Fake Dating The Rival Team's Captain

Chapter 6

[Kathy]

Wayne crossed the room and planted himself between between Blair and me.

"Get your hand off her." He pried Blair's fingers from my wrist.

Blair's eyes flicked to him, something ugly flashing across his face, the kind of look that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with two guys who'd hated each other since long before either of them had a reason worth naming.

"This isn't your business, Xander."

"Think again," Wayne said.

The room had gone quiet around us, phones already rising into the air.

"Say that again." Blair's mouth twitched.

"I said—"

He didn't let Wayne finish.

His fist connected before I even registered him swinging.

Wayne staggered back into the counter, knocking over a flower vase, the crowd around us gasping in that specific way that meant every phone in the room caught it from a different angle.

Wayne touched his lip, fingers coming away red. He fought a smile.

"You're gonna regret that, Mascot."

"Try me."

Wayne rushed at him, knocking him to the floor. One punch. Then another. Before he could throw a third, Jason shoved between them.

"Somebody called the cops!" Someone announced and the crowd swallowed the moment whole, in panic.

Wayne grabbed my hand and didn't let go until we hit his truck.

Neither of us said much on the ride home. I kept staring at the mark Blair's fingers had left on my wrist, and Wayne kept glancing at it too, jaw tight, knuckles pale on the steering wheel.

He pulled up outside my building, engine idling, the porch light flickering the same way it had all semester.

"You didn't have to hit him," I said—breaking the silence.

"He started it."

"You could have handled it better."

His head snapped towards me. "I can't believe you're siding with your boyfriend right now—When I actually stepped in because he wouldn't let you go."

"What? No! And please, ex-boyfriend. And I'm not siding with any of you. I'm just saying that you know how Blair is. He's going to make this into something."

"Let him. Isn't this what we wanted? Or are you worried about your 'ex-boyfriend'."

"I..."

I let out a breath. "I'm not. I just don't want things to get out of hand."

"They already have."

"He's not going to let this go. And honestly, I don't want to be caught in between two guys measuring their egos against each other every time they're in a room."

Wayne leaned back against the headrest, entirely too relaxed for someone I was actively trying to lecture.

"You finished?"

"No."

"Take your time, then."

I glared at him, how is he so unbothered about this. My pulse still hadn't settled from watching him throw those punches.

"I'm serious, Wayne. This could actually hurt you."

His eyes softened.

"Is Kathy Lexing worried about me?"

I gave him a flat look.

"Alright." He said, hands in the air.

"Look Kathy. This isn't the first time Blair and I have gone at it."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's supposed to make you stop worrying." He shrugged, easy as anything, like tonight had cost him nothing at all.

I sighed. "Why do you guys even hate each other this much?"

He smiled.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about that."

I studied him for a second. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

I reached for the door handle. His voice caught me before I could climb out.

"Hey."

I looked back.

"You good?" he asked, and for once the cockiness dropped out of it completely, replaced by something quieter. "Actually good. Not performance good."

The question sat there a second too long before I answered.

"I'm good."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Neither of us moved for another beat, something unspoken stretching thin between us, until I finally pushed the door open and broke it.

"Night, Lexing."

"Night, Xander."

I didn't look back until I hit the top of the stairs, and by then his truck was already pulling away from the curb.

...

Few days later...

The arena buzzed with a different kind of electricity.

Home game—held at Blackridge U.

As much as I loved hockey I didn't want to come, because of obvious reasons, but Wayne had convinced me to.

The game had not begun. So I'd gone looking for the concession stand, but I was drawn by the sound of Wayne's name said in a tone that wasn't cheering.

Just by the corner, I saw Wayne standing with a man that looked familiar—he was the coach of Blackridge U hockey team.

I should've kept walking.

I didn't.

"Recognize this?"

Coach Petrov's voice, low and flat, the kind of calm that usually meant someone was in trouble.

"Yeah," Wayne said.

"Care to explain?"

"Guy had his hands on someone who wanted him off her. I made sure he got the message."

My stomach twisted, half guilt, half something warmer I didn't have time to examine.

They were obviously talking about the fight between Blair and Wayne that happened few nights ago.

"Real noble," Petrov said. "Real noble, and also currently sitting at two hundred thousand views with your jersey number tagged in half the comments."

"It's handled."

"It's not handled, Xander. It's a headline. 'Rival captains brawl at off-campus party' isn't a headline that gets scouts interested. It's a headline that gets you a reputation."

I pressed closer to the wall, heart pounding somewhere up near my throat.

"He deserved it."

"I don't care what he deserved. I care what shows up on tape when some scout's doing background on my captain three months before playoffs."

Silence, just long enough that I pictured Wayne's jaw doing that tight thing it did whenever he was holding back a comment he knew better than to make.

"This isn't the first incident with Mascot, either. I've seen the video, the other video that's trending—about you and some ex-girlfriend of his."

"You want to know what happens the next time I see your name trending next to bad publicity?"

Nothing from Wayne.

"I call your father."

The words landed like they'd been aimed at me too. I thought about what he'd said in the truck, brushing off Blair, brushing off the fight, like none of it cost him anything, but standing here now, I wasn't so sure that was true.

"That's not necessary," Wayne said, and for the first time, something in his voice had gone thin.

"It becomes necessary the second you make it necessary. Your dad's already got opinions about your ice time. I don't need to hand him a highlight reel of his son throwing punches at parties to add to the list. That's if he hasn't seen it already, which I'm sure he hasn't because he's busy—otherwise my phone would be buzzing nonstop by now."

"This has nothing to do with him."

"Everything you do has something to do with him, whether you like it or not. That's the name on your jersey."

"Get your head right, Xander. Whatever's going on with Mascot—keep it off camera. I mean that."

"Understood."

"Good. Now get on the ice."

I stalked away back to the arena before any of them could see me.

Wayne came out first, skated onto the ice, shoulders squared, expression already smoothed back into something easy and unbothered—the same mask he'd worn in his truck nights ago, like none of it touched him at all.

I knew better now.

I looked for a seat, as the game was about to begin.

Bree found me before I found my seat.

Great. Just great.

I've seen her a couple of times after that night but we never really interacted.

"Didn't think you'd actually show."

Didn't think she'd actually have the guts to talk to me.

She winced, arms crossed over her jersey—Blair's old jersey, I noticed, the one with Blair's number still stitched across the back, and something ugly twisted low in my stomach at the sight of it.

"Is this what we're doing now Kathy? Ignoring me, acting like you don't know me."

I scoffed. "Saying all that while wearing his jersey."

She studied the jersey like she didn't know she had it on. "It's just a shirt, Kathy. And you know about it."

"Just a shirt."

"Don't make this weird, Kathy."

"You don't get to decide what's weird after what you did."

Bree's face crumpled, guilt and defensiveness warring across it in equal measure.

"I told you the truth. I could've kept my mouth shut forever and let you keep dating a guy who was screwing half the sophomore class. I didn't have to say anything."

"Doesn't justify what you did."

We stood there, both of us breathing hard, the noise of the crowd swelling around us like static.

"I know that," she said finally, quieter.

"Look, I miss you, okay." she continued.

"I know I don't deserve to say that right now. But I do. And I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I said a lot of hurtful words to you that night."

I didn't answer, because I didn't trust her anymore. I don't know if she's being sincere right now.

But I couldn't deny it, some small, stubborn part of me still missed her too, even furious as I was.

She sighed, then slid two seats down instead of pushing for more.

The game started.

The first two periods passed in a blur of body checks and near-misses. Wayne stole the puck along the boards at every chance he got, weaving through defenders like the ice belonged to him personally, and I found myself on my feet more than once, screaming loud enough that Bree shot me a look I chose to ignore.

Late in the third period, Redmont took the ice for their game against Blackridge—the second rivalry matchup of the season.

Blair line up against Wayne.

The hit came fast. Blair drove his shoulder into Wayne's side well after the whistle, sending him crashing into the boards hard enough that the whole section gasped at once.

I was on my feet before I decided to stand, knuckles white against the railing, heart slamming against my ribs.

Wayne got up slow, shaking it off, shooting Blair a look that promised retribution on his own terms, in his own time.

I didn't breathe right again until the final buzzer.

After the game, I waited by the tunnel where families and friends always clustered, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline and victory.

Blair emerged first.

"Kathy."

But I didn't spare him a look, as Wayne followed right behind him, still catching his breath, hair damp, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw where the boards had caught him.

Subconsciously, I brushed past Blair.

"You're an i***t," I said, before Wayne could get a word out. "You could've gotten hurt worse."

"Worth it. We won."

"That's not the point."

"Kinda is the point, actually."

I rolled my eyes, but relief crashed through me anyway, sharp and real.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, easy and unthinking, the kind of gesture that belonged to something a lot less fake than what we'd agreed to.

"You were worried."

"I wasn't."

"You were worried, Lexing. Admit it."

I opened my mouth to argue, and that was exactly when I felt it—the specific, prickling awareness of being watched.

Blair's jaw ticked, gaze dropping to Wayne's hand still resting near my face, and something furious and wounded flickered behind his eyes all at once.

***