Page 12

"That's it! Hold that expression!" I called, snapping rapidly as Ethan executed a perfect slap shot during practice. I was reviewing the photos on my camera's display when an idea crystallized—one that had been forming since our coffee shop conversation last week.

I waited until practice ended, then caught Ethan as he was leaving the locker room, his hair still damp from the shower.

"Hey," I said, suddenly nervous. "Can I talk to you about something? A photography idea."

His eyebrows raised. "Sure. What's up?"

I took a breath. "So, I've been thinking about a photo series. Not just action shots of games and practices, but something more... comprehensive. The full spectrum of what it means to be an athlete at this level."

He looked intrigued. "Go on."

"I want to document everything—your preparation, your focus, the victories, the disappointments. The person behind the player." I bit my lip, awaiting his reaction. "It would mean shadowing you more closely, getting access to moments most people don't see."

I expected hesitation, maybe outright refusal. This was asking for access to the very parts of himself he kept carefully guarded. To my surprise, he didn't even pause.

"Okay."

I blinked. "Okay? Just like that?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "Just like that. I trust you, Mia."

The simple statement hit me with unexpected force.

"Thank you," I managed, oddly touched. "I promise I'll be respectful of your space. Just tell me if anything feels off-limits."

"I'm an open book," he smiled. "When do we start?"

"Now?" I suggested. "I mean, if you're heading to class or something, I could just...follow along? Get some natural moments?"

He chuckled. "Stalking me for art's sake, huh?"

"It's not stalking if you consent," I retorted.

"Fair enough, stalker." His smile widened. "I'm all yours."

The phrase sent a ridiculous flutter through me, which I promptly ignored.

Over the next few days, my camera became an extension of my arm as I shadowed Ethan through his routine. I captured moments no one else saw: the intense focus in his eyes during Coach's strategy talks; the way he patiently helped Tyler perfect a defensive move, his instruction far gentler than his on-ice captain persona would suggest.

One afternoon, I photographed him sitting alone in the empty arena, staring at the ice with an expression so complex and unguarded that I almost felt like I was intruding. When he heard my camera click, he looked up, but didn't mask his expression as he might have weeks ago.

"Caught me brooding, huh?" he asked with a small smile.

"Contemplating," I corrected, sitting beside him on the bench. "What were you thinking about?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer.

"My dad's injury," he finally said. "It happened on this exact date, fifteen years ago. Shattered kneecap, ending a career that was supposed to be legendary." His eyes remained fixed on the ice. "I was seven. I remember the screaming, then the silence afterward that was somehow worse."

I lowered my camera, sensing this wasn't a moment to document. "I'm sorry."

A humorless shrug. "That’s a long time ago. But sometimes..." He sighed, breath misting slightly. "Sometimes I stand here and think, what if that's me next ? One wrong move, and everything I've worked my whole damn life for vanishes."

My hand found his, covering it instinctively. "That's a terrifying thought," I said softly. "And yeah, the risk is real, I get that." I squeezed his hand gently. "But it doesn't cancel out the other part. When you're out there, there's this... light. Real joy in how you play."

His eyes met mine, surprised and searching. "You see that?"

"I'm a photographer," I reminded him gently. "Seeing is literally my job."

That earned a genuine laugh. "So what else do you see, Ms. Professional Observer?"

"I see someone who carries too much weight but still finds moments of pure connection with the game," I said honestly. "I see leadership that goes beyond barking orders—the way you adapt your approach for different teammates. And..." I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.

"And?" he prompted.

"And I see a lot more than just a hockey player," I admitted quietly.

The air between us felt charged with something dangerous. Before either of us could speak again, his phone buzzed with a text from Coach, breaking the moment.

"Team meeting," he explained, standing. "Dinner after? You can tell me more about what that fancy camera of yours has revealed."

I nodded, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest at the casual invitation. "It's a date."

Only after he'd walked away did I register my poor choice of words.

This wasn't a date. This was research. Documentation. Art.

So why did it feel increasingly like something else entirely?

"You're becoming quite the stalker," Ethan teased two days later as I photographed him studying game footage in his apartment, the blue light of the screen illuminating his concentrated features. "Should I be concerned?"

"Please," I scoffed, lowering my camera. "You volunteered for this, remember?"

"That I did." He stretched, closing his laptop. "Though I didn't realize it would involve documenting my exciting activities like 'staring at screen' and 'eating protein bar with minimal enthusiasm.'"

"It's all part of the story," I insisted. "The unglamorous reality behind the highlight reel."

"Well, the unglamorous reality is getting kind of hungry. Want to order pizza?"

I checked my watch. "I should probably get these files uploaded for tomorrow's paper."

"You can do it here," he offered. "Our WiFi is surprisingly decent, despite Dylan's questionable streaming habits."

The invitation shouldn't have made my pulse quicken. Yet as I sat cross-legged on Ethan's couch, editing photos while he called in our order, I couldn't help feeling a dangerous sense of comfort.

"So what's the verdict?" he asked later, as we ate pizza straight from the box, my laptop balanced on the coffee table displaying the photo series in progress. "Am I sufficiently captured in all my complex glory?"

I rolled my eyes at his teasing tone, but considered the question seriously. "Not yet," I admitted. "I'm still missing something."

"What's that?"

"I'm not sure exactly. There's a piece of you I haven't quite caught on camera. Something beneath the surface."

He raised an eyebrow. “Getting pretty philosophical for a fake relationship, don’t you think?”

The comment was clearly meant as a joke, but it landed like a stone between us, a sudden reminder of the artifice at the foundation of our connection. I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to my ears.

"It's for art," I said lightly, closing my laptop. “Anyway, I should get going. Early class tomorrow.”

He observed my abrupt shift, but didn't comment on it. He walked me to the door, our goodbye awkwardly formal compared to the easy conversation of moments before.

Walking home, his joke echoed. Fake relationship . Except... it wasn't feeling very fake anymore. And that was a problem. A big one.

Back in my darkroom the next day, developing the newest batch of photos, I stared at the emerging images of Ethan.

The way I saw him had fundamentally shifted. Gone was the entitled jock I'd initially dismissed; in his place stood someone complex, struggling beneath the weight of impossible expectations while fiercely guarding his love for the game. My camera lens had captured this transformation, but so had my heart, in ways that terrified me.

I was still staring at a particular photo when Olivia found me.

"Earth to Mia," she said, waving a hand in front of my face. "I've been calling your name for like, thirty seconds."

I startled. "Sorry, just reviewing these shots."

Olivia leaned over my shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she took in the photos spread across my workspace. "Hmm, interesting. I count seventeen photos of Ethan and exactly zero of any other player." She picked up the one I'd been staring at. "And this one isn't even hockey-related. It's just... him."

"It's a photo study," I defended weakly. "Capturing the person behind the player."

"Uh-huh." She crossed her arms, fixing me with a look that said she wasn't buying it. "And how's that 'strictly business' arrangement working out for you?"

I turned back to my photos, avoiding her eyes. "Fine."

“Fine? Just ‘fine’? How about: ‘Complicated by the fact that I’m starting to have genuine feelings for the guy I’m fake-dating’?”

"Don't be ridiculous," I snapped, with enough heat to confirm her suspicions.

"Oh boy," she sighed, pulling up a stool. "I was afraid of this."

I continued sorting photos, trying to appear unaffected. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Everything's under control."

"Really? Because that's your third copy of the same photo, and you've been staring at it for ten minutes."

I glanced down, realizing she was right. "I'm just... being thorough."

Olivia's expression softened. "Mia, come on. This is me you're talking to. What's really going on?"

I set down the photos, the fight leaving me. "I don't know," I admitted, rubbing my face. "It's confusing."

"What's confusing? Either you like him or you don't."

"It's not that simple." I gestured to the photos spread before us. "Look at these. Two months ago, I thought he was just another entitled athlete. But now I see all these different sides of him—the pressure he's under, the moments of genuine joy when he connects with the game, how he takes care of his teammates..."

"So you've discovered he's a complex human being with more than one dimension. Shocking," Olivia deadpanned. "The question is, do you like him like him?"

I groaned. "What are we, twelve?"

"Emotionally? When it comes to this stuff? Pretty much." She picked up another photo—this one capturing Ethan mid-laugh during a team dinner. "Look, I get it. The guy turned out to be more than a jerk jock stereotype. But you need to be careful here. This whole arrangement has an expiration date, remember? Hockey season ends, he gets drafted, you get your internship opportunity, and you both walk away."

"I know," I said quietly. "I know it's temporary. I know it started as a business deal. But sometimes, when we're together, it doesn't feel fake anymore." I looked up at her. "And that terrifies me."

Olivia's expression softened. "Oh, Mia."

"What am I supposed to do?"

She considered for a moment. "I think you have two options. Either reinforce those boundaries and remember this is a transaction with an end date, or..." she trailed off.

"Or?"

"Or be honest with him about how you're feeling and see if he's on the same page." She shrugged. "Novel concept, I know—actual communication."

The thought made my stomach clench with anxiety. "And risk the arrangement falling apart? I need that Sports Illustrations connection, Olivia. My scholarship depends on it."

"So door number one it is," she said with a sigh. "Reinforce boundaries, remember it's fake, protect your heart."

I nodded, gathering the photos into a neat stack. "Exactly. Strictly business from now on."

Even as I said it, my eyes drifted back to the photo of Ethan's unguarded smile, and I knew I was already failing.