Faking It with my Hockey Crush (Faking It with the Billionaires #4)

1. Ryan

1

Ryan

I haven’t been back here for years, but as my driver takes a left onto Main Street, I gaze out and notice that nothing has changed. Maple Springs is still the same old sleepy town I left behind. And when I say sleepy, I mean it’s snoring.

It’s one of those picture-postcard kinds of towns that tourists gush over. The thing is, there’s about as much action on the postcard as there is here in real life.

Nada. Zilch. Zero.

The snow is falling, and I look out at the few people making their way home at the end of the day. Even wrapped up in their winter coats, scarves, and woolly hats, they still lift their heads to look at the huge car.

I mean, it’s not every day a long black Lincoln drives through Maple Springs.

Ten minutes later, the Steele Estate comes into view. The estate my brother and I inherited from my parents after they were killed in a freak storm when they were on vacation. The house—if you can call a gigantic mansion a house—sits on a hill just on the outskirts of the town, nestled against a backdrop of towering pine trees. The estate is so vast that we even have our own small lake.

But as beautiful as it all is, I’m not happy to be back here.

Apart from the fact that my brother hates my guts, I’m here to recuperate from an injury. I glance down at the cane beside me and heave a sigh. It’s hard to describe how frustrating it is to be injured when you’re a pro ice hockey player.

The game is my life, and nothing has been more important to me. Unfortunately, it’s a rough game and comes with its setbacks. Like broken bones and torn ligaments. There’s some other stuff going on, too. Stuff I’m trying to avoid. As sleepy as Maple Springs is, it’s also the perfect place to hide away from the voracious press.

We pull up to the huge wrought iron gates, and I give the driver the code to punch into the keypad. A minute later, the gates yawn open, ironically suiting this town perfectly.

The mansion has two large wings attached to the main building, and when we finally come to a stop outside the oversized front door, the driver jumps out and makes his way to the trunk.

At the front door, I’m met by Beatrice, the housekeeper. She’s been here since before I was born.

“Oh, Mr. Steele,” she gushes, her brow furrowing as she glances at my cane. “It’s so good to have you back home, even under such awful circumstances.”

“Thanks, Beatrice.”

John, one of the other staff members, arrives beside her and quickly lifts the case the driver left at the front door.

“Your room, Mr. Steele?” he asks perfunctorily. John speaks as few words as possible, or so I’ve found, anyway.

“Sure, John. Thanks.”

With a nod, he disappears, leaving Beatrice to lead me to the living room while reporting what she’s made for dinner. I limp beside her, smiling down at her, but I’m not really listening. I’m too busy readying myself to meet my abrasive brother.

“Dinner will be served in half an hour,” she says as I reach the living room door.

“Thanks, Beatrice.”

Stepping into the room, I see Thomas standing at the mantle, a glass in hand, staring into the fire.

“So, you finally found your way home,” he snarls without turning to look at me.

“Hello to you, too, Thomas. How’ve you been?” My reply is light, my tone laced with condescending sarcasm.

“Oh, you know”—he turns to look at me—“just running the estate and dealing with your mess. Life as usual.”

I chuckle mirthlessly as I slowly make my way over to the decanters that sit on a walnut dresser. “Well, at least it keeps you busy. Wouldn’t want you to get bored, being all alone in this great big mausoleum.”

“How could I possibly be bored, Ryan? The continuous phone calls from the media keep me more than occupied.”

“Hey,” I say. Now, my glass is half full of some sweet-smelling amber liquid. “It was taken out of context. You ought to know by now that those guys don’t play fair.”

“All I know is that I’m sick and tired of cleaning up your messes,” Thomas growled. “You were always a jerk, Ryan, but when you chose fame over family, you really let your true colors show.”

Thomas didn’t wait for a reply and instead stormed out of the room.

Well, this is going to be just swell.

The following morning, after a rather wonderful night’s rest in the east wing—the opposite side of the house from Thomas—I head downstairs for breakfast. I’ll admit, I’m relieved to find I’m eating alone.

Beatrice walks in with her short, determined stride and pours the coffee.

“Thomas not up yet?” I ask.

Beatrice gives me a knowing smile. “It’s past ten o’clock, Mr. Steele. Your brother has been up for at least five hours already.”

Of course, I knew that. But when I come home, Beatrice and I always like to tease each other.

“So, where is Mr. Perfect?”

“I imagine he’s working in his office, Mr. Steele,” Beatrice replies, placing pancakes on my plate.

“Good. Hopefully he’ll stay there.”

An hour later, Steve arrives at the house to pick me up. I texted my high school buddies that I was heading home just before I left the city yesterday. Soon enough, it’ll be all over the news, and then everyone will know where I am.

“Hey, man,” Steve says, jumping out of his truck and running around the car to get the passenger door. He glances down at the cane and then grins at me. “Nice stick. You swap it out for the old one?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” I say, clambering into the passenger seat. “You’re lucky I don’t have my hockey stick, or I’d wrap it around your neck.”

Steve bursts into laughter as he slams my door closed. A second later, he’s jumping back into the driver’s seat, still grinning. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my wingman, my best friend from high school. Of course, he follows my career, but traveling so much with the team, I just don’t have time to get home very often.

Besides, he runs a haulage company, so he’s home about as often as I am. At nearly six feet, just an inch shorter than me, and broad as a house, Steve fills the driver’s seat to capacity. We were often mistaken for brothers in the old days. Tall, dark, and crazy was our reputation. But while Steve has settled for the family life, I still haven’t grown out of my craziness.

We arrive at Thompson’s, the coffee shop in town, where I’m given a huge bear hug by John, my other friend. He wasn’t my wingman, but we were, and still are, pretty close. A little shorter than me, he’s a mass of muscle, and now running the local gym.

Maple Springs never had a gym, but with John’s savvy business mind—he was always the smartest out of the three of us—he filled the demand and built one.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” a soft voice comes from behind me. “Ryan Steele. Is that you?”

I know the owner of that voice all too well, and turning, I smile at Mrs. Thompson. The old woman has been running this coffee shop since I was a kid. All the kids used to hang out here back then. Of course, we were a lot younger then, but so was Mrs. Thompson.

Even as I give the lady a hug, I swallow down the fact that her hair is far grayer. I’m also pretty sure that she’s shrunk. Or have I grown? No. I was here a few years back. It has to be the first one, surely.

“I remember when you kids came in here for milkshakes. Now look at you. All grown up.”

I refrain from telling her that we’ve all been grown up for a while, and after we sit, Steve tells me that the old doll is starting to lose it a bit.

“I bring Lily and Daniel here on the occasions I’m home, and she can’t seem to wrap her head around the fact that I’m old enough to have children.”

I’ll be honest, I find that a little sad.

There’s a barista behind the counter, a young girl whose eyes widened at the sight of me. I flash her a wide smile. Clearly, she recognizes me. Either that, or maybe she’s just smitten with my deep brown eyes. It’s the thing girls like most about me, or so a poll in Fitness Weekly said.

“So,” John says, once our coffees have been brought to the table, “what’s happening? You’re all over the news. Did you really say what they’re saying you did?” John’s looking at me with both doubt and confusion.

“You know I never would, dude. It’s been taken completely out of context. The media just wants to crucify me. Besides, drama gets them views.”

John’s known me for a long time. He also knows I would never make a racist comment, but that’s what the media is trying to portray. It’s a lie, of course, but it sells their stories, right? I mean, who actually believes the news anymore?

They’ve spent weeks examining my words, twisting them into something they were not, and while my agent has been trying his best to put out the fires, the news just keeps dousing them with fuel.

But I need to get this out of the way, for John’s sake.

“I was angry at his foul,” I explain. “He’s a dirty player and everyone knows it.”

I’m not angry at John. I’m angry that Darius Crib is lapping up being a victim and enjoying the limelight thanks to my stupidity. Do I regret what I said? Not really. I know what I meant when the words came out of my mouth. Do I wish I could curb my temper more on the ice?

Definitely.

But then, the game is my life, and I can’t tolerate cheaters.

With John appeased, even though he knows me far better than that, the conversation turns to my injury.

“How bad is it?” Steve asks.

“I’ll be out for a few months. I’m going to go mad with boredom, but it’s not worth the risk of going back before I’m healed.”

“There’s a great physiotherapist here,” John pipes up. “Kinda cute, too.” He grins.

“Not a good idea,” Steve cuts in.

“Why?” I frown.

“It’s Emma Carter,” Steve says, giving me a pointed look.

I’ll be honest, the name is kind of vague, and while Steve clearly has someone in mind, I’m struggling to put a face to the name.

I shrug. “I’ve got nothing.”

“She went to school with us,” John says.

“And you had a run-in with her in our last year,” Steve adds.

“Really?” I’m still struggling to remember her, never mind the run-in.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Steve says, his lined brow conveying his worry.

“But she’s the best,” John defends. “I go to her all the time. Her clientele list contains some of the best amateur athletes in a hundred-mile radius.”

I’ll admit, that’s pretty impressive.

Ignoring Steve’s pessimism, I nod. “Maybe I’ll look her up.”