{"product_id":"the-fake-out-isbn-9798217091133","title":"The Fake Out","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn 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 \u003ci\u003eBehind the Net \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Wingman.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s all for show, but when Rory kisses her like it’s real, Hazel starts to wonder . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas he ever faking it to begin with?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDon't miss any of Stephanie Archer’s steamy Vancouver Storm series: BEHIND THE NET • THE FAKE OUT • THE WINGMAN\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eStephanie Archer \u003c\/b\u003ewrites 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.\u003cb\u003eCHAPTER 1 \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eRory\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlood 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt pings off the crossbar, and the Vancouver fans let out a collective groan of disappointment. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eStars score goals. \u003c\/i\u003eMy 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe whistle blows, the game stops, and I look over to the pretty girl who’s been catching my attention all night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHazel 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHazel 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wink at her; she rolls her eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grin; she pretends to yawn. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething electric and addictive floods my veins at our back-and-forth. It’s always been like this with us, ever since high school. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let’s go, Miller,” Coach Ward calls from the bench. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDetermination 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlaying for him this season will fix whatever’s gone wrong in my head. It has to. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHayden 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing. Fans rattle the glass and the team surrounds me, but I experience blank, silent emptiness. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eComing to Vancouver to play for Ward, to play with goal‐tender Jamie Streicher, my best friend—these things were supposed to change that. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look alive, Miller.” Owens grabs me by the shoulders and tries to put me in a headlock. “You just won the game.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFans watch as I tap my stick against the glass and she lifts her gaze to meet mine, arching an eyebrow as if to say, \u003ci\u003ewhat, asshole?\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you want an autograph?\u003c\/i\u003e I mouth, making the signing motion in the air. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI watch her lips curve into a cool smile. \u003ci\u003eYou wish,\u003c\/i\u003e she mouths back at me as she stands. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy chest expands with a tight, excited feeling. No one talks to me like Hartley does. I’ve always liked that about her. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd these days, sparring with her? It’s the only time I actually feel something. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeside her, Pippa grins at me, waving. “Nice goal, Rory,” she calls over the glass. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOwens pounds on the glass, waving at her, and she laughs, eyes lighting up as Streicher, her fiancé, skates up to greet her with a quiet smile. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething tugs around my heart as I watch Pippa blow a kiss to him. Behind her, Hartley’s already halfway up the stairs that lead out of the arena, ponytail bouncing with each step.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e wearing the leggings, and her ass \u003ci\u003edoes\u003c\/i\u003e look incredible. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I think Hartley likes me,” I say to the guys over the arena music, keeping my eyes on her retreating form. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOwens laughs, and even surly Streicher snorts. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not a f***ing chance, bud,” Owens crows, slapping me on the back as we skate off the ice. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy competitive, determined instincts roar to life, honed by years of hockey and training. I thrive on a challenge, and I hate losing. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHartley not giving me the time of day sticks in my mind like a thorn. I like her, but I don’t know how to make something happen with her. I think, deep down, she likes me, too. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHockey is everything, \u003c\/i\u003emy dad always says. \u003ci\u003eHockey comes first.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGetting hung up on a girl is a dangerous game, but I can’t seem to forget about Hazel Hartley. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miller,” Coach Ward calls as I head down the corridor to the dressing room. “Stop by my office after postgame press.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod and make my way to the showers, head still filled with thoughts of Hazel.Author of Behind the Net and The Wingman","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304048480485,"sku":"NP9798217091133","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9798217091133.jpg?v=1767739276","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-fake-out-isbn-9798217091133","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}