Perfectly Faked (Perfect Crush #2)

1. leo

ONE

leo

December

“ F ive minutes until we line up,” I announce from the locker room, loud enough to cut through the noise of a bunch of rambunctious hockey players.

Not that anyone notices. Typical.

Tate, our resident know-it-all, is halfway through his daily TED Talk to Lucian, our captain, about some completely irrelevant fact. Brax and Vale, twin brothers and powerhouses of the team, are glued to their phones, debating hockey stats. Meanwhile, Rourke and Jaxon—whom I like as much as a dental procedure without Novocain—are planning their next round of post-game shenanigans.

I swear I’m the only one who remembers we’re playing a game tonight against our toughest opponent, the Winnipeg Wolves.

“You know what I read last night?” Tate says as he slides on his jersey. It’s not enough that I have to listen to his random facts at home, where I rent a room alongside Brax and Vale. “Frogs have to blink their eyes to swallow. It’s how they force it down.”

Lucian raises an eyebrow. “That’s unsettling . Is this why you read books, Tate? Your nightmares aren’t thrilling enough?”

“Nah, he reads books to impress the women,” Rourke answers with a grin.

“Well, it’s working,” I say. “Your random frog facts are keeping all the ladies far, far away.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Tate says defensively. “Random facts are conversation gold when you don’t know what else to say to a woman.”

Rourke slicks back his hair in the mirror, probably so he can impress the ladies with his helmet flow. “He’s not wrong. I use Tate’s facts all the time. Girls love smart guys.”

“You? Smart?” I scoff. “They really believe that?”

Rourke shrugs, unbothered. “Doesn’t matter. All I need is one of Tate’s weird facts and a smile. Then it’s game over, my friend.”

“What happens when the girl realizes you’re a fraud?” I ask.

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Rourke says proudly. “Maybe you should try it sometime, Leo. You haven’t had a date since—let me think...” He screws his face up like he’s thinking hard. “Dinosaurs roamed the earth?”

I scowl as Rourke strolls past, his talent for pushing my buttons and getting a cheap laugh on full display. He doesn’t get it—I’m not interested in dating right now, even though I could have my pick of the women waiting for autographs after the game. There was a time when I loved that pursuit, but not anymore.

The truth? I miss her. The one woman who made me work for her attention, who saw through my charm, and still managed to make me laugh like no one else.

Back in college, she ended it with a single text message. I’ve spent years trying to move on, yet every time I step onto the ice, I catch myself scanning the stands, hoping—no, wishing —that this will be the night she’ll show up.

My phone buzzes from the bench, and even before I check it, a sinking feeling hits my gut.

Tina

Did you see my message about getting together after the game?

Leo

Can’t tonight.

I chuck the phone into my bag. Out of sight, out of mind.

Vale sits next to me. “Something on your mind? Or is Rourke getting up in your business again?”

“He’s always in my business,” I mutter under my breath. “But it’s not him.” I hesitate. “It’s Tina again.”

Vale nods. He knows about Tina. My housemates—Vale, Brax, and Tate—found out when she showed up unannounced. That was fun. Nothing like introducing your estranged birth mom to your teammates over breakfast.

Years ago, Tina googled my name and found out my whereabouts when I started playing professional hockey. Over the years, we hadn’t crossed paths much, and somehow, she always managed to pop up wherever I was, like an unplanned guest at a party. When you’ve been a foster kid, nobody gives you a manual on how to deal with complicated family issues.

“You okay?” Vale asks.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though we both know that’s code for let’s not talk about it.

She won’t get in my head tonight. And neither will the memory of the one girl who could find me if she wanted to—but doesn’t.

The door of the locker room opens, and Coach steps in, causing everyone to quiet down and turn toward him for our pregame pep talk.

“Listen up, boys,” he calls. “I know tonight’s game isn’t going to be easy. The Wolves are a tough team. But so are we, especially since we don’t just play for the name on the back of our jerseys.” His eyes sweep over the room. “It’s gonna be a wild ride on the ice tonight. But I know you’ll pull through. You’ve worked hard, building something you can be proud of—a team.”

Then Coach stretches out his hand toward the center for the team huddle. One by one, we follow his lead, layering our hands in a collective stack before Lucian counts us down.

The buzz of excitement pulsates through my body. My teammates might be infuriating at times, but they’re the closest thing to family I’ve got these days.

“Go Crushers!” I yell in unison with the others.

It’s anyone’s guess what’ll happen on the ice tonight, but I know one thing—these guys have my back.

The puck slaps the wall and ricochets off, right toward me. I dig my blades into the ice and hustle after it. It’s the third period, tied 3–3 against the Wolves. These last few minutes will decide the game.

The hockey rink is the one place I can forget everything else. Out here, it’s just the puck, the ice, and my stick. No text messages from Tina, no teammates razzing me about my nonexistent dating life, no memories of Victoria wearing my jersey, cheering for me from the stands.

I skate full speed toward the loose puck, only vaguely aware of the scrape of metal blades behind me. I know who it is without looking—he’s been on my back all night. Doron Malenko, the Wolves’ top scorer, apparently has it out for me tonight.

The moment my stick touches the puck, Malenko’s blade jabs at it, trying to steal it.

“You play like my grandma,” he mutters under his breath. “And she’s blind.”

I flick the puck past him toward Tate. “Bet your grandma’s better at defense than you are.”

Malenko lunges to stop it but misses, and I chuckle under my breath.

“Now who’s the grandma?” I mutter, skating past him.

Malenko swears under his breath before he takes off after Tate with a look that makes a chill run down my spine. He’s not just trying to block the play—he’s hungry for revenge, and Tate’s his next target.

Malenko bodychecks Tate into the boards hard, his stick slamming against Tate’s ribs like a weapon.

Tate’s face twists in pain as he tries to steady himself. “Was that necessary?” Tate shoots back.

Malenko turns to me with a wicked grin. “Oops.”

He meant to do it. He freaking meant to hurt Tate to get back at me.

My fists clench around my stick as my heart hammers. Every shove, every dirty play from Malenko tonight flashes through my mind.

When my opponent skates closer, his smug look dares me to do something. “What’s the matter, Anderson? Gonna let me push your little buddy around like that?”

I watch Tate wince in pain as Malenko just laughs it off, and something inside me snaps. Right now, Malenko is messing with one of my hockey brothers, and I can’t let that slide.

The gloves come off—literally—and the crowd loses it. Hockey fans love a good fight, and this one’s been brewing all night. Malenko swings first, landing a solid punch on my lip. I taste the metallic tang of blood and get in a satisfying hit across his jaw.

My punch sends Malenko stumbling backward, making the crowd roar.

“That’s all you’ve got?” I ask.

“I’m just getting started,” he taunts, rubbing his jaw. Malenko swings and misses my face as someone grabs my arm to pull me away.

“Penalty box, Anderson. You too, Malenko,” one of the referees growls. “Now.”

I grab my stick and skate to the box, throwing it down in frustration. Great. Another game ruined by my temper.

The rest of the third period goes disastrously. After a fumbled pass from Rourke to Lucian, one of the Wolves steals the puck and slaps it into the net for the game-winning goal. Coach drops his head. Game over.

The team trudges to the locker room, where the mood is sullen. Coach walks in last, clipboard in hand, his brow etched with deep lines. He rubs the back of his neck before launching into us. “Are you professional hockey players, or was that the peewee league out there?”

No one responds. Then he looks over at me. “What were you thinking out there, Anderson?”

“He hit Tate,” I say defensively.

“And you took the bait!” Coach says. “You’re not just a winger out there—you’re supposed to be a leader. Do you think the team can afford to be this reckless in a tight game?”

I press my lips together, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. I shouldn’t have snapped, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t stand back and watch him hurt my teammate.

Coach exhales, shaking his head at me. “Meet me in my office after you’ve changed, Leo. We need to talk.”

When Coach exits the locker room, Rourke glances over at me. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Ego.”

“Rourke, shut up,” Brax mutters. “Leo doesn’t need your commentary.”

I change quickly and head to Coach’s office, already bracing for the worst. This is his first season as the Crushers’ coach, and unfortunately, our history together hasn’t put me on his good side. My only saving grace is that I’m one of his highest scorers.

Coach doesn’t look up when I knock—he’s too engrossed in a website with a list of athletes’ names.

I clear my throat. “Coach, I just want to apologize...”

“Sit down,” he interrupts, motioning to the chair across from his desk.

I sit, my stomach churning like I’m back in high school about to get grounded.

He leans on his desk, hands clasped. “We need to talk about what happened tonight. You’re one of the best players on this team. But you’ve got a problem—a big one.”

“Look, I know I messed up tonight,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”

Coach raises an eyebrow. “You’ve said that before. More than once. And yet, here we are.” He leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Your temper is a liability. It’s hurting the team, and it’s going to hurt you. That’s why I’m putting you on probation. Ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks? That’s the middle of February,” I say, my voice rising. “We’ve got a shot at playoffs this year. You bench me that long, and it’ll destroy our momentum.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “You’re our best winger and the team needs you. But this isn’t just about the game—it’s about discipline. And you clearly need to learn some. You’ve got talent, Leo, but talent only gets you so far.”

I cross my arms. “What am I supposed to do for ten weeks?”

Coach leans back and studies me. “Community service.”

I groan. “Doing what? Picking up trash at the rink?”

“No,” he says slowly. His eyes shift to his computer screen, then back to me. “I want you to find out what it’s like to work with someone who’s difficult. Someone like you.”

“Who?”

He pauses. “A figure skater.”

I scoff. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Coach says. My eyes shift over his shoulder. That’s when I notice the website behind him is a figure skating roster.

“This is ridiculous,” I say. “I’m a hockey player, not a babysitter.”

Coach lifts an eyebrow. “She’s an adult. That’s why it’s the perfect assignment.”

Great. An assignment. Which means she’ll be a pain in my butt. I don’t have time for a figure skater with an attitude.

“This is a joke, right? Why does she need me to help her?”

“Her partner is currently injured, and she needs a practice partner. Someone who skates well.” He eyes me for a beat. “And you already know her.”

My stomach drops. There’s only one person he could mean, and there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m working with her.

I shake my head, hoping this is a cruel joke. “Coach, this is a bad idea.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you work with her, or you’re off the team.”

“Fine,” I grind out. “But this is a mistake, and you know it.”

Coach gives me a look that says he’s enjoying this far too much. “Possibly. I know my daughter can be a real pain. But I think you’re just the man to handle her. After all...” He pauses, and his lips curve into a grin. “You did know Victoria pretty well back in college, didn’t you?”