Faking It 101

Chapter 1

DRIVE ME CRAZY

CLEO

ALL THIS DRIVING IN TERRIBLE WEATHER. YOU OWE ME BIG TIME NOW, NELLIE, BECKY MOORE complains as we motor through the January sleet.

Add it to the tab, I reply.

Living in a small town like St. Viola means that everything is walkable and I don’t need a car.

But small-town life also means that there are no bargains, so once a month I hitch a ride to Minneapolis and stock up at the big-box chains.

Today, I also picked up a pair of used skates, as my ancient ones were toast.

I wish women’s hockey had more sponsorships, Becks sighs.

Or rich alum, I say. Both of us play for the Monarch Minks.

As college athletes, we’re currently prohibited from taking gifts from companies, but we can accept equipment purchased through booster funds.

The NCAA rules change almost daily, but women’s hockey will be the last to benefit, given our lower popularity.

You were lucky to get skates that nice secondhand. She looks over at the skates I’m still cradling in my hands. They’re Bauers, and practically new.

If luck means combing the internet for size seven-and-a-half skates as well as calling every sports swap in the city for the past month, then yes, I’m pretty fucking lucky.

Everyone on the team has more family money than me, but I’m okay with that.

If I have to bust my ass to get new-to-me skates, I will.

It’s the same determination that got me to Monarch College and made me the captain of the team.

These babies are the nicest skates I’ve ever had.

How many extra goals do you think I’ll score now?

You’re already leading the team in scoring, so leave a few scraps for the rest of us, Becks laughs.

Mi goals es tu goals, I reply in mangled Spanish, because we usually play on the same line.

Then I attempt a little play-by-play. It’s Nelson, speeding down the left side in her new skates, she dekes the defenceman, moves in and slides a cross-crease pass to Moore.

Moore one-times it. Goal! The crowd goes wild.

I wave my hands in the air and do Kermit-style screaming.

She giggles. You’re crazy.

Guilty as charged. Oh, I love this song. I turn up the volume on her speakers and start seat-dancing to some retro Lizzo.

Becks head-nods along with me but keeps her hands locked on the steering wheel. It’s pretty shitty out there and she treasures her car, an older Subaru Forester she calls Subby.

Hey, isn’t that Roy Matsumoto? She points to a broad figure shivering in a bus shelter.

I’m closer to the sidewalk, so I can see him clearly. It is Roy Matsumoto, from the men’s team. He’s ridiculously overdressed for a random Thursday night. And why is he waiting for the bus instead of driving around in his expensive Toyota hybrid SUV?

It’s him, I confirm as we drive past.

Becks eyes her rearview mirror. Let’s swing around and see if he needs a ride.

I groan. Can we not? Please? I can’t stand him.

Cleo, are you serious right now? Mats is a really nice guy, and it’s awful weather out there. What’s your problem with him? Becks is already turning right so she can circle the block.

We have history, I say.

Oh, spill. You never hooked up with him, did you?

No way, you could never have kept that a secret.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to hit that.

He’s quiet, but that’s even hotter. I can’t stand when guys won’t shut up while you’re doing it.

They should be using their tongues in better ways, you know?

Ugh, I’ve never laid a finger on him. Gross. I shudder at the very suggestion.

I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend anyway. One of those Barbie-doll chicks.

Becks is dismissive because nobody on our team could be classified as doll-like. We’re athletes with muscles and curves, and if guys don’t appreciate that, they can fuck themselves. The fact that Matsumoto chose a stereotypical model-perfect girlfriend is one more strike against him.

He’s going out with Lana Hillier. You know, she does Monarch College social media, I say.

We both groan in understanding. Our college has social media accounts to impress parents and potential students.

Since it’s PR, only the most attractive students get that job.

Lana, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and statuesque body, looks like a quintessential Minnesotan, but she’s not even from around here.

You say you hate him, but you seem to know a lot about him, observes Becks.

Yeah, that’s because know your enemy is a battle principle.

Mats is still there, despite my prayers that he would be whisked away by a bus, a girlfriend, or, best of all, a snowplow.

We pull up to the bus stop. I lean back as Becks rolls down my window and yells over me, Hey, Mats, do you need a ride?

He comes over to the car and leans in. This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, and there are gold flecks in his thickly lashed brown eyes. I shudder and look away. This is not the kind of intel I need.

Hey, Becky, Cleo. Are you guys headed back to campus?

We sure are, Becks says. Hop in.

He climbs into the back seat. This is great, thanks so much. Let me just call Jack Sinclair, he was going to pick me up.

I watch in the rearview mirror as he fumbles to get his phone out with only one hand while keeping one arm wrapped across his chest. He’s usually irritatingly coordinated, so maybe he’s nursing an injury.

Also, close-up, he’s far from perfect—there are streaks of dirt on his black wool dress coat and dark pants. What the hell has he been doing?

Hey, Sinc, I’m getting a ride with Becky Moore and Cleo Nelson. Yeah, from the women’s team. Okay, thanks anyway.

He disconnects and leans back with a sigh. He pulls off his beanie and shakes out his black, wavy hair, then gazes out the side window with his dark eyebrows knitted and his square jaw tensed. He looks… miserable.

But what could he be unhappy about? The guy is one of the top players on the men’s team. He’s dating perfect Lana. His family is loaded, and I’m sure he’s never worn used skates in his life.

He notices me watching and his expression slips back into a neutral mask. He gives me a friendly nod, and I turn away.

See, this is the thing about my hatred for Roy Matsumoto: I’ve carefully avoided being in the same personal space as him, so he has no idea of how I feel.

I’m not really good at confrontations, so I prefer a passive-aggressive approach; one that’s apparently so passive the other person doesn’t even know.

Mew.

Both Becks and I turn our heads. Something is moving inside Mats’s wool coat.

Is that a cat? Becks asks.

Yeah, I have a kitten with me. Is that okay? I’ve got him wrapped in my scarf, so I don’t think there will be any accidents. His voice has a note of desperation I’ve never heard before, since he’s usually too cool for school.

Oh my god, cat tax! I want to see him, Becks cries. She loves cats. But who doesn’t? I also want to see the kitten, even if he’s in the clutches of the enemy.

Mats extends both hands, presenting a small black kitten atop a grey scarf. He’s skinny, with bald patches, and his eyes are crusty. But he looks like a fighter, and I’m already rooting for him.

Oh, the poor thing. My words pop out before I remember that I’m not talking to Mats.

Where did he come from? What were you doing in Minneapolis, anyway? Becks asks.

I found him in a parking garage. Poor guy was huddled beside a heating duct to keep warm. Then Mats sighs again. I’m supposed to be having dinner with my girlfriend’s parents, but then this happened.

Oh, that totally sucks, says Becks. Don’t you volunteer at a shelter in St. Viola?

Yes, that’s where this little guy will end up. But not tonight. I’ll take him home, give him a bath, and get him fed.

We can take you to the shelter if you like. No problem, Becks assures him. Awesome, then we can spend even more time with stupid Mats. My bestie needs to stop being so helpful.

It’s actually closed now, he explains. What were you guys doing in Minnie?

Picking up groceries and stuff. And Nellie’s new skates.

He leans forward to see the skates I’m still cuddling like a kid at Christmas.

Oh, Bauer Vapors. Nice, he says.

Thanks, I mumble and blush. I really need to practise my withering disdain.

So, how come your girlfriend didn’t drive you back? asks my gossipy friend.

A frown creases his too-handsome face and his dark eyebrows knit. It’s complicated. Lana wasn’t happy about me rescuing this little guy. Not that I blame her, tonight was important to her… His voice trails off.

Yeah, but you can’t just leave a kitten outside on a night like this, I blurt before my shut-up filter can turn on.

He nods emphatically. That’s what I thought too. But I’ve been told that I’m overzealous when it comes to animals.

I don’t need three guesses to figure out who told him that—his Barbie girl. That’s what he gets for dating someone that fake. This whole disaster is his own fault.

So, you guys must have had a big fight if she left you stranded, Becks speculates.

What the fuck, Becks? Is she being nosy or hitting on him?

Uh, yeah. His jaw tightens. But it’ll be fine.

Even the shameless Becks doesn’t keep asking questions after this. Instead, we start talking about the women’s hockey season. I’m surprised at how knowledgeable he is; most guys don’t pay attention to our games, and that goes double for the egomaniacs on the men’s team.

Have you guys played at Hoover yet? Becks asks. They’re renovating the dressing rooms, and it’s a shit show right now. Well, at the least the visitor room was.

We’re there next month. I’ll warn Coach, he says.

When I look over my shoulder, the kitten is curled up in Mats’s lap and fast asleep. He can’t be more than a month old and looks tiny next to Mats’s large hands.

He notices me staring. Would you be interested in adopting her? His voice is deep and chocolatey, but I’m not falling for his bullshit. Everyone thinks Roy is such a nice guy, but I know the truth.

Her? I thought you said he was a male? Becks says.

The truth is that I have no idea. He lifts the little stick of a tail. If he is a male, then it’s not obvious.

Mats is trying to suck us in. We’re female, so he thinks we’ll be all female solidarity, I say.

Becks laughs. Really? Wouldn’t a male be better, then? Some poor victim we could train and boss around.

He laughs. Good luck training cats. We have one, and she rules the place.

I’m surprised that there’s a cat in his hockey house. It’s an element of homeyness that’s unexpected. Usually, those places are all testosterone, with uncleaned bathrooms and notched bedposts.

What’s your cat’s name? asks Becks.

It’s Neko. Probably the lamest name ever. It means cat in Japanese.

Mats is half-Japanese. He has dark hair and eyes, but a squared jaw and defined cheekbones that look almost Scandinavian.

Sure, he’s good-looking, but he’s too aware of his appearance.

Fancy clothes, hair product, and once his girlfriend posted a photo of the two of them doing sheet masks.

What kind of hockey player does shit like that?

That gives me an idea. I sneak out my phone and check Lana Hillier’s Insta. Holy shit. She’s already gotten rid of all her photos with Mats! Whatever he might think, they’re done-zo.

Meanwhile, Becks is still talking about cats.

Having a cat would be fun, but Woolly might have allergies. We’d have to ask everyone first. There’s five of us in our house.

Same as our place, says Roy, as if the whole campus doesn’t already know that half the men’s team lives in three houses on the main street of St. Viola. It’s like they’re freaking celebrities. I can’t deal.

How’s your brother’s hockey going? Becks asks, since Mats’s other claim to fame is that his brother plays in the NHL.

Adrian’s doing great. He got called up from the AHL just before Christmas and it seems like he’s going to stick this time.

Amazing. He’s living the dream, right? She turns to me. You okay?

Yes? Why are you asking? And in front of the last person I’d ever reveal anything personal.

I don’t know. Because you’re a non-stop talking, moving machine, and you’ve been so quiet. She looks in the rearview mirror at Mats. Our deal is that I drive and Nellie keeps me entertained.

I’ve always thought that Cleo was on the quiet side. One of those lead-by-example captains, he says.

Colour me shocked that he has an opinion of me at all. But I’m never myself in front of him, so it makes sense that he’s all wrong.

Becks laughs her head off at his comment. Nellie? The only time she’s quiet is when she’s asleep. And even then, she snores so loudly that nobody wants to room with her if we have a roadie.

Jesus, Becks! If she wasn’t driving, I would have killed her by now. Although maybe I could strangle her, push her out of the car, and take over the wheel myself, Fast and Furious–style. Nah, it’s easier to toss Mats from the car at sixty miles per hour, and he’s my preferred murder victim anyway.

Luckily, I can see the exit for St. Viola coming up. Soon, Mats will be out of the car—and out of my life—for good.