Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

I’m five minutes from class when my sister’s name lights up my phone. I’d ignore it, but that won’t discourage her. She’ll just call back.

“Hey—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?” I ask, keeping my voice low. I’ve already had more than my share of attention today as I walked across campus. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw the picture of you and Reese Cain floating around.”

I stop abruptly, apparently right in front of another student who mutters, “Watch it,” as he dodges me.

“Sorry!” I move to a bench outside the Arts and Sciences building. “Where did you see this?”

“I follow the College Mail page. It was on their daily wrap up.”

“Oh no.” My skin gets hot. I obviously knew people on campus would see it, or maybe some of Reese’s hockey fans, but a major college gossip site? This blew up more than I thought. “It was nothing,” I say, using the same excuse I gave Nadia. “We were just messing around. Joking around.”

“Please,” she dismisses me. “You, of all people, don’t mess around with hot, superstar hockey players.”

“Sure I do!” Although we both know it’s a lie. “I have a sense of humor. I have friends.”

What I really have, if Reese was serious last night, is a hot, superstar hockey player fake boyfriend.

That part I keep to myself. Ruby would never understand. And worse— “Just don’t say anything to Mom, okay? She’ll get the wrong idea.”

“Oh, I won’t. She’d probably drive down there to see it herself.” She laughs, but we both know it’s not a stretch. “I’m just kidding anyway. Reese Cain is wayyy out of your league. Obviously, it’s nothing serious.”

Am I offended? Yes. Do I say anything? No. Why? Because I never do. I let that little jab pass and take the opportunity to move on.

“How are you?” I ask, changing the subject to Ruby’s favorite subject: herself. “How’s the job?”

My sister is two years older than me and graduated from State in the spring with a degree in education. It’s her first year teaching fourth grade.

“It’s good. The kids are fine, although their parents are a pain in the ass.”

I laugh. “I bet.”

Ruby’s love of bossing people around seems to make her a pretty good teacher. The kids love her, and she has a lot of enthusiasm, but I can see her struggling with demanding parents.

“I’m glad things are going well, but,” I say, standing up, “I need to get into class. Seriously though—don’t tell Mom about the picture.”

“I won’t,” she promises, but we’ll see. Secrets are never kept long between those two. We all get along, but I was always closer to my dad.

I walk into my History of Rock Music class and find Nadia saving me a seat. Although we’re in different majors, we both needed a humanities class this semester and lucked into a spot in the popular class.

My dad loved music. Rock, country, blues, annoying stuff with horns that my mom always called “marching band music” but is really just something called Ska. He tried his hardest to influence me and Ruby with his eclectic taste in music and to be fair, I resisted it for a long time. But now that he’s gone, taking this class seemed like the perfect homage.

“Hey,” I say, taking off my backpack and sitting next to her near the middle of the room. The class is held in an auditorium with stadium seating. Professor Kent often shows videos of the musicians we’re studying on the screen behind the podium.

“Hey, you’ll never believe what happened,” she says, eyes wide when she looks up from her phone. “Oh my God, your hair looks amazing.”

I wore it down and have regretted it every step across campus. It feels hot and heavy on my neck and now Nadia’s attention makes me feel more self-conscious. I swallow some of that back and manage, “Thank you. Now, tell me what happened and please don’t let it be about the photo of me and Reese going viral.” I take out my laptop. “Because I heard.”

“Nope. That’s old news.” She grins in a way that tells me it’s not old news, but she’s moving on. “Reid and I have been texting a little, and last night he asked if I wanted to go out tonight.”

“Oh,” I feign surprise. “Like a real date?”

“A hang out maybe?”

“But just with him?” I push, resting my elbow on the little desk and facing her. She nods. “Where are you going?”

“I suggested the Badger Den.”

The Badger Den is a bar—more specifically—a hockey bar. “Hmm. Does that really count as a date if you go to a bar with all his friends?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’m the one that suggested it.”

I’m not exactly surprised. Nadia doesn’t know how to date any more than I do. She just hooks up and I just… well, do nothing.

Professor Kent steps up to the podium and the class quiets, which allows me to distract myself from the guilt I’m feeling over not telling her that I orchestrated the whole thing. It’s not like me to meddle, but I just want her to be safe and happy.

As Professor Kent starts a new video about the evolution of rock music from southern spirituals, I have no idea how I’m going to explain to her what’s going on with me and Reese. I’d been pretty adamant that the intimacy in the photograph wasn’t real, yet now that’s exactly what Reese wants me to pretend is happening. Do I tell Nadia it’s fake? What are the rules around this? The more I think about it, the more anxious I get and the more this seems like a terrible idea.

There was no morning skate today, so I haven’t seen or heard from Reese yet. I’m not convinced he wasn’t drunk or something when he made the proposition. It’s completely possible he’s changed his mind since last night.

Except, when we walk out of the class an hour later, I spot Reese’s massive frame leaning against the wall across from the hall. His gray eyes are pinned on me, and his lips are curved in a sexy smirk.

Have mercy.

I have a strong suspicion he hasn’t changed his mind.

“Hey,” I say, nudging Nadia toward the main entrance. “I’m, uh, going to stop in the bathroom, but I know you’ve got a hike to get to your next class. You don’t need to wait.”

Normally we walk across campus together before splitting off. She has a class in the business school, and I have to set up for afternoon practice at the rink.

“Are you sure?” she asks, hitching her bag over her shoulder.

“Totally.”

She smiles gratefully. “Okay, cool. I can tell Professor Walker is kind of done with me dragging my ass in late every week.”

“Go!” I push her playfully, telling her I’ll see her at home later. Once she’s out of sight, I linger in front of the women’s room door for a minute longer before taking a deep breath and turning to face him. I know he’s still there. I can sense him. Reese has that kind of presence. Big and commanding. When I finally get the courage to make eye contact, I know one thing for sure: Ruby’s right. This guy is completely out of my league.

My palms start to sweat as he pushes off the wall and crosses the hallway.

“How did you find me?” I ask, well aware of everyone watching him approach me. How many have seen that photo?

“I asked around.” His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. The action has me mesmerized, propelling the memory of our kiss to the forefront of my mind, and all those feelings rush back to me. Which is why I’m not prepared for the kiss he plants on my cheek, or the way he takes the backpack off my shoulder in one seamless move.

“You don’t have to do that.” Meaning both the kiss and the backpack.

“Sure I do,” he slings my bag over his broad shoulder, on top of the one he’s already carrying, “girlfriend.”

I take a deep breath and exhale. “So you’re serious about this.”

“Dead serious.”

The back of his hand brushes against mine and he tries to hold it. I shift nervously, stuffing my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie. He adjusts by laying his arm over my shoulder. Oh god.

“This is weird,” I say quietly, as he holds the door for us to walk outside. Two girls stare up at him with dumb grins on their faces.

“It’s not weird,” he says, trying to assure me. But it doesn’t work. Every eye on campus follows us as we walk across the quad. I’d like to say they’re just looking at Reese, but I feel their eyes shift from him, down his muscular arm, to me. That’s when their expression turns from awe to incredulous gaping.

“People are watching.”

He chuckles darkly. “Welcome to my world.”

“Jesus,” this time it’s a group of guys swooning over Reese as we walk by, “no wonder your ego is so fucking big.”

“It’s not just my ego that’s big, Twy.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

I stop and crane my neck to look up at him. “Did you seriously just say that?”

This time his laughter is more genuine, and the action lights up his face. “Just trying to break the tension.” He tilts his head. “Did it work?”

“No.”

In fact, it made it worse. Now I’m thinking about how big he is—everywhere—and another thought comes to mind. Does he expect us to experience that firsthand? Like how far does being Reese Cain’s fake girlfriend go? What are the expectations?

Oh, God. I can’t breathe.

“I can’t do this,” I blurt, ducking out from under his arm. “Sorry, I just—”

I don’t finish the sentence, bolting across campus toward the training center. There’s a short cut by the agricultural building, and I take it, hoping Reese doesn’t see me. He hasn’t caught up to me by the time I enter the building, and thankfully the locker room is quiet. Coach Green is in a private therapy session with one of the players down the hall. I exhale, feeling settled for the first time all day.

This… this makes sense to me. The smelly locker room. The laundry running down the hall with the guy’s clean uniforms. The lingering scent of antiseptic and bleach. I first joined the sports training team at my high school on a whim. I was new to the school and a girl I’d become friendly with suggested it. Before that it’d never been on my radar, but there’s something about working with the team that came naturally. Probably because here I’m behind the scenes, not on the field–or ice–as the case may be.

Grabbing the clipboard with the list of jobs Coach Green leaves out for me every day, I skim the list.

First up: Organize supply closet.

Perfect.

I’m in the middle of sorting the bandages by size when the door opens behind me. Looking over my shoulder I see Reese as he enters. His cheeks are pink and he’s breathing heavy.

He tosses my backpack at my feet.

I frown. “What’s wrong with you?

“After you ran off, I jogged to three different places on campus before I realized you’d probably come here.” Sweat soaks through the collar of his gray T-shirt. “I’m going to need to put a fucking tracker on you.”

I still can’t tell when he’s joking or not, and that’s half the problem.

“Thank you for bringing back my bag.” I push it aside with my foot. “But, I’m serious. I can’t do this. I’m not the right girl for this job. In fact, I’m not just unqualified, I’m completely underqualified.”

He glances into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. “I think you’re overestimating what it takes to be my fake girlfriend.”

“I think you’re overestimating my ability to pretend to be a functional person, much less a girlfriend.” I inhale, feeling my cheeks turning red before I even speak. “I told you I had a boyfriend before. He wasn’t a great guy, and it took me a long time to accept that how he treated me wasn’t my fault. But it also took me a long time to really establish boundaries with myself and the people I surround myself with. I feel like getting into this situation isn’t sticking to the rules I’ve set up for myself.”

“So that’s why you put up that shield.”

“What?”

“You have this tough exterior—almost like armor. I’ve seen it fall a few times,” he reaches out and brushes a lock of my bangs aside, “and it’s like you become a different person.”

Hearing Reese say this is both uncomfortable and exhilarating. It’s why he makes me nervous. He sees me.

“I really think we can both benefit from this, Twyler. You need to build up your confidence and learn to handle social pressures. I can help you do that.”

I start to roll my eyes at his egotism, and he shakes his head.

“I’m used to being the center of attention.” His massive arms cross over his chest. “People looking and talking about me is just part of the position–I’m not just a hockey player, I’m a product. But because of that, I can help you elevate your status so that you can get what you want.”

“I’m not interested in being a social climber.”

“I know, but you do want to change your image, right? A boyfriend, maybe.”

That’s exactly what I’m looking for. There’s no doubt I could use his help–any help–but I’m struggling to understand why he really needs me.

“Is Shanna really a problem for you?”

“You don’t know how determined she can be.” The lines around his eyes tense. “She thought I would cave to her demands, and when I didn’t, she had to reassess.”

“Why not another girl? There are plenty around.”

“Shanna won’t back off over a basic puck bunny, but you’re a real girl, with a real understanding of what my obligations are to the team. I also don’t have to worry about you catching feelings.” He winks. “You’ve made it pretty clear that you’re not into jocks.”

Butterflies race through me and that should be warning enough to back out of this now. But against my better judgment, I say, “If you’re really serious about this, I think we need to establish some parameters.”

His eyes light up, knowing he’s got me, but he asks, “What are you thinking?’

“No other women,” I say.

He nods. “Or guys for you.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but my two-year dry spell predicts that won’t be a problem.”

“Maybe, but once the male population on campus sees you with me, you’re going to be swatting them away like flies.”

“So vain,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “This can’t affect my internship. I worked too hard to get here and really need Coach Green’s reference. That means we keep this professional during practices and games.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need the distraction either.”

“And no more kissing without notice and consent,” I shift uneasily, feeling like this is where it’s going to get tricky. “In general, I’m not really into PDA.”

He rubs his jaw, but I don’t miss the way his eyes drop to my mouth. “Define PDA.”

“Kissing, hand-holding, groping, sitting on each other in public—”

“Sunshine, come on—”

“Pet names,” I add. “No pet names. Especially that one.”

He’s been calling me Sunshine since last year–no doubt because of my lack of sunny disposition. He thinks it’s cute. I think it’s annoying as fuck.

“Twyler,” he says, over exaggerating my name, “you’re going to need to compromise on this a little if we’re going to make it believable. Not just for Shanna, but everyone else.”

“Should I bring over a box of condoms and Plan B for you to spread around?” I ask. “Will that make it believable?”

He winces and shakes his head. “Fuck. I deserve that.”

I shrug. “I work in a locker room. I’ve heard worse.”

“Hey,” he takes a step toward me, close enough I catch his scent; detergent and sweat–mixed with something intoxicatingly manly. “We’ll take this super slow. Nothing you’re uncomfortable with.”

“Okay.”

He closes the distance and takes my small hand in his massive one. Gently, he splays my fingers and links his with mine. “How about this? Yes or no?”

Warmth spreads up my arm–and I look past his broad chest to his gorgeous face. I swallow thickly. “Yes.”

With his other hand he runs his fingers down my jaw. A shiver runs through my body, pebbling my skin—my nipples. God, he’s good at this, I think, until he drops his hand to my neck and my spine straightens, and I squirm away.

“I don’t like that.”

 “No?” he frowns, eyes narrowing in concern. He’s probably reconsidering, realizing that I may break, but I won’t. I never do. But I’ve spent a long time learning about setting boundaries and if we’re really going through with this charade, Reese is right. I need to use it as a learning experience.

I take our linked fingers and place his hand on my hip, letting it rest there. His other hand moves back to my hair, pushing it behind my ear, then trailing down my jaw.

“I like your hair like this.” His fingers splay behind my head. “It’s kind of wild and uncontrollable. A little bit like you.”

His neck tilts and I know what to expect now. Or I think I do. His lips brush against mine, soft and sweet, a small kiss, before he pulls back, tongue darting out like he’s tasting me on his mouth.

“We’ll keep it simple for now.”

Easier said than done, I think, feeling the intense heat from his gaze. Reese Cain doesn’t have an off switch. That may feel easy to him, but my entire body reacts in a way that is decidedly not simple. My lips burn from that barely-there kiss, and I swallow back the desire to make things complicated.

“Do you have any rules or expectations?” I ask, stepping back to put a little distance between us. His hand remains on my hip, fingers applying the slightest pressure to hold me in place.

Possessive.

“You’re off the hook for coming to games,” his lip quirks, “but we’ll need to go to a few parties together. Hang out with the guys or your friends.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

I think.

“Then there’s the athletic department alumni fundraiser. The guys usually bring dates.”

“That feels like a work/dating conflict, don’t you think?”

His gray eyes hold mine, like he’s considering it, but ultimately he says, “How about we play that one by ear?”

Preseason games start this weekend, and then the fundraiser kicks off the season at the end of the month. Do I really think Reese will still want to keep this up?

“But first,” he says, “come to the Badger Den with me tonight. Everyone will be there.”

“That’s not the selling point you think it is.”

He laughs, squeezing my hip. “The earlier we rip this Band-Aid off the better.”

He’s right. Dammit. “Reid and Nadia are going to be there tonight.”

“Good. We’ll come out to the team and your friend all at once.”

The thought is terrifying, but I know this needs to happen. Something in my life has to change. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Not a chance.” He shakes his head. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Reese doesn’t give me an opportunity to push back. He presses a fast kiss to my forehead and exits the closet, leaving me, my pounding heart and burning lips, to process the fact that I officially just agreed to be Reese Cain’s girlfriend.