An NHL staffer gets revenge on her ex by fake dating his rival teammate—but soon discovers her very real feelings in this fiery hockey romance from the viral TikTok author of Behind the Net and The Wingman. The best way for Hazel Hartley, physiotherapist for the Vancouver Storm hockey team, to get back at her horrible ex? Fake date his new teammate, Rory Miller: her ex’s rival, the top scorer in the league, and the arrogant, flirtatious hockey player she tutored in high school. Faking it with Rory is fun and addictive, though, and beneath the bad boy swagger, Rory’s sweet, funny, and protective. He teaches Hazel to skate and spends way too much money on her. He sleeps in her bed and convinces her to break her one-time-only hookup rule. He teases her with a nickname and tells her his secrets. Hockey players are only as faithful as their options, but after seeing the other side of Rory, she might be starting to trust this one. It’s all for show, but when Rory kisses her like it’s real, Hazel starts to wonder . . .  Was he ever faking it to begin with? Don't miss any of Stephanie Archer’s steamy Vancouver Storm series: BEHIND THE NET • THE FAKE OUT • THE WINGMAN Stephanie Archer writes spicy romantic comedies with sharp banter, lots of laughs, and guaranteed HEAs. She believes in the power of best friends, stubborn women, a fresh haircut, and love. She lives in Vancouver with a man, a dog, and a baby. CHAPTER 1 Rory Blood pounds in my ears as I skate toward the net during my first game with the Vancouver Storm. We’re tied in over‐time, and there’s a crescendo of noise from the crowd as I rear back and slapshot the puck at the net. It pings off the crossbar, and the Vancouver fans let out a collective groan of disappointment. Stars score goals. My dad, Canadian hockey legend Rick Miller, has said it so many times over the years, and it’s what I chant to myself as I snag the puck out of the mess of players and skate backward until I’m open. The whistle blows, the game stops, and I look over to the pretty girl who’s been catching my attention all night. Hazel Hartley, one of the team physiotherapists—stunning and sharp-tongued, with long, dark lashes, a plush mouth the perfect shade of pink, and the most striking blue-gray eyes I’ve ever seen—sitting behind the net with her sister, Pippa, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Hazel Hartley, my high school tutor who had a boyfriend, who can’t stand me and doesn’t date hockey players anymore. Despite Pippa wearing a Storm jersey with the name of her fiancé, goaltender Jamie Streicher, on the back, and despite Hartley working for the team, I haven’t seen her in a jersey since high school. Tonight, my gaze catches on her chestnut hair pulled up in a ponytail, her pale purple puffer jacket. I bet she’s wearing the black leggings that always make her ass look incredible. I wink at her; she rolls her eyes. I grin; she pretends to yawn. Something electric and addictive floods my veins at our back-and-forth. It’s always been like this with us, ever since high school. The players line up for a face-off and I pull my attention back to the game. Around the arena, the fans are getting anxious, desperate for a win. The whistle blows and I’m off, hustling the puck toward the goalie again. “Let’s go, Miller,” Coach Ward calls from the bench. Determination fires through me. Tate Ward wanted the top scorer in the league, so I need to show him what he paid for. I’ve idolized him since he was a player. Playing for him this season will fix whatever’s gone wrong in my head. It has to. Hayden Owens, a Vancouver defenseman, is open. He has a clear shot on net, but stars score goals, and I’m not here to pass the puck. I snap the puck toward the goalie; it hits the back of the net, and the arena explodes with noise at my game-winning goal. The goal horn bellows, the arena lights flash, and the rest of the Vancouver team surrounds me. Over at the bench, guys are cheering. Even quiet and serious Coach Ward is clapping. I wait for the consuming, proud feeling in my chest that this moment should bring. Nothing. Fans rattle the glass and the team surrounds me, but I experience blank, silent emptiness. Shit. I used to care. Scoring goals used to make me feel on top of the world, like nothing could touch me. Now, I feel flat, like I’m checking a box. Playing professional hockey, being the best in the league, used to be my dream, but these days, it feels like a job. Coming to Vancouver to play for Ward, to play with goal‐tender Jamie Streicher, my best friend—these things were supposed to change that. “Look alive, Miller.” Owens grabs me by the shoulders and tries to put me in a headlock. “You just won the game.” I laugh and shove him off, shove away all the weird thoughts as we skate past the net to the bench. When we pass Hazel, I give her the cocky, smug grin I know pisses her off. Fans watch as I tap my stick against the gl