Page 95 of Faking It For Real

Mia stood slightly apart from the other photographers, her camera already raised. But what caught my breath was the oversized jersey she wore over her usual jeans and boots—my away jersey, the white fabric stark against her dark hair. Even from a distance, I could make out the large number on the back that matched the one on my practice jersey.

She must have felt my stare, because she lowered her camera—and our eyes met across the rink. A secret smile curved the corners of her lips, a quiet promise meant only for me. In that single gesture—just a smile and a nod—my world snapped into focus. The roar of the crowd faded into white noise, the scouts’ watchful glances dissolved, and there was nothing left but the sheen of the ice, the thrum of my team beside me, and Mia’s unspoken faith shining above.

"Earth to Captain," Dylan nudged me as he skated past. "You planning to join us for warm-ups, or just make heart eyes at the press box all day?"

I snapped back to attention, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "Shut up."

His grin was knowing. "Hey, I get it. But maybe save the romantic gazing for after we win this thing?"

"After we win," I repeated, believing it for the first time. "Let's do this."

The first period was brutal. Our opponents came out blazing, testing our defense immediately with aggressive drives toward the net. Tyler was spectacular in goal, making seemingly impossible saves that kept us in the game. I was everywhere at once, directing plays, calling out positions, taking hits that would leave bruises for days.

The period ended scoreless, but not for lack of trying on either side. Back in the locker room, the tension was high but controlled. This is what we'd trained for.

"They're reading our standard plays," Coach said, scribbling on the whiteboard. "So we're switching it up. Ethan, I want you cutting through the center more. Their defensemen can't match your speed. Use that."

I nodded, mentally revising our strategy. When we took the ice for the second period, there was a renewed determination in our movements. Five minutes in, an opportunity presented itself. Their defenseman slipped, creating a brief opening. Dylan was there in an instant, and I fed him a perfect pass. The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net was almost drowned out by the explosive cheer from our fans.

"That's how it's done!" I shouted, crashing into Dylan in celebration as our teammates mobbed us.

We maintained the lead through the second period, but the tide turned in the third. Their star forward broke through our defense twice in quick succession, scoring goals that silenced our crowd and sent their fans into a frenzy. With seven minutes remaining on the clock, we were down 2-1.

The weight of it all suddenly pressed down on me—my father watching from the stands, the scouts taking notes, my teammates looking to me for leadership, three years of blood and sweat and sacrifice potentially ending in defeat. My chest tightened, vision narrowing dangerously.

Coach called a timeout, and we huddled at the bench, breathing hard.

"We've been in worse spots," he said calmly. "Remember that match last year? Down by three with five minutes left, and what happened?"

"We came back and won in overtime," Tyler replied, his goalie mask pushed up to reveal determined eyes.

"Exactly. This is nothing. We've got this." Coach turned to me. "Ethan, any thoughts?"

But my mind had drifted. Over Coach's shoulder, I could see the press platform. Mia was there, her camera pointed directly at me. Even from a distance, I could feel her studying me, capturing whatever was written on my face in this moment of pressure. Not judging, not expecting—just seeing. Really seeing me.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, I remembered why I played this game. Not for my father's approval, not for NHL contracts, not even for the championship itself. I played because of how it felt to be completely present in my body, the ice beneath my blades, the stick an extension of my arms, the puck a possibility waiting to be realized. I played because I loved it.

"Ethan?" Coach prompted.

I blinked, returning to the huddle. "Sorry. Yes. Their defensemen are getting tired. They're slowing down on transitions. If we push the pace, really push it, they'll start making mistakes."

Coach nodded. "That's what I'm seeing too."

"Tyler," I turned to our goalie. "You're keeping us in this. Just a few more key saves, okay?"

He nodded firmly.

"Dylan, I need you to be ready on my wing. We're going to create some chaos with quick passing."

The buzzer signaled the end of our timeout. As we skated back into position, I felt a strange lightness. Whatever happened in these final minutes, I would play my game—not my father's vision of it, not some performance for the scouts. My game.

The shift in mentality rippled through our play immediately. We became faster, more fluid, less predictable. With three minutes remaining, our persistence paid off. I threaded a nearly impossible pass through two defenders, finding Tyler in perfect position. The tying goal sent our crowd into a frenzy.

The final minute approached, the scoreboard showing 2-2. Overtime loomed as a possibility, but something inside me knew this game would end in regulation.

The faceoff was in our defensive zone. I won it cleanly, setting up our breakout. Dylan took the puck up the right wing while I accelerated through center ice. A defenseman moved to intercept him, leaving me an opening. Dylan saw it too and sent a perfect pass right to my tape.

Time seemed to slow as I received the puck. Two defenders converged on me, but they were a half-step too slow. I deked right, then left, finding myself with a clear lane to the goal. The goalie shifted, anticipating my movement.

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