The Fake WIfe Playbook (Maine Maulers Hockey #9)

Chapter 1

KATE

LETTING GO

“This small town don’t build my dreams/Just keeps ‘em locked up tight/With every pretty little picket fence/Sayin’ ‘Girl, don’t reach too high.” Kate Riggs

Sometimes I think I learned how to lie by watching my mother. She’s the queen of pretending—pretending we aren’t poor, pretending love shows up in a rusted-out pickup truck every other Friday, pretending a man’s hands mean more than the bruises they leave.

Back in Pine Hollow, Tennessee, it doesn’t take much to survive.

A gas station coffee, a man with a working truck and a full wallet, and just enough lies to carry you through church on Sunday.

Mama had all three. Still does, I bet. She stands behind that counter like it’s a stage, her lip gloss is too bright, her smile too eager.

Every man who walks in smelling like diesel and disappointment gets a once-over.

She's not looking for love. She's looking for a way to afford propane and stay warm through winter.

I used to hate her for that.

She told me once, “Men don’t stay unless they get something for it. So make sure you give ’em a reason.” I was twelve. I nodded like I understood. I didn’t. Not then.

But I learned. Watching Mamma dress up and change her life around every man who had more than her was her plan. The only problem is that the men never lasted long. The men who blew through town were only using her. As soon as their plane left town, she never heard from them again.

I remember lying awake at night, counting the squeaks of her mattress through the paper-thin walls, listening to strangers unzip their jeans like it was the soundtrack of our house.

Nobody ever stayed until morning. There was just a trail of muddy boots and the smell of cheap beer lingering in the hallway.

In the morning, she’d hum while making biscuits and gravy, smoking her cigarette, and flipping bacon like she wasn’t swallowing regret with every sip of her coffee. She never talked about them. It was like they were ghosts that just happened to bang her in the dark.

I tell myself I’m not her.

I don’t sleep with men for survival. I don’t trade my body for bills.

I play the game, but I’ve sharpened it into a strategy.

Never trust a man. I sell the fantasy, the allure of something more, but the bed stays cold.

That’s the difference between Mamma and me.

And that’s what I cling to like a prayer I don’t believe in, but I still need.

I want independence. I want a life out of Pine Hollow. To me, real success means never needing a man to pay the bills.

We’re similar, Mamma and me. But I think my brown eyes are filled with possibilities, and my mama’s are filled with regrets she never visits.

Still, I catch her in me. When I look in the mirror and tilt my chin just right, I have her smile.

Mamma smiles too sweetly when a man stares too long.

She sees opportunity, but I’m not that hopeful.

I size a man up before he opens his mouth.

It’s a reflex, but it’s become a learned behavior ever since Wade broke my heart in high school.

I promised myself that I’d never trust a man again. Who can trust the quarterback of the high school football team anyway? Athletes weren’t in my wheelhouse. Suffice it to say, I learned my lesson.

Tennessee is full of heartbreak and honeysuckle. The waterfalls are the only pure thing I know. I used to hike out to Pine Gorge, just to sit and listen to the water crash hard enough to drown out everything else—the moans, the lies, and the quiet shame of living in a trailer park.

Mamma’s probably going to spend the rest of her life using the checkout lane to lure every available man. Same register. Same lipstick. Still waiting on the next man with a steady paycheck and nothing to lose to walk by her. I should resent her. Maybe I do, sometimes.

But mostly, I understand her. She did what she had to do.

But I’m determined to make a living by doing what I want. It’s not easy, but the struggle is mine, and I’m not going to sacrifice it over a cheap pickup line or a pretty face.

I’ve always loved music. It’s in my soul, and the words to songs flow out of me like that waterfall. But I’ve only known one heartache, and I don’t want another one.

Wade is a reason to remain single. He was a star in our tiny town, all smiles for the cameras. But he wasn’t as nice when the lights dimmed. After him, I promised myself I’d never date another asshole. I’ve given up on love.

The only problem is that I’m pretty much celibate, because good men are few and far between.

I wish I had a man worthy of my love. But if wishes were dreams, we’d all be happy.

The only problem is—I don’t know what happiness looks like.

I never left Tennessee until someone else bought me a ticket. It was all hope and prayers until I landed an agent.

No lie—I was twenty-two the first time I got on a plane.

I had a duffel bag full of Goodwill outfits, a cheap blowout from the only salon in town, and a sinking feeling that maybe I’d made a mistake.

The guy who picked me up at the airport had teeth that were too white and shoes that were too clean.

He called himself my agent. He said I had “that spark.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I nodded like I did.

He wasn’t even my real agent. Just one of those hustlers who take risks on the girls nobody bets on. I fell between the in-betweeners—the almost-somebodies, and those that never make it that far.

I am an in-betweener because people like me don’t become stars.

Back in Pine Hollow, the only thing that gets picked is whose turn it is to get laid off next. The idea of being seen, really seen, was so foreign it felt dangerous. But I wanted it even if I didn’t know what to do with it.

Now I’m in Vegas, and I’m drowning in lights. This is the largest city I’ve ever walked through.

Everything here is loud—neon, noise, and nervous energy. Even the air is cocky. I hear they pipe in oxygen into the hotels. Why anyone would spend money on that when it’s free is beyond me. But it fits this city, because it costs just to breathe here.

I keep staring at billboards that are so tall I’m afraid they’ll fall and crush me. Every woman is gorgeous, every man smells expensive. I pass strangers on the Strip who look like they were born to belong. I try to walk like I do, but I don’t fit in, even on my best day.

The truth is, I still don’t know where I fit.

I feel inadequate no matter what I wear. Deep down, I just don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough to make it. After months on a tour bus and traveling from town to town, these accommodations are a welcome luxury.

I’ve never been in a room like this. It’s a suite that has plush carpet and a view that looks fake. One night here costs more than a month’s rent back home. There’s a velvet couch no one sits on and a minibar I’m afraid to touch.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes trying to decide if my lipstick says “effortless” or “trying too hard.”

My new agent, Henry, tells me I’m moving up. That I’m building “a look.” A brand. I nod like I get it. I’m getting good at that—pretending I’m ahead of the game instead of sprinting to keep up.

But sometimes, when I’m alone and the city goes quiet for half a second, I feel like I’m twelve again.

I’m sitting on the edge of my twin bed in a double-wide that smells like grease and regret, watching my mom spray hairspray like it was free.

She used to say, “You don’t need a map if you can smile your way through the room. ”

So I smile even when Vegas feels like it’s swallowing me whole. Even when the glitter is the only thing that looks familiar to me. I even smile when I’m scared, and I keep walking because I didn’t come all this way just to be invisible. To move up in the world, I have to be seen.

But I’m not used to anyone seeing me. The real me, the me that’s afraid to meet Mamma’s new boyfriend. The me that’s afraid to put on a sequined outfit that shows more of me than I’m comfortable sharing.

I look out my hotel window, mesmerized by the twinkling lights that rival meteor showers. I’ve never opened for someone as big as Rose Maghee.

She’s talented. Famous. Gorgeous.

Me? Decidedly not gorgeous. Not famous. But I think I have talent, so I continue on this difficult path.

If it were easy, everyone would be doing it, is what my manager says.

And he’s right. Being creative and competing against everyone trying to make it big like me, it’s tough.

I worry I’ll never make it, but today is better than yesterday, and as long as I can pay my bills, I’ll continue. This is what I was born to do.

As much as I fuss with my makeup and watch YouTube videos, my smoky eyes look more like a raccoon’s as he’s caught escaping from a dumpster. I’m nothing special to look at, really.

My body resembles that of a young teenager, not a woman. God gave me a great voice, but I fell short in terms of looks.

But Rose? She’s my idol. She’s a small-town girl who made it big. And I want to be like her.

Of course, every story has a villain, and she had hers. It started when her ex-boyfriend stole her song and tried to pass it off as his. Luckily, she had copyrighted it, and it all worked out.

She even married the Maine Megaladons’ quarterback, and she looks happy.

I want that. Happiness.

I want a man who looks at me the way Travis looks at her.

He’s smitten. He’s in love. He’s totally enthralled with her and every word she says.

Some might say he’s pussy whipped, but I see a man in love.

But no matter what I wish for, I’m petrified I’ll screw up.

Like tonight. It’s the largest venue I’ve ever played. I decided that I am either going to puke or pass out.

Pacing across the hotel room floor barefoot, I kept staring at my guitar case, like it might offer backup vocals or moral support. It doesn’t. It leans against the closet, as if to say, “You’re the one who signed up for this.”

Thirty-four floors below, Vegas sparkles like a childhood dream. But the real show, my show, is just hours away, and I can’t stop picturing every single way I could blow it.

“I think I might actually die,” I groan and drop onto the arm of the chair.

“Could you die after the set?” Shay, my best friend and unofficial hype woman, doesn’t even look up from where she lies across the bed in a fluffy white robe.

“Because if you’re gonna flatline, I’d really rather it not happen before you walk onstage in front of thousands of people who’ve never heard of Kate Riggs but are about to lose their damn minds over her. ”

She always knows how to cheer me up.

“I’m opening for Rose Maghee, Shay. Rose freaking Maghee. Hell, she sells out every stadium.”

“You’re not some nobody, you’re Kate. You’ve got a voice that makes people shut up and feel things. You’ve earned this.”

I swallow. My mouth tastes like dry popcorn. “I’ve never played for a crowd this big. What if I screw it up? What if I forget my lyrics? What if I trip over a chord and flash the entire front row?”

Shay smirks. “Then you go viral for the most badass recovery in live music history. And maybe you’ll get invited to do a collab with Lizzo.”

A shaky laugh escapes me.

Still, I can’t ignore the gnawing inside me—the part that remembers every no, door that never opened, and every half-chance that fizzled into nothing. This gig isn’t just a step forward. It is a cliff jump—a make-or-break moment disguised as a fifteen-minute set.

I check the time on my phone for the fifth time in three minutes.

Shay sits up and starts ticking things off with her fingers.

“Guitar?”

“Packed.”

“Setlist?”

“Printed. Double copies.”

“Backup earrings?”

I shoot her a look.

“What? It’s Vegas. Rose has three platinum albums and an engagement ring that can be seen from Mars, and she has the shiny band that matches. The least you can do is sparkle a little.”

I snort. But it works—the nerves don’t vanish, but they break just enough to let the adrenaline through.

“Come on,” she says, swinging her legs off the bed. “Let’s go make history.”

I grab my guitar and stand.

One night.

One shot.

One version of my life I’m not willing to let slip by.

All I can do is my best. I hope it’s good enough.