Page 5 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

Everything else—noise, pressure, media, fake smiles—is gone. Out here, it’s just the puck, the rhythm of my skates, and the quiet roar of something primal that never shuts up. Sixty minutes. Twenty-second shifts.

The ice is filled with a vibe that says, “Win or die trying.”

Warm-ups don’t mean shit to most guys. They’re laughing, slapping asses, tossing pucks to kids in the stands to look good for the cameras. Me? I’m focused. I move through drills like I’m slicing through the game itself, carving the outcome into the ice one tight turn at a time.

Eyes on the net. Hands loose. Feet fast. My shot rings off the post—just a hair outside. Close isn’t good enough. Close is what gets you benched. Or beat. And it won’t get my name on the Cup.

Coach says I’m intense. He says I need to lighten up. Maybe he’s right. But he also knows better than to tell me to my face. He wants my edge when we’re down a goal with a minute left and the crowd smells victory.

This game—we’re up against Vegas. They’re tough, with no room for sloppiness or mercy. The other team warms up across center ice. I don’t see players. I see targets. I’m determined to find their weak spots. I’ve studied all their plays as if they were a verse from the Bible.

Today, I’m not playing for fun.

I’m just the guy who wins, and I play to dominate.

We stand on the ice for the announcements. I glance up at the Jumbotron. The camera pans to the stands. And unlike my teammates, I’m not anybody’s boyfriend or husband, real or otherwise.

We clear the ice and wait.

Game time.

Neon lights streak across the ceiling, the crowd’s roar cracking through the frozen air like thunder. My skates bite into the surface with that familiar hiss, but everything else? Chaos.

This is it. Game 7. The Stanley Cup. Vegas.

I roll my shoulders under my gear, and sweat is already slicking my spine even though the puck hasn’t dropped. The Maulers are lined up like a firing squad, each guy in our starting five staring down the Golden Predators across the red line. Every face is locked in. Every stick tap on the ice feels like a countdown to war.

“Let’s go, boys!” Victor shouts, his voice slicing through the noise. Our captain. Our enforcer. Our lunatic. God, I love that man.

The cold bites into my jaw where the helmet doesn’t cover, but I don’t mind. I want it. I want the chill to anchor me because my heart is trying to beat its way through my ribcage.

I glance at the stands for half a second. Just a blur of gold and white and screaming fans.

Tonight is ours. This is about me. The boys. The Cup.

The ref gives the signal. The anthem’s already a memory, and the opening face-off is seconds away. My knuckles tighten around my stick.

“Finn,” Victor says next to me, tapping my shin pad with his stick. “Let’s make them fight for it.”

I grin. “Hit them hard.”

The puck drops. We exploded forward.

Everything narrows—sound, time, and space. It's just blades, breath, and instinct. Vegas comes fast, trying to set the tone, but we hit harder. We’ve been here before. We’ve fought for this all season. And tonight? We finish it.

The boards rattle—a stick breaks. Someone swears—might’ve been me. Doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is sixty minutes from now…Is the Cup going home with us or them?

And I didn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed.

3

KATE

NEW GIG, NEW CITY

“I’m standin’on hallowed ground/Where the brave have fought and the lost are found.” Kate Riggs

It feels good to be here. I need to leave the past where it belongs—in the past. But it’s easier said than done.