Deke (Fake Boyfriend Book 3)

by Eden Finley

  “You don’t have to take on that tone,” his dad says to Leo.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, but come on—”

  Nic and Vic join in, and the table is surrounded by so many strong Boston accents, I end up not knowing what the hell they’re talking about.

  I’m thankful when my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I don’t even have to fake an incoming phone call. I don’t hesitate when I see my editor’s name on screen.

  “Sorry, I have to take this,” I say, but I don’t think they can hear me.

  I leave my laptop bag but make my way to a quieter corner of the restaurant. By the time I reach somewhere I can hear, Harry has hung up. But a few seconds later, a message pops up.

  The Pat’s IR list got updated. Get your ass to the stadium ASAP. They’re holding a conference. They lost Johnson.

  I quickly type back: On my way.

  Their star quarterback, who was recruited to replace Marcus Talon at the beginning of the season, is on the injured reserve list. What the hell happened?

  Part of me wonders if the coach is up to old tricks. He’s known for updating the IR list close to games to throw off the opposing team’s strategies. Still, it can’t be ignored. If Johnson really is injured, that could mean the defending Super Bowl champs are done for the season.

  Rushing back to the table, I grab my bag, and the bickering between the family members stops.

  “Oh no, sweetie, you don’t have to leave,” Ollie’s mom says.

  “Thanks, but there’s been an emergency at work, and I’ve got to go.”

  I’m not sure they believe me, but I can’t stay to reassure them. Won’t matter anyway because after the game I’m flying back to Chicago, where I live, and I’ll never see the Strömbergs again.

  I tell myself this is a clean break. I don’t have to tell Ollie who I am, and I don’t cover hockey, so I won’t be running into him anytime soon. I don’t know if this little charade has done him any favors or created more family drama, but I hope I’ve at least achieved them getting off his case about the ex. Or maybe with the way Max stormed out of here, we’ve made things worse.

  “Uh, if I don’t see Ollie on the way out, can you tell him work called? Thanks.”

  We say our quick goodbyes, and I make my way out of the private room. The Honey Bee is one of Boston’s underground hangouts, and as I make my way upstairs, Max passes me the other way, “accidentally” bumping his shoulder with mine.

  It’s like I’m back in high school being picked on by everyone who was bigger than me, which was, well, everyone. I hit my growth spurt so late I thought I was going to stay five eight forever. The last few inches came a year too late—my freshman year of college.

  Ollie appears at the top of the stairs. He smiles down at me and comes to meet me halfway in the middle of the stairwell. “I’m sorry about Max. He’s … uh …”

  “A dick? I figured that one out on my own. Thanks.” Then I realize how harsh that sounds. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t say that about your brother.”

  “He’s not that bad. He, uh, well, he’s my ex’s best friend. He’s still mad over the breakup.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it was your fault though. Situations like yours …”

  “Well, it wasn’t Ash’s fault. He went back into the closet for me for four years.”

  My eyes widen. “Four years? That’s like ten times the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

  “I think that says more about you than me.”

  I laugh. “That’s probably true. Like, really true.”

  “Were you looking for me, or—” Ollie’s gaze goes to my bag.

  “I got an emergency call from work, and I have to go.”

  His downcast hazel eyes make me want to quit my job, but I also can’t be sure what I’m seeing is actual disappointment or if I’m hoping it is. Plus, in the past, I’ve been known to read into things, thanks to the Jefferson High football team for fucking with me and making social cues so much harder to trust.

  The stairwell is narrow, so we’re practically pushed up against each other, and I really wish I didn’t have to go.

  Stupid closeted jock magnet.

  Ollie shuffles from one foot to the other, and he’s so freaking adorable with his hands in his pockets. This giant, muscled hockey player is shy and a little bit awkward, and I can’t help loving it.

  I take a step closer, which makes him raise his head.

  His brow scrunches. “What are you—”

  “Shh. I’m seizing an opportunity.” I don’t know where my courage or the idea to do this comes from, because it’s backfired so many times in the past, but I lean in and kiss his mouth gently. It’s quick and chaste but well worth it. “Mmm, I’ve always wanted to kiss a jock. Lifelong fantasy. Guess I can cross that off my bucket list.”

  Technically, I’ve been there, done that, and have the scars to prove it, but maybe once I’d like for it not to end badly.

  I wait for the situation to turn, but it doesn’t.

  Instead, Ollie looks left and right to make sure no one’s coming and then steps closer. “Well, in that case, better make it worth it.” He grabs me around my waist and brings me fully against him and then pushes his tongue into my mouth.

  None of my teenage athlete fantasies live up to the reality of Ollie Strömberg running his hands up my back to cup my face and dive in deeper.

  His tongue tangles with mine, and we stumble until Ollie’s pushed against the handrail of the staircase.

  It’s hard to tell which one of us groans, but it breaks something in Ollie, and he pulls back, hitting his head against the wall.

  “Damn, I wish things were different,” he whispers. “I’d love to take you on an actual date.”

  “I live in Chicago.”

  Ollie pulls back. “What?”

  “I’m only in town for a few days for work.”

  “Oh.” That’s definite disappointment I hear, and I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.

  “Besides, you’re getting over your ex and can’t come out because of hockey, and I’m, well, me. I’d love to go on a date with you too, but that sounds like a whole lot of nope.”

  “About the hockey thing—”

  “Yeah. About that.” Tell him who you are. Promise you won’t print anything. “You should probably know …” Don’t tell him. Why ruin this and make him paranoid when you’ll never see him again and you don’t report on hockey anyway? Don’t ruin your perfect kiss with reality.

  “Know what?”

  “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  He lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. You did me this huge favor today and put up with my family, and then I basically ask you to shut your mouth.”

  I lean in for another kiss: a slow, soft kiss. “I understand one hundred percent. Probably more than you know. I hope everything works out with your family. At least they won’t be talking in your ear about Ash anymore, right?”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t stay.” My phone vibrates again. “I have to go before I get fired.” Or someone else beats me to the scoop.

  As I get to the top of the stairs, Ollie calls out, “Wait …”

  When I turn, I hope he asks for my name, which I shouldn’t give, or my phone number, which I really shouldn’t give.

  Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets and whispers, “How did you know? In the bathroom, I mean. How did you know I was gay?”

  I smile wide. “Totally wishful thinking on my part.”

  I turn and leave before I do something we’ll both regret, but that doesn’t stop me from online stalking him as soon as I get home. Or from reading and watching his career highlights and games. Or from perhaps building an unhealthy obsession with a hockey player I’ll never see again.

  Chapter Three

  OLLIE

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The Rainbow Beds benefit is packed with people, soft lighting, and loud music. It’s not
the first time I’ve been asked to attend something like this, but this particular fundraiser makes me antsy. Not because it’s an LGBTQ charity, but because it’s run by Matt Jackson’s husband.

  When I got here, I took a selfie outside and sent it to Ma with the caption. “I can be closeted and still support the community.” Passive-aggressive, maybe, but I know it’ll shut her up … for like a week.

  Matt’s proof gay athletes can have it all, but I don’t think I’m ready to deal with that. He announced his marriage the night he won the freaking Super Bowl.

  Sports have been a certain way for so long that when I see other people living the life I thought I’d have one day, I can’t help being bitter and somewhat intimidated by them. Not to mention jealous.

  “You’re, like, the worst closeted guy ever,” my best friend says.

  I’d laugh at Tommy if he didn’t have a point. “Say it louder. I don’t think the people in the back heard you.”

  “No one’s hearing anything, drama queen.”

  I pretend to be offended, because Tommy’s right. Everyone is standing at the other end of the bar—where all the servers are tending. We’ll probably never get service at this end. “Did you call me a queen?”

  He ignores me, like he always does when I fuck with him. “You’re staring at every ass that walks by.”

  “Just because I can’t eat at the restaurant doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.” But God knows, I really, really, really miss sex. Like, really.

  Tommy screws up his face. “I don’t even want to think about what that means.”

  Ash once accused me of being too comfortable and that’s why I refused to come out for him. I had my cake and got to eat it too. I argued with him constantly that if I wasn’t with him, I’d be with no one because it was too risky, and while I’ve stuck to that, after a year of celibacy, I’m starting to see his point.

  It might be getting to the time when I need to seriously consider coming out, but I can’t right now. Not until I win the Cup.

  Ash’s voice rings through my head loud and clear. Not right now. It’s never right now. It’s been not right now for years, Oliver, and I’m sick of waiting and holding my breath for the day where you realize I’m more important than your career.

  Even a year after our breakup, I continue to be haunted by our arguments. At least I’m no longer in the apartment filled with Ash’s ghost thanks to being traded to New York two months ago.

  “I’m still pissed you were traded, man,” Tommy says as if reading my mind. “I miss you. This season has totally sucked ass.”

  “And you think I say inappropriate things, yet you’re talking about sucking asses.”

  Tommy sighs in that big-brotherly way that annoys me. He practically adopted me when I made it to the NHL after slugging it out for a few years on Boston’s farm team. He treats me like the little brother he never had, and I treat him like my four brothers back home. Like I need another one.

  “They did the right thing.” The lie is thick on my tongue as I try to hide my bitterness over the trade, even months later. I hate that Boston traded me, but it’s part of the game, so I have to suck it up.

  The joys of a nonexistent no-trade clause in your contract.

  According to the media, Boston got the better part of the deal by scoring Ilya Malik for their defense, but without me and Tommy together, their offense is struggling. We could sense each other on the ice almost as if we could read each other’s minds. With us being torn apart, both our games are suffering, and he’s right. It totally sucks.

  It doesn’t help that bloodsucking reporters like Lennon Hawkins write slanderous articles in reputable sports magazines that the only reason my stats were so good last year was because of Tommy.

  What the hell kind of name is Lennon, anyway? It’s probably an alias to hide behind so he can be candidly asshole-y about the fact he could never make it in sports.

  I’d like to see you chase around a puck while wearing skates, asshole.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if I found out Lennon Hawkins is a washed-up has-been in the sporting world but probably in a sport like baseball or football. I’ve pretty much stalked the man online within an inch of breaching privacy laws, and up until recently, he only reported on football and baseball.

  The reason for his switch hasn’t been printed or publicized, but my guess is he got tired of terrorizing ballers and decided to switch to puck chasers. And for some reason, he’s been on my ass from day one.

  Tommy says I’m reading into it and to let it go—block the site and move on—but there’s something about this reporter guy I don’t like, and I can’t put my finger on it.

  In all my stalking, I couldn’t find a photo. He’s probably a fat balding dude who looks as bitter as his articles, and that’s why the magazine won’t post his picture.

  “You’re doing that thing with your face again,” Tommy says.

  “What thing?” I snap.

  “Looking angry and sulking at the same time. Didn’t know it was possible to look like a badass and a bitch, but here you are.”

  I cock my head. “Why am I friends with you again?”

  “Are you thinking about those stupid articles for the billionth time?”

  “No,” I lie and know he doesn’t believe me.

  “That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and don’t make me go on and on about there being no I in team. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the highest scoring stats last season. You set them up, I seal the deal. That’s how it is … err, was.”

  “Exactly. It still wasn’t good enough for the GM.”

  And I’m still convinced one of Lennon’s articles had something to do with my trade. I’ve read over it so many times I could recite it if I had to, but there’s one line I can’t get out of my head:

  Strömberg would thrive if he was in the encouraging environment he requires to grow into a player who doesn’t need to hide behind a sniper.

  It’s as if that Lennon guy knows all my secrets and is teasing me with them. Tommy says I’m being paranoid, but I dunno … something about that article doesn’t sit right with me. Not only does it call me out for being a mediocre player, saying I’m being overshadowed by Tommy and even implies I’m using Tommy’s talents to my advantage, but it also points out I have a reason to hide from the limelight. A reason no one in the NHL knows apart from Tommy. And the only reason he knows at all is because he overheard me on the phone to Ash when we roomed together once. I was still in the AHL at the time but had been called up for a few games. All he had to say about it was “My brother-in-law has a boyfriend, so I’m cool with it.” He promised to never tell a soul, and he never has.

  “You know what you need?” Tommy says.

  “Here we go.”

  “You should take some guy home tonight and do things to him that I don’t want to hear about tomorrow.”

  “Brilliant idea. While I’m at it, I’ll call a press conference and out myself to the entire world.”

  “There you go being all dramatic again. Aren’t gay guys all about the anonymous hookup?”

  “Stereotyping, for the win,” I say.

  Again, he ignores my snark. He truly is like one of my brothers. “Where better to find the perfect candidate than a gay and lesbian charity event?”

  Well, there’s Grindr for one … “I’m not ready.”

  “It’s been a year since Ash—”

  I grit my teeth. “Really? It’s been a year? Had no idea.” It’s been three hundred forty-two days to be exact, but if I say that aloud, I’ll never hear the end of it. And in those three hundred and forty-two days, I’ve only wanted one other man, and he disappeared without a trace and without giving me his phone number. Or real name for that matter.

  “You need to move on,” Tommy says. “Even if it’s only a quick blowjob in a bathroom stall.”

  I’d give him a lecture about not every gay man being into casual sex, but I think that might go against the gay rule
book. Thou shalt not let anyone know we can be monogamous, loving, and all we want is to find that one person who makes our whole world complete. Someone who doesn’t throw ultimatums and guilt trips.

  “I’ve seen it,” Tommy says. “Your tension on the ice. You’re hesitating. Your head’s too in the game, and you need to turn your brain off for a while.”

  “That’s the last thing I need. I need to focus more. The team is in a slump. The Dragons were on track to make the playoffs easily. Now … if we don’t win against Toronto this week, we’re out. It’s like we still haven’t gelled even though I’ve been with them for two months. It’s not like you and me where we clicked right away.”

  Tommy leans against the bar. “Why do you think that is? Could it be that I knew your secret since before you were called up?”

  For all I know, our bond does have something to do with my game. Tommy and I had trust. I’ve been playing for New York for only two months. I don’t know the guys on my team well yet, and it shows.

  “So, you’re saying I should come out,” I say. “At least to the team.”

  “At least to someone on your line. Hell, start small. Come out to Maddox or Damon.”

  Tommy is married to Maddox’s sister, and Maddox happens to be my agent’s boyfriend. The reason I met Damon was because of Tommy’s connection to him.

  “I know they’re, like, your family, but it’s weird hanging out with my agent. I’m scared I’m gonna say something or do something stupid in front of him. I need to be professional.”

  “Pfft, he works for you.”

  “Doesn’t mean he won’t drop me faster than you can say power play if I fuck up. Until I’m ready to make it public, Maddox and Damon aren’t an option.”

  “Fine then—a complete stranger who doesn’t know who you are or what you do. Maybe it’s time to start taking those steps—”

  I eye him suspiciously. “Have you been talking to my mother?”

  He chuckles. “No, but I’m saying it could help your game.”

  “You should worry about your own game, old man. You’re at seventy-five percent of the points you had at the same time last year.”