Fake Dating the Defenseman Next Door (Soltero Beach Scorpions Hockey #1)

10. Diego

ten

Diego

“ P ick it up, pick it up. C’mon, where’s your hustle?” Coach Darby shouts, frustration edging his tone. “De La Cruz, I’m talking to you! Move those feet!”

My legs are on fire, screaming with the burn as I race to catch up to the speedy Portland Piranha’s winger who blows past me. Eli chases, but my skate catches when I turn and I drop down to a knee, losing valuable time.

Behind the bench, I hear Coach swear and throw something at the glass separating the benches.

I climb to my feet in time to see that little shit dance right around Elias’s stick and fire one right past Max’s shoulder pad. The lamp lights up, and both cheers and groans erupt from the bloodthirsty crowd in attendance.

Fuck.

My fault. I stomp behind the boards, and barely refrain from throwing my stick as I take a seat on the bench. I don’t dare look at Coach, who’s pacing down the other end with his hands on his hips while other guys hop off to the face-off.

“You’re getting old,” Eli jokes, cracking a smile. “You getting ready to hang ‘em up?”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s not what it used to be, eh? Remember when we’d roll in, nursing a hang over but still able to move like that kid that just scored?”

Scoffing, I shake my head. “I just need a little more conditioning. Another week, maybe.”

Eli nods. “You’ve got maybe three days.”

On my other side, Leonid elbows me. “Hey, D, think they’ll give me the ‘A’ if you can’t get your head right, D?”

I scowl at him darkly.

He raises his hands in surrender, but chuckles under his breath.

“Hey, man. Just trying to light a fire under your ass.” He turns his attention back to the ice. “It’s what you’d be doing for me if the skate was on the other foot.”

I grunt as the first period ends and we file off to the locker room.

As soon as I round the corner and enter the locker room, I see a familiar figure leaning against the door frame.

Antonio De La Cruz, former NHL legend, whose name and jersey number hang up in the rafters of the arena like a heavy shadow I can’t ever be rid of.

Just what I fucking need.

“What are you doing back here, Dad?” I snap.

“Can we talk?”

“Kinda in the middle of something here,” I gesture around and shake off my helmet and gloves.

“After the game then.”

My back stiffens as I eyeball him. My dad only turns up to talk about one thing - hockey. And that inevitably leads into what a disappointment I am that I don’t have the kind of fire he brought to the game.

No matter how many times I’ve tried to tell him that I’m not him. It’s like I’m his second shot at the Show and he wants me to accomplish all the things he didn’t, or push me to do what he did.

“No.”

I turn aside, ripping the top half of my gear off to air out, intent on ignoring him.

But his hand lashes out and he grips my elbow.

“Son. I’m worried. You’re not looking like yourself out there.”

Shrugging off his touch, I catch a flash of hurt in his deep-set brown eyes before it’s gone. I towel dry my sweat-soaked body and hair while he keeps talking.

“I want to know if you’re okay. Check if you need to tweak your workouts or see that you’re putting the proper fuel in the tank to help your performance.”

A sick, rolling feeling lands in my gut and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The old, familiar frustration I feel whenever dad comes to the rink wanting to give me unsolicited advice has my shoulders scrunching up tight.

I snap the towel off and chuck it into the laundry. Through gritted teeth, I grind out, “I know what to eat before a game.”

“It shouldn’t be donuts!” he calls after me as I turn to go.

I stop short and whirl around.

“I haven’t had a decent donut in weeks,” I roar. The shitty ones don’t count. Not really. “Anyway, it’s not really your problem anymore, is it? Last I checked, you’re not my coach.”

His jaw tightens and his nostrils flares. “No, but I am your father.”

“Are you?” I ask, my tone laces with mock shock. “Could’ve maybe tried as hard as you did to get your name etched into that shiny Cup, though, huh?”

I regret the words as soon as they’re out, landing like a blow. My dad draws back, brows knitting together and hand balling into a fist.

“Um, hey. Sorry to interrupt.” One of the security guys steps in, throwing a wary look between the both of us. “There’s some lady here, causing a bit of a scene upstairs saying something about having something for you. She’s, ah, claiming to be your girlfriend, so your sister brought her down here.”

My eyebrows shoot up and I glance behind him, raking my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. “What? She’s here? Where?”

“What girlfriend?” Dad crosses his arms.

The locker room door swings open and a wide-eyed Angela strides in, carrying a giant pink box of donuts and wearing the royal purple and silver--the opposing team’s colors.

My heart pounds.

“Is that… is that the chick who shut down the party last week?” someone murmurs from behind me.

“Who is this woman?” Dad demands, frowning at the box of treats in her arms.

A smile spreads across my face.

“My donut dealer.”