Hockey Fake Out Crossword Clue Novels & Stories

“Excuse me?” “Fake dating,” he said, as casually as if he were ordering coffee. “It’s simple. You act like my girlfriend; I act like your boyfriend. People leave us alone. Predators—human and otherwise—stay away. You get protection, I get… well, it’s complicated. But mostly, we both stay alive.” Alina stared at him, trying to process the words. Fake dating? With him? The brooding, dangerous, irresistible Rhett Blackwood? “You’re insane,” she said finally.

I was the good soldier. Then, he passed me the puck. It was a hard, sharp pass, meant to be difficult, a test. I took it cleanly. Instead of the simple, predictable shot he expected toward the net, I faked. I pulled my stick back as if to fire, and in that split second, every defender on the ice shifted to block me. That was the opening. I didn't shoot. I sent a blind, backhanded pass across the crease to a teammate Jax had forgotten was even there.

He skated like he’d done it forever—like the ice obeyed him or something. He picked off our winger in the cleanest steal I’ve ever seen. Like it was nothing. Like the puck belonged to him all along. My eyes narrowed. Whatever. Lucky play. Then he passed to his teammate. Skated wide. Real wide. I moved to cover him, already planning to check him against the glass, and that’s when it happened. He faked me out. Like full-on, twisted-my-whole-body-the-wrong-way fake out. He cut inside, ducked under my arm, and darted toward the goal with the kind of ease that made my blood go cold.

He wasn’t doing very well at convincing me this wasn’t a date. He noticed. “Surely you can tell the difference between my real smile and my fake one.” Now that he mentioned it, the smile I had seen through the window had been very tight, as if forced. Even with the distance, I could tell it hadn’t reached his eyes. “She’s the ex-girlfriend of the new player on the hockey team. The one who got called in to fill the spot on the fourth line, after the injury.” I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

* Exactly what Elliott said. I notice him weaving left using rapid crossovers. eyes calculating my trajectory based on the rotation of my hips and measuring the gap between my skate blades, preparing to cut me off at the net. I bend low and stretch my stick from behind him, redirecting the puck before he can commit. “You cheated!” he screams, pointing his hockey stick. “And you play like it’s a puzzle!” I grit back at him, walking towards him with steam oozing off me. I can't believe that's actually how he won the tryout: calculating your opponent's move.

And he did it all the time, in all of his matches. So I waited for it, and it came four minutes in. Everett pushed up toward our blue line, cheating exactly the way I knew he would, and I went the other way, pulling the puck wide and cutting toward his vacated side. Their defenseman was half a step slow and I was through the gap before he could close it. "AND REYNOLDS BREAKS FREE! He's one on one with the Keiser goalie!" I faked left, went right and smacked the puck into the bottom corner.

“An occasional bunny here, a groupie there, maybe a fan or two in a hot tub … but never hoes.” “Bunny?” I echo. “Puck-bunnies … ” Mel snorts. “Girls who want to fuck professional hockey players. You do know that the black thingy they shoot into the goal is called a puck?” I nod. I’ve learned that from Lee. Recently. “Well, PUCK,” she swings her left hand in a feminine, gay flick so the palm shows up, “BUNNY,” then she does the same thing with her right hand.

Their winger tries to shove Quinn against the boards, but he dodges at the last second, and flicks the puck towards me. I saw the hesitation in his movement like he is ready for me to fuck up. My stick meets it clean, and I take off down the ice. My skates carve hard into the ice as I pick up more speed. My heart slams like a war drum, and I fake left just to cut right and that's when I see my opening. There's no hesitation, I shoot, and the shot leaves my stick with force, a sharp sound of cracking erupts through the arena. For a split second, everything around me slows, and I watch it fly, I watch the goalie drop too late. The puck slams into the net.

“And I can help end it. Tell everyone we're dating and no one will pay attention to what happened in the locker room and the dorm. They'll even think it's an invasion of privacy and take down their articles.” “Not Kelsey though.” “Come on. Let's give it a shot. You won't know till you try it.” “I’m not dating you.” “Then I'll leave.” “Fine,” I hissed. “Jesus. I'll date you. Fake-date you.” “Yay.” Jericho giggled and threw her arms around me. I barely caught myself and we tumbled to the floor. Just then, I heard the sound of a camera click and turned. Kelsey Sawyer had taken our picture and this time she winked.

But as I raised my camera again and watched him command the ice like he owned it, I couldn’t deny the truth anymore. The line between pretending and feeling something real was disappearing faster than I could keep up. And I was terrified of what would happen when it finally vanished completely that I didn't notice twenty five minutes was up. “That’s enough for today!” Coach Harlan said, blowing the whistle one last time. A collective sigh rippled across the ice. Players coasted toward the benches, peeling off helmets and gloves as they headed for the locker room. The cold air still stung my cheeks, but the real chill came from somewhere deeper.