Page 44 of Faking It For Real

Driving back to my apartment, I found myself replaying moments from the evening. The way she'd leaned in slightly when I was speaking, genuinely interested in my explanation of power play strategy. How she'd snuck the mushrooms from her pizza onto my plate, having noticed at previous meals that I liked them while she didn't.

These small intimacies had accumulated over the weeks, building something that felt increasingly real despite its artificial foundation.

Back at the apartment, I found Dylan waiting up, apparently for the express purpose of continuing his earlier observation.

"So," he began as soon as I walked in, "want to talk about it?"

"About what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.

"About the fact that you're falling for your fake girlfriend," he said bluntly. "Which is exactly what I predicted would happen, if you recall."

"I'm not falling for anyone," I insisted, dropping onto the couch beside him. "It's an arrangement. A mutually beneficial one."

"Right," Dylan nodded. "And all those late-night texts are purely business."

I shot him a look. "How do you know about those?"

"Dude, the walls in this apartment are thin, and you have the world's loudest text notification sound," he pointed out. "Plus, you get this stupid smile every time your phone buzzes after 11 PM."

"That's not—" I began, then stopped, unable to formulate a convincing denial. "It's complicated."

"No, it's actually very simple," Dylan countered. "You like her. As in, actually like her, not pretend-for-Vanessa like her. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," I said firmly. "This arrangement has an expiration date. We both have priorities that don't include a real relationship."

"If you say so," Dylan shrugged, standing up. "But from where I'm sitting, it looks like your priorities might be shifting. Just something to think about."

Chapter 10: Mia

My fingers trembled slightly as I set up my equipment on the sidelines of the away arena. The air buzzed with hostility, thick with the anticipation of rivalry.Wolves’biggest crosstown enemy was hosting us tonight, and even I, the sports photography novice, knew this game carried historic significance.

"You okay there?" Tyler asked, pausing as he headed toward the ice. "You look like you're about to photograph a firing squad, not a hockey game."

I forced a smile. "Just setting up. Are the away games always this intense?”

Tyler laughed, adjusting his goalie mask. "Wait till they start the chants. Their fans have been practicing creative ways to destroy our will to live all week." He glanced over at the opposing team's side. "Especially for Ethan. They love targeting him."

"Why Ethan specifically?" I asked, fiddling with my camera settings.

"His dad," Tyler said simply. "Richard was legendary, and these guys never let Ethan forget he's playing in his shadow." He tapped his mask. "Don't worry, though. It just makes him play harder."

As Tyler skated away, I scanned the rink, automatically seeking out Ethan's tall form. He was already on the ice for warm-ups, his movements precise but noticeably tense. Even from this distance, I could see the rigid set of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.

The opposing fans were already starting, their coordinated jeers rising above the pre-game music. My stomach clenched when I heard the first personal taunt directed at Ethan: "Daddy can't save you tonight, Wright!"

I peered through my viewfinder, focusing on Ethan's face. His expression remained impassive, but I caught the slight twitch in his jaw, the momentary flash of something raw in his eyes before he buried it. It made my chest ache in a way I wasn't expecting. I barely knew the guy few weeks ago, and now I was feeling personally offended on his behalf.

This is just a job, I reminded myself sternly.A mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more.

But the mantra felt increasingly hollow.

The arena erupted as both teams took their positions for the opening face-off. I held my breath, camera poised, as the referee dropped the puck. Immediately, the game exploded into a frenzy of motion more aggressive than any I'd photographed before. Bodies slammed against the boards with sickening thuds that made me wince. Sticks clashed. Players barked at each other during face-offs, their eyes narrowed with genuine animosity.

Through my lens, I tracked Ethan moving across the ice, his speed and control impossible to ignore. The opposing team was clearly targeting him, sending their biggest players to check him at every opportunity. Each time he was slammed into the boards, I found myself tensing, a knot forming in my stomach that had nothing to do with getting the perfect shot.

By the second period, the penalty boxes had a revolving door of occupants from both teams. The game was getting uglier by the minute, the rivalry spilling over into dangerous territory. I kept shooting, capturing grimaces, flying sweat, and the increasing desperation on both benches.

Then it happened.

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