prickly, guarded Hazel, sending me glimpses of the lingerie I bought her. Every time my phone chirps with her text tone, my balls tighten in anticipation.

I haven’t jerked off this much since I was a teenager. I scroll up to the photo she sent this morning of her cream-colored lace panties stretched over the long line of her hip, and I scrub a hand over my face.

Hazel Hartley has me under her thumb, and I love it.

Something on the TV screen behind the bar catches my eye—my dad. He’s in the studio as a guest commentator. Replays roll of the Storm game, and a familiar weight settles in my gut. They replay me passing to another forward before he snaps it into the net.

That play was everything I love about hockey—speed, skill, and luck. Teamwork, too, I guess. Fuck, that was a nice goal.

“What a waste,” the captions read as my dad talks.

Pain rips through me. I hope Hazel isn’t watching this.

“I know he’s my son, but Rory Miller is a weapon on this team, and Ward’s using him to prop up other players,” my dad continues, and my molars grind. “Ward makes Miller captain but has him passing to other players like they’re at summer camp.”

“Don’t,” Streicher mutters beside me, staring at his own phone, probably texting Pippa.

“What?”

He tips his chin at the TV before meeting my eyes with his usual serious expression. “Don’t watch that shit. It doesn’t matter what they say. They’re not on the ice with us.”

“He’s right, though.” I rub the back of my neck. “I was traded to the team to score goals and win games.”

Streicher watches me for a long moment, frowning. “Why don’t you leave that up to Ward?”

“I just want to be a good captain,” I admit to my oldest friend. I blow a long breath out. “What would you do in my position?”

He shrugs his big shoulders. “I’d do whatever Ward thought was best. I trust him.”

“Me, too.” The urge to make Ward proud fights with my need for my dad’s approval. “I don’t understand him, though.”

Streicher makes a noise that sounds like a snort. “Me neither. I think he’s got a plan, though.”

My mind wanders back to tonight during the game, after my assist. Ward met my eyes and dipped his chin in approval at me.

“How’s stuff going with Hazel?” Streicher asks.

“Good.” Really good. I think about us racing to the sign on the beach, her shoving me, and me laughing. Falling asleep beside her. Her sending me the hottest pictures I’ve ever seen in my life.

Too good, actually. Better than I ever imagined it could be. It’s not just the photos we send back and forth, and it’s not just that I jerk off daily thinking about her and only her. It’s that I think about her constantly, and I can’t wait to get home to her.

A realization looms at the edge of my consciousness. My feelings for Hazel grow every day, and I’ve never felt like this. This could all be over in a heartbeat, though. Just because I’m trying not to be like Rick Miller doesn’t mean it’s working.