CHAPTER 4 ~ FAKING IT

​It was Miller. He was right behind me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He didn't even have his helmet off yet.

Behind him, the rest of the team was filtering in, the usual post-win energy replaced by an awkward, heavy tension.

​"Don't," I snapped, my voice cracking. I sat down on the bench and started fumbling with my skates, my fingers shaking so badly I couldn't get a grip on the laces.

"Just... don't say a word, Miller."

​"Dude, you just sucked face with Rossi. At center ice. In front of the scouts. In front of—"

​"I know what I did!" I roared, standing up so fast the bench creaked.

​The locker room went dead silent. Twenty-five guys, all mid-strip, froze. Some were staring at their feet; others were looking at me like I was a ticking bomb.

​"I was making a point," I muttered, though even to my own ears, it sounded like a pathetic excuse.

"He was chirping. Chloe and Liam were watching. I... I lost my head."

​"You lost your head and found his tongue, apparently," someone muttered from the back.

A few guys stifled coughs that sounded suspiciously like laughs.

​"Enough!"

​The voice belonged to Coach Gregory.

He walked into the room, stomping in actually.

His face wasn't purple anymore; it was a pale, dangerous grey. He didn't look at anyone else. His eyes were locked on me, and for the first time in three years, I was actually afraid of the man.

​"Thorne. My office. Now."

​"Coach, I—"

​"Now!" He barked, turning on his heel and slamming his office door behind him.

​I felt the weight of every gaze in that room as I stood up. My legs felt like jelly. I walked toward the office, the click of my skates on the floor sounding like a countdown.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

​The office was small, cramped, and smelled of old coffee and cigars. Coach was sitting behind his desk, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.

​

"Sit," he commanded.

​I sat. The plastic chair felt flimsy under my weight.

​"Do you want to tell me what that was?" Coach asked, his voice deceptively quiet.

"Because from where I was standing, it looked like my star defenseman decided to start a romance with the Rebels' leading scorer in the middle of my victory lap."

​"It wasn't a romance, Coach," I said, staring at a framed photo of the 2018 championship team on his wall.

"It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment. Rossi was... he was being Rossi. And I saw Liam and Chloe in the stands and—"

​"I don't give a damn about your ex-girlfriend, Axel! I already told you to get your head out of your ass before the game started. Sure, we won but at what cost. All I wanted was to get some sleep from my husband. Is that too much to ask for?" Coach slammed his hand on the desk. The coffee in his mug sloshed over the rim.

We all knew that Coach was gay. He came out to us 2 years ago. And even introduced his husband to us. It's funny how he was such a hard headed man on the rink and affectionate when his husband was around.

"I give a damn about this team. I give a damn about the fact that tomorrow morning, that kiss is going to be the only thing people are talking about. Not the 4-1 win. Not your defensive play. Just you and Rossi tongue deep in each others throat"

​

He leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine.

​

"The Board of Directors is already calling. The sponsors are asking questions. This is a PR nightmare, Thorne. We’re in the middle of a playoff run. We cannot have 'Distraction' as our middle name."

​"I'll handle it," I said, though I had no idea how. "I'll tell the press it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. An adrenaline surge. Nothing more."

​The door to the office opened without a knock.

​I turned, expecting the assistant coach.

Instead, my heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.

​Michael Rossi was standing in the doorway.

​He had shed his jersey, wearing only his damp black compression shirt that clung to every muscle of his torso. He looked tired, but his eyes were still sharp and they were focused entirely on me.

​"Actually, Coach," Michael said, his voice regaining that smooth, effortless confidence that made me want to scream.

"I think telling them it was a mistake is exactly what we shouldn't do."

​I stood up, my pulse spiking. "What the hell are you doing in here, Rossi?"

​Michael ignored me, looking straight at Coach.

"The footage is already viral. If you call it a mistake, it looks messy. And people will start contemplating that we are homophobic. And I think this is the chance to let the world know how accepting we are when it comes to LGBTQ+. This will even allow us to land more deals. It looks like a locker room fight waiting to happen. But if we tell them it's... something else? Something serious?"

​"Serious?" I choked out. "Are you insane?"

​Michael finally looked at me. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, the kind of look a hunter gives a trapped animal.

​"Think about it, Axel. You want to show your ex you've moved on? You want to show Liam he didn't win? There’s no better way to do that than by being with the guy who took everything from you."

​He turned back to Gregory. "We tell them we’ve been seeing each other. Quietly. For months. A 'forbidden' cross-team romance. It turns a scandal into a story. And it keeps the heat off the rest of the team."

​Coach Gregory looked from Michael to me, his eyes narrowing. "You're suggesting you two... fake it?"