Page 21 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

T he locker room at Maple Falls Arena smells like fresh paint and new beginnings.

I’m early—a habit my very first coach drilled into me as one of the only kids on the team without a dad hollering at him from behind the boards. Coach Sumner would say, If you’re on time, you’re late .

Old habits and all that.

The pristine, lacquered hardwood lockers with the Ice Breakers logo gleaming in blue, gray, and white make this expansion team feel real in a way contract signatures didn’t.

I’m here. This is real. It’s go time.

I run my fingers over the nameplate: CRANE #49. A fresh start. I need one after the slow implosion of last spring.

A few guys mill around in various stages of prep for practice. The door swings open, and Jamie Hayes walks in like he owns the place. As captain and our center, he kind of does. “Crane, good to have you on board.”

“Glad to be here.” We shake hands and there’s no mistaking his firm grip from years of expert stick handling.

Jamie’s reputation precedes him—fifteen years in the league, a Stanley Cup win with New York. The kind of veteran leadership that will serve us well.

“Heads up. Coach Hauser’s putting us on the same line. We’ve got speed. We’ve got vision.” He eyes me knowingly as he sets down his gear bag.

Nodding as I get my bearings, I say, “Sounds like a good combination.”

The locker room door bangs open again, and Cade Lennox swaggers in, designer sunglasses perched on the top of his head despite the Pacific Northwest cloud cover. “The party has arrived,” he announces, arms wide.

I suppress an eye roll and meet him with a friendly chuckle. Lennox’s highlight reels are matched only by his social media gossip post appearances.

“Hayes,” Cade says, nodding at Jamie before turning to me. “And the former Gentleman Wingman himself. How’s the attitude adjustment going, Bama? Are you learning to play well with others?”

My jaw tightens. “Working on it.”

Someone nearby chuckles and I spot the smiling face of Asher Tremblay, a defenseman from Canada. He’s practically bouncing with energy—dangerous in hockey skates. “Morning, boys! Beautiful day for hockey, eh?”

“It’s gloomy and will probably rain later.” Cade seems better suited for somewhere sunny.

“Rain means maple sap will flow back home.” Asher waggles his eyebrows.

His comment brings Bailey’s face to mind—not that it’s gone very far—along with our breakfast together and her contraband “liquid gold” as she called it. Like the aforementioned syrup, she sticks there with no intention of leaving until more players filter in.

Weston Smith, a defenseman pulled from the Tennessee Wolves, greets everyone like old friends. Lucian Lowe, who transferred from the Carolina Crushers, quietly arranges his gear. The only one I don’t see is our goalie Clément Rivière. He must still be on European time.

The space where we’ll be calling home away from home for the next months fills with laughter and banter—the natural rhythm of a hockey locker room taking shape as we get to know each other. Coach Hauser enters just as we’re suiting up, his presence immediately commanding our attention.

“Gentlemen,” he says, scanning the room. “Welcome. Nearly the whole team is finally here. Some of you I’ve coached before,” he nods at Jamie, “some I’ve coached against, and I’m new to some of you, but you’re not new to me. I’ve been watching you all carefully.”

Cade puffs up a little—the obvious showman of our crew.

Though I think he’ll have competition when Clément arrives, if his reputation is accurate.

I shrink, not wanting my recent reputation to precede me.

Why’d I let my temper get the best of me in the one place where my life hadn’t been shredded to pieces?

Hauser continues, pacing slowly, eyes sharp.

“Forget your previous teams. As of today, you’re Ice Breakers.

We’re building something from scratch here.

That means no baggage,” his gaze flickers briefly to me, “no prima donnas,” a glance toward Cade, “and no room for anything less than full commitment.”

It’s like we collectively feel the weight of his words. As for me, a clean slate is exactly what I need.

“Hayes is your captain. We’ve got vets and rookies, skill and grit. We could be a surprise for the league. Let’s see what we’ve got on the ice. Be out there in ten.” Coach claps his hands together and stalks out of the room.

Minutes later, I take a few warm-up laps, feeling out the surface. Coach Hauser has us start with basic drills—nothing fancy, just getting a feel for each other’s styles.

Just then, the Frenchman enters with dramatic flair. “ Bonjour, mes amis ! The goalie has arrived!”

Hauser gives him a look that could melt ice.

Cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being tardy—I get the sense he wasn’t intentionally late—I expect him to set up in front of the net and we’ll get back to it. But that’s not what happens.

After a very uncomfortable moment of silence from the coach, the guy gets tasked with cleaning the ice bath, which is gruesome even on the best of days. I’m thankful that one of my occupational hazards is timeliness.

It quickly becomes apparent that while we’re all pros, we’re speaking slightly different hockey dialects.

Jamie’s passes are precision instruments, arriving exactly where you’ll be, not where you are.

Cade dangles and dekes, showing off. Asher plays defense with surprising aggression for such a cheerful guy and Weston, his counterpart, is brutal on the ice, a contrast for someone who seems generally easygoing.

Clément, in front of the box, makes me wonder if he was born for the stage but somehow landed on the rink as he makes routine saves look like epic performances.

Coach barks, “Crane, Hayes, Lennox! Front line drill!”

The three of us skate to center ice. Our first line rep together.

“Simple weave, finish with a shot. Go!” Hauser hollers.

We push off, and what amounts to years of muscle memory takes over.

When I’m in possession of the puck, I pass it to Jamie, who sends it across to Cade.

I accelerate through the neutral zone, catching Cade’s no-look pass right on the tape.

Jamie has already positioned himself near the crease.

I feint a shot, drawing Lucian toward me, before sliding the puck to Jamie, who one-times it past Clément’s outstretched glove.

“Again!” Coach calls, but there’s a hint of approval in his voice.

Four more reps, each smoother than the last. On the fifth, Cade tries to get fancy, holding the puck too long. Weston poke-checks it away, disrupting the drill.

Practice intensifies with small-area games and situational maneuvers. By the end, we’re all panting, sweat freezing at our hairlines. Coach gathers us by the boards.

“Not bad, boys. Chemistry doesn’t happen overnight.

I saw some good instincts out there. Hayes, Crane—that’s a connection we can build on.

Tremblay, Lowe—solid blue line presence.

Rivière—dare I say go a bit grander.” He grimaces as if instantly regretting the word choice because Clément grins broadly as if to say, Challenge accepted .

“Tomorrow, we work on power plays. Hit the showers.”

As we file out, Jamie skates alongside me. “Smooth hands out there, Crane. The reports of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”

I laugh despite myself. “One practice doesn’t make a season.”

“No, but it’s a start.”

Gotta say, I appreciate his encouragement and confidence in me. I can’t let them down. I’m here to win for them, if only to keep my career.

Back in the locker room, the mood is lighter. Even Cade seems less prickly, grudgingly complimenting my cross-ice pass. Asher chatters about the upcoming Maple Fest. The word maple casts a net in my thoughts again.

“You okay?” Lucian asks quietly, observing from the neighboring stall.

“Yeah,” I say, unlacing my skates. “Just …” Giving my head a shake, I remind myself that I cannot be thinking about the wildcard local who dragged me into town in handcuffs.

However, as I shower and change, hope bobs to the surface. Not just for salvaging my career, but for building something new.

Coach calls for our attention once more. “Oh, and don’t forget about the Ice Breakers inaugural bash. We encourage you to bring a plus one. Please inform Cal Shipley, the new team assistant , how many tickets you’ll need before next Monday. See you tomorrow. Bright and early.”

That means no breakfast with Bailey. I left all thoughts about her and last night in the locker room before suiting up, but I pick them right back up after our meeting and practice. Okay, not all of them. Most. Some. A lot .

The memory of Bailey in the dress, how she makes me laugh—who sneaks contraband maple syrup into a diner?—the funniest and prettiest woman I’ve met in a long time … no, ever.

On my way to the Jeep, my phone rings. It’s Gabe, my agent.

“Bro, how are you getting settled in?”

“It’s been eventful. I just finished practice. What’s up?”

“New team, new opportunity to turn around your public image. I trust everyone is playing nice and minding their manners.”

Clearly, this is directed at me and let’s just say the road rage I experienced on the ice late last season will not get a repeat showing.

“Yes, Dad. I said please and thank you.”

He chuckles. “Have you given any thought to what I said about using a fake girlfriend to show the league and fans that you’ve changed? That the gentleman wingman is back and better than ever? Ooh. I like the way that sounds. I’ll be sure to leak it to the press so they use that phrase.”

I don’t like the implications of using anyone to improve my image, but he has a point.

Gabe trills, “I know a few ladies who’d love to visit you in the locker room.”

“Actually—”

“Hear me out,” he persists in telling me exactly how this could help my career and assures me that it would be a secret and that no one would find out thanks to my legal team.

This brings to mind Bailey’s stash of maple syrup and skips back in time to the porch swing and every charged moment between us since our ride in the elevator.

Then I remind myself that everything that’s happened since arriving in Maple Falls has been under the auspices of being her fake date at the wedding, but Gabe doesn’t know that.

He says, “You have the Ice Breakers inaugural bash coming up. I’ll fly Jenna up there—remember her? Tall, model good looks, makeup influencer—and we’ll get the ball rolling. Or should I say the puck sliding?”

“You don’t need to do that. I, uh, have a girlfriend who’ll go with me.” Genuine warmth spreads across my skin, but then I tell myself, I did Bailey a favor. She’d just be doing me a solid in return.

The line is quiet for a long moment. “You have a girlfriend?”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.” My words are garbled, but there’s also something so natural about referring to Bailey as my girlfriend that I don’t back down.

“I’m not convinced. Send me some photographic evidence I can use on the down low.”

I let out a breath, not wanting to play any game other than hockey, but Gabe did save me from myself last spring, so I ought to trust him.

“I have to jet. Talk soon.” Gabe ends the call.

Thankfully, we don’t talk again soon, but the week slips by with me going to practice in the morning, doing dry-land training in the afternoon, and settling into Maple Falls.

Bailey is a pro at her job and instead of staying at the Hawk River Lodge for a few days while I waited for the SkyBnB to be ready, I’m all moved in. The rental is great with a chef’s kitchen, fireplace, and it backs up to great trails for running.

She and I don’t have breakfast again, but I have been craving pancakes. Unfortunately, those are not on my recommended meal plan. Neither are the thoughts about a certain PAL that are eating me up inside.