Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 154

LIAM

My head is not in this game.

The puck drops, and my body takes over like it's been programmed to. Years of drills and instincts move me even while my brain is somewhere else—somewhere in the stands where Emilia is wearing my jersey, silently cheering Tessa and Lacey on as they scream at refs like it's their personal calling in life.

Lyle wins the faceoff clean, flicks it back, and I'm already shooting into open ice for a pass—

Except a Chicago defender cuts in and steals the puck faster than lightning.

Perfect.

There's no time to curse. I pivot and chase him down, blades biting into ice, Aaron flying a stride ahead of me because he's built like a damn rocket. Wolfe and Banks scramble back to block the lane, and Cam is already locked in behind them—crouched, tense, ready to throw himself into a save if he has to.

I keep telling myself it's just another game.

I've played through worse—migraines, broken bones, concussions taped together with caffeine and pain killers.

I should be fine.

But last night is still somewhere under my skin, hot and bruised. And every shift I take, I'm stupidly aware of the exact direction Emilia is sitting in. Whether she's cheering, biting her lip, or glaring at Stone like she's trying to melt him through the glass.

Stone.

Of course he's on the ice.

He glides right into my lane like it's personal, and it is. His eyes cut straight to me with that smug, creeping smile he's had since the incident with Emilia. The one that makes me want to smash his face through his visor.

Aaron must sense it, because during a transition he bumps my shoulder, sharp and warning.

"Not worth it," he mutters.

I grind my teeth but keep skating.

Zane hops over the boards next shift, and instantly the whole tone on the ice tilts. The crowd gets louder. Chicago loves him. Half the kids in the rink are wearing his jersey.

He barely glances at me.

Barely.

But I can feel it anyway.

That weird, heavy attention of his settles right onto me. Admiration. Obsession. Whatever it is, I hate it.

He tries to shadow me on the forecheck like he's studying my footwork. I ignore him and chase a rebound. Aaron gets the puck, threads me a pass through two defenders, and hits my stick perfectly.

But I miss the shot.

Wide. By a mile.

Coach is going to rip my head off.

The next few minutes are a blur of hard hits and sloppy plays. Lyle is on my left wing and keeps losing his mark, forcing Cam to make save after impossible save. Tension coils up Aaron's spine every time Lyle screws up. They don't talk, but the silence between them is loud enough to echo.

Behind the net, Stone takes a run at me. His shoulder slams into my ribs.

I take it. I shove him back. I keep my gloves down.

Barely.

He smirks. "Thought you'd be more fun today."

"Thought you'd be suspended today," I shoot back.

"Not what your girl wanted to see, is it?"

Before things can get uglier, Suta gets tapped in. Lyle skates off, pissed but trying to hide it, and honestly, the difference is immediate. Suta brings fire, speed, and body checks like he's possessed.

Still, the first period ends 0–0.

Coach doesn't even wait for the door to shut.

The second we step into the locker room, he's already yelling.

"What the hell was that?!"

Helmets hit the floor. Gloves drop. No one looks up.

Except Cam, who sits there calmly undoing his pads like he didn't just carry the entire team on his back.

"Liam," Coach snaps, jabbing a finger at me. "That shot you missed? Embarrassing. I've seen peewee players finish cleaner. Where's your head tonight? In the stands? In the clouds? Somewhere between the damn hotel and the rink?"

I swallow hard but say nothing. He's right.

He moves on like a storm changing direction.

"Wolfe! Banks! Are you two allergic to marking your man? Because I swear to God the gaps you left out there could fit a semi—hell, TWO semis."

Wolfe stares at the floor. Banks looks like he wants to melt into the bench.

"SUTA!" Coach barks.

Suta straightens, chest heaving.

"THANK YOU for at least pretending we're in a professional league. That's how you hit."

Then—

"LYLE!"

Lyle stiffens like he's about to be executed.

"Do you even know what your job is? Because it is not skating around like a lost toddler waiting for Santa to give you direction. You blew three coverages. THREE. That is three too many."

Lyle's jaw clenches. Aaron looks away, pretending he isn't enjoying this.

Coach whips around so fast the whole room flinches.

"AARON! Stop trying to quarterback every play alone. You've got teammates. Use them."

Aaron nods, tight-lipped.

The room is dead quiet except for Cam tugging off his mask and muttering just loud enough for everyone to hear,

"Wow. And I'm the one he didn't yell at? You guys must've really sucked."

A few of the guys snort. Even Coach's eye twitches like he's fighting a smile he refuses to let out. Then he points directly at Cam.

"You—"

Everyone holds their breath.

Cam blinks.

"—don't talk to anyone for the rest of the intermission. I don't want you catching whatever disease these idiots have."

We let out weak laughs. Cam just shrugs like this is a compliment, which it is.

Finally, Coach steps back, breathing hard.

"Fix it. All of it. Now."

No one moves until he storms out, slamming the door so hard a water bottle rattles off a shelf.

I exhale, long and slow.

He wasn't wrong.

But when we're back on the ice for the second period, something in me settles.

Stone tries again—leans in close, voice low. "She still trying to ruin my life? Or is she ruining yours too?"

I shove him off. Clean. Legal.

I don't rise to it this time.

Aaron notices and nods. "Better."

I roll my eyes, but it loosens something in my chest.

Zane gets on the ice next shift and immediately tries a toe drag around Wolfe. It fails miserably. Then he skates past me like he wants me to say something.

I ignore him too.

The whole period is physical—more bodies than pucks. Wolfe gets crushed against the boards. Banks almost drops gloves. Cam screams at us twice to "stop screen-blocking him like idiots."

Still no goals.

Still tied.

By the third period, both teams look like they want blood instead of a win. The pace picks up. My lungs burn. My legs ache. I can hear Emilia once—during a line change—shouting something that sounds like "TAKE HIS KNEES." It makes me laugh into my water bottle.

Then we get our moment.

Aaron picks the puck clean off a Chicago defenseman like he planned it two weeks in advance, and suddenly we're gone—flying down the ice on a two-on-one. The whole arena rises. My lungs burn. My heartbeat is in my throat.

I fake the shot.

He reads me instantly.

I pass.

Aaron rips it.

Post.

The clang cuts through the rink like a gunshot. Half the crowd groans. I swear my soul leaves my body and slides into the corner behind the net.

Coach looks like he wants to leap the boards, sprint across the ice, and strangle someone. Probably me.

Chicago takes advantage of our heartbreak and storms the other way. One clean rush. One perfect setup. Cam makes the first save—an insane, physics-breaking glove snatch that even makes Zane stop skating to stare, but the rebound drops right in front of the wrong stick.

Chicago buries it.

1–0.

And that's it.

The clock runs out.

Whistle.

We lose.

The arena roars for them.

We skate off with our heads hung.

My head feels full of smoke. My jaw hurts from clenching. My ribs ache from hits I barely remember taking. My stick feels like it weighs fifty pounds. I can't look at the scoreboard. I can't look at the crowd. I can't think about Emilia in the stands watching me play like complete shit.

Cam bumps my shoulder as we hit the tunnel. "Hey. At least you didn't murder Stone."

"Don't tempt me."

Zane passes us next. He lifts a hand like he wants to say something, maybe congratulate me, maybe ask for my blood type to tattoo it on his chest—I don't know. But the cameras catch him, and he drops it, looking frustrated.

Stone jogs by after, smirk stretched across his whole disgusting face.

"Tough loss, sweetheart. Almost like you weren't focused."

I don't even glance at him. If I do, I'll break something. Maybe him.

Cam looks at me like I've just rewritten the laws of nature. "Who are you? And what did you do with Liam?"

I shove a hand through my hair and keep walking, every step heavier than the last.

So much for small fucking wins.