Fake Out Forever (Frostwolves Hockey), page 1
FAKE OUT FOREVER
FROSTWOLVES HOCKEY
M.J. HERALD
Copyright © 2024 by M.J. Herald
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Editing: Last Chapter Press LLC
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CONTENTS
1. Cade
2. Maya
3. Cade
4. Maya
5. Cade
6. Maya
7. Cade
8. Maya
9. Cade
10. Maya
11. Maya
12. Cade
13. Maya
14. Maya
15. Cade
16. Maya
Epilogue
CADE
FAKE OUT FOREVER INFO
Cade
When I take a drive to Thunder Ridge, I’m looking for a distraction to avoid the pain of the end of my hockey career.
What I don’t expect, is to find Maya Prescott, the dreaded Ice Princess, stuck in a snowbank.
The woman has an aversion to hockey players and an attitude bigger than a mountain.
With nowhere safe for her to go, I take her to my cabin.
Trapped together, our defenses start to thaw, igniting a passion I never saw coming.
But as the snow stops and reality returns can we weather the storm of our differences?
Brace yourself for a series that captures the excitement of hockey, the enchantment of love, and the undeniable connection between adventure and the human spirit.
Get ready to experience Frostwolves Hockey– Let the match begin!
This is a standalone read in the multi-author Frostwolves series. There is NO cheating, NO cliffhangers, and always a HEA.
1
CADE
“This is your last year, Cade.” Doc declares as he rubs an alcohol wipe across my hip.
With my jaw clenched tight and my eyes on the wall, I wait for the needle to plunge into my muscle. “I’m going to feel good as new in about five minutes, Doc. I’ve got a lot of years left to play.”
Doc pulls the needle out, holding light pressure to the injection site. “Listen, I know this is hard for you to hear. Hockey has been your life. I get it. Just because you can’t play professionally doesn’t mean you must leave the game. The Colorado Frostwolves of Alpine Sports Entertainment Group, the largest sports franchise in the country, employ you. Did you know that ASEG owns multiple sports teams and hundreds of diverse companies? They’ll always have a place for you.” His voice softens. “You could coach.”
“Coach?” I push his hand off my hip and jump off the table. “I’m not a coach. I’m a goalie. And a damn good one at that. I have 642 wins and 100 shutouts under my belt. My reaction time is on point, and my rebound control is stellar.”
“Tell that to your body,” Doc replies, picking up a clipboard and sighing. “Cade, over the past fifteen years, I’ve treated you for fractured ribs, a fractured right wrist, a concussion, and two ACL tears. Now you’ve got bilateral hip bursitis, bilateral hip tendonitis, and micro-tears in your hips and knees. You’ve hit your limit for Cortisone injections. Ultrasound therapy doesn’t do a damn thing for you. Physical therapy, meh. Ice baths? Nothing but Band-Aids.”
I pull my sweatpants up, trying to digest what Doc is saying. My professional hockey career is over? Impossible. I’ve been a Frostwolf for fifteen years. It’s who I am. What I am. Without hockey…I swallow past the puck sitting in my throat…what will I do? “There has to be something else we can try.”
Doc sits down on a stool. “There isn’t. If there were, we’d be doing it, and you know that. I am not signing off on you, Cade. I can’t. And I won’t. I’m telling you now so that you have time to sort things out for yourself. You’re on holiday break for what, three weeks?”
“Yeah,” I say, sagging against the table.
“Take the time to think about things. Make a plan. Go out on the top of your game.” Doc advises, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Are you having Christmas with your family?”
“Yes.” I lie. Every year, I tell the same lie. And every year, I spend Christmas alone. It’s a lot easier this way. Telling people your brother, mother, and father are in prison for the possession, sale, and manufacturing of meth will only get me pity. And pity is the last thing on earth I ever want.
“Talk things over with your family,” Doc suggests, setting his clipboard down. He stands up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “There is life after professional hockey, son. I promise. Have you ever thought about maybe settling in one place and starting your own family?”
“Definitely not. I came into the world single, and I’m going out the same way, Doc.” I say, sticking out my hand. “Thank you for giving it to me straight.”
Doc grabs my hand. “If you need anything, I’m here. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too.”
I snag my coat off the back of the door and walk out of the office with a ball of dread in my stomach. By the time I reach my Land Rover, I have a plan. Instead of spending Christmas in Denver, I’m going to head to my cabin in Thunder Ridge. It’s a small mountain town just outside of Aspen, my favorite place on earth. Its snow-capped mountains, open skies, clean, crisp air, and quiet will help me sort things through.
With a faint glimmer of hope that I could find a future outside of professional hockey, I hit the ignition button and head home to pack.
The four-hour drive to Thunder Ridge is always something I enjoy. It’s miles upon miles of open road with spectacular scenic views. But not today. To match the miserable start of my day, the afternoon is gifting me with an unexpected snowstorm dropping over two inches an hour. Winds are gusting between twenty to thirty miles, causing intermittent white-outs. And as if that isn’t enough, the last weather update predicts two feet by morning, followed by another snowstorm tomorrow night.
I loosen the death grip on the steering wheel as soon as I pass the wooden sign, “Welcome to Thunder Ridge Population 987.”
Grateful I’ve made it in one piece, I pull into Rhett’s Speedy Pump. I zip up my down jacket, snag my knit cap off the passenger’s seat, and stuff my hands into a pair of gloves. I climb out of the car and stretch my arms till my back cracks. Even though I’ve been sitting in one spot for a long time, my hips feel perfect. Maybe Doc’s wrong. Maybe I should consider a second opinion. Then again, who am I kidding? Doc is a good man and one hell of a doctor. He’s patched me up and put me back on the ice when others would have said no. So, I know if he says my hockey days are numbered… they’re numbered.
I put the nozzle in the tank to autofill while I open the hood to check my windshield washer fluid. I'm happy to see that it’s nearly full, so I top off the gas tank. I’m returning the nozzle on the pump when I see a black BMW sliding across the parking lot, headed straight for my new Land Rover.
What in the bloody hell?
“Stop!” I shout.
Crunch…
I jog to the front of my car, breathing a huge sigh of relief. There’s not a dent in sight. Tomorrow, I’ll call the dealer who talked me into adding customized large bumpers to thank him.
“I’m sorry. I slammed on the brake, which I know is the worst thing to do in the snow. Are you all right?”
I turn around and freeze.
Thick copper hair.
Plump, full lips.
Brilliant green eyes with flecks of gold.
And under that black winter down coat are lush, round curves.
“Maya Prescott,” I mumble.
“Cade?” She flinches. Cade Wylie? What are you doing here?”
“I’m shocked you remember my name.” I snip.
We met at a charity event three years ago. I was instantly drawn to her beauty, sense of humor, and killer body. It took me a while to get the courage to ask her out. When I did, she gave me a beautiful smile followed by a big, fat, “I don’t date hockey players.”
Later, I found out that she was the infamous Ice Princess, the granddaughter of the owner of the Frostwolves franchise. Evidently, hockey players were good enough to use to build up your bank account. But we aren’t good enough to date.
Message received.
A strong gust of wind blows her long curls across her face. She’s breathtaking. Her hair is dotted with snow, a bright pink flush to her cheeks.
I push that thought away, gather the memory of not being good enough for her, pour it into my gaze, and lock in on her gorgeous face. “Sheriff or insurance. Your call.”
2
MAYA
My heart is beating so hard I can’t think.
Of all the cars in the world to run into, I crash into Cade Wylie’s!
The man who’s been haunting my dreams for the past three years.
The world is against me.
“Sheriff or insurance card.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I don’t have all day.”
I stomp through the snow to the passenger’s side, open the door, and take the card out of the glovebox. “This is unnecessary. There’s no damage to your car.”
“How do you know? Do you have X-ray vision? Can you see what’s under the bumper? I’ll let you know that this is a brand-new luxury car under warranty. Therefore, I’m going to take it to my mechanic for a thorough check. You hit me pretty hard.” He snarls. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I humph. “You?”
“No.” He points at my BMW. “You don’t have snow tires on that thing.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Wylie, but I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life, and I’ve never put snow tires on my car.”
“Explain this,” he waves his hand at where our bumpers are connected. “Look, I don’t know where you’re going, but with that lead foot of yours, you’d better get off the road. There’s another storm coming right after this one. Besides woman, seeing the way you drive, you’re either going to kill someone or kill yourself.”
“Woman? You have some nerve. It’s the twenty-first century, Mr. Wylie. Women are just as capable as men.” I snatch my card out of his hand. “Now, if you’re done demeaning me and getting gas for your brand-new toy, I would appreciate it if you would move so that I can fill my tank. I have to be in Denver by seven o’clock tonight for an annual family Christmas party.”
“Denver?” His brows snap down tight. “You’ll never make it.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
Cade’s cheeks flash bright red. His nostrils flare. And his jaw starts to twitch. “No, Ms. Prescott.” His deep blue eyes turn to ice. “Here’s a newsflash for you, take a good look around.” His arm sweeps through the air. “It’s a raging goddamn snowstorm, and you don’t have snow tires on your pretty little ride.”
“Don’t use that tone with me.” I flinch.
He steps forward. “Is it the tone that bothers you, Ms. Prescott? Or the fact that a lowly little hockey player has the audacity to tell the Ice Princess the truth.”
Infuriated and horrified that he dared to call me Ice Princess to my face, I snap back. “Unlike you, Mr. Wylie, I don’t judge people.”
His gaze turns to steel. “That’s a lie.”
His eyes drift to my mouth, which shouldn’t send a wave of heat coiling through my entire body, but it does.
“I never lie.” I shoot back.
“Right. And you’re a good driver.”
Seething, I back away from him because this conversation is getting us nowhere. The man is talking to me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Yet my body is on fire, lighting up on the inside like it’s one of those professional fireworks displays. I’m putting an end to this right now.
“We’re done here, Mr. Wylie. You have my insurance information.”
Cade stares at me in silence for a few seconds before he clomps through a snowdrift. He climbs inside his Rover, starts the engine, then hangs his head out the window. “A word to the wise, Ms. Prescott. Don’t drive in this storm.”
I watch as the taillights of his Rover fade through a curtain of snow. As much as I hate to admit it, Cade is right. Driving to Denver in the storm would be reckless. I gather what’s left of my pride and take out my cell to find a hotel.
And then I pray I will never see Cade Wylie again.
3
CADE
I keep my eyes on the windshield, refusing to look one last time at Maya Prescott. I’m not going to think about the way her expensive leather pants hug her voluptuous hips. I definitely won’t think about those full lips of hers and what I want her to do with them. And I damn sure won’t worry about her driving to Denver in a snowstorm.
Nope.
Not my problem.
I smack the turn signal and take a hard right into the City Market parking lot.
I don’t judge people.
Liar.
I grab a grocery cart, fuming at her words. Didn’t judge people? Right. I toss a bag of potatoes into the wagon. Of course, she judges people. When she turned me down for a date, she made it crystal clear: I don’t date hockey players. I pick up a bag of carrots, followed by a bag of onions, and hurl them on top of the potatoes. I move on to pick up a bunch of salad ingredients before making my way to the meat aisle.
I’m in the process of manhandling a pot roast when a bright-eyed clerk walks over wearing a nervous smile.
“You look like you could use some help,” she says, holding out one of those plastic arm baskets full of fresh produce. “You bruised all your vegetables. These are fresh.”
I glance down at the mangled carrots and crushed tomatoes. “I did a number on them, didn’t I?”
“You did.” She fishes the mutilated vegetables from my cart. “Better the produce than the person you’re thinking about.”
“True.” I chuckle. “Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“No worries.” She smiles. “Hey, have you gotten your tree for Christmas yet?”
“Can’t say that I have.” There’s no need to tell this sweet kid I don’t celebrate Christmas.
“Well, Hank’s General Store has them on sale for half-price. For every tree sold, Hank gives three-quarters of the proceeds to the Thunder Ridge senior class for their prom.”
I gingerly place four dozen eggs in the cart. “Are you a senior?”
“I am.”
“Then I’m going to Hank’s as soon as I leave here and buy two.”
“Two?” Her eyes go wide.
“Two.” I shoot her a wink. “Thanks for your help. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too!” She dances off to the front of the store.
Feeling somewhat relaxed from the moment I walked into the store and infused with a tiny bit of the Christmas spirit, I finish up my shopping and head to Hank’s General Store to keep my word.
With two trees tied to the roof of my car, a back seat full of Christmas decorations and a rear compartment loaded to the gills with groceries, firewood and liquor, I’m finally on the way to my cabin. While I was shopping, Mother Nature has seen fit to drop a full foot of snow. Thankfully, I’m almost home.
While trying to decide between ribeye for dinner and my favorite frozen macaroni and cheese, I turn the wipers on high. The snow is coming down faster and heavier, making it harder to see as dusk settles over the mountains. Up ahead, there’s something big and dark on the side of the road. I slow down to a crawl, praying it isn’t a wounded elk or a moose. I inch forward and have to blink a few times to unscramble my brain.
Impossible.
I’m staring at the tail end of a black car half-buried in a snowbank. But it isn’t any black car. It’s a black BMW, and crouched down beside it, trying to dig out the tires with her hands, is none other than the woman I never wanted to lay eyes on again…Maya Prescott.
I think about driving right past her.
But I don’t.
I hit the brakes, grip the wheel, put on my flashers and reach over to open the passenger’s door. frigid blast of icy air smacks me in the face.
