Page 155 of The Fake Out

“Miller.” Ward’s still frowning. “You’re in pregame press tonight.”

I nod again, and he’s gone.

On the ice, I do a few laps before I head to the press station at the side of the rink.

The reporter gives me a friendly nod. “Good evening. As of this afternoon, an insider with the Vancouver Storm said the team is entertaining trade offers for you from various organizations.”

My pulse stops. I stare at the reporter, not sure if I heard right.

“And your father and agent, Rick Miller,” she adds, “confirmed the presence of these offers.”

The missed call from him. The texts blowing up my phone.

“We’ve seen a different playing style from you this season, and you’re no longer the top scorer in the league,” she continues, but I’m half listening. “How does the Storm organization feel about this when you have the highest salary in professional hockey?”

She tips the microphone to me while my world collapses.

I’m getting traded. I thought Ward was proud and all the pieces were falling into place, but now I’m being traded. I’m getting sent away from the woman I love.

She signed a studio lease; she needs to stay in Vancouver. She’s going to need me over the next year as she opens her studio. I can’t leave her.

Before our life together can truly start, it’s over. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m not leaving.”

The reporter gives me a strange frown. The decision is up to the coach and owners, not me. “Is there another organization you’re favoring?”

“No.” I shake my head, pulse hammering. “I’m not going.” My words are sharp. “I love this team, I love playing for Tate Ward, and I love my girlfriend. Her job and life are here and I’m not moving away from her.” I can feel the stubborn set of my jaw as I glare at the reporter. “I’m not leaving.”

CHAPTER78

HAZEL

I finish teaching shortlyafter nine that evening, but instead of walking home to my apartment, I head to Rory’s.

Maybe I’ll take some photos for him, I think with a coy grin. Ward has a no-phones policy in the dressing room, but Rory will see them after the game.

The night is chilly as I walk, and I’m overcome with the urge to text him. When I pull my phone out, though, a slew of messages and missed calls light up the screen.

Three from Pippa. A few from my dad. Texts from Hayden and a handful of other players and staff.

Call me, Pippa says.

“Finally,” she answers when I call.

“Tell me what the fuck is happening.”

She hesitates.

“Tell me.” People on the sidewalk flinch away from my sharp tone.

“Rory might get traded.”

I stop walking, and every muscle in my body tenses. “What?” I ask softly.

No. I heard wrong.

“Rory might get traded,” she repeats, quieter. “I’m sorry.”