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"Christmas with his family?" Olivia's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Isn’t that taking the fake-girlfriend gig a bit too far?”

I carefully folded a sweater and tucked it into my overnight bag, avoiding her gaze. "It's just one night. His father is suspicious about our relationship, so Ethan thinks this will help sell the story."

"Uh-huh," Olivia crossed her arms, leaning against my doorframe. "And the fact that you two have been practically inseparable since the Winter Formal has nothing to do with it."

Heat instantly flooded my cheeks. The two weeks since the formal had been a minefield. Ethan and I had irrevocably crossed a line that night, tangled sheets and breathless moments transforming our carefully constructed fake relationship into something messy and undefined.

The aftermath had been jarring. We'd woken in the quiet dawn, the reality of it settling between us like dust motes in the air, only for his phone to buzz with brutal timing – Coach Alvarez, demanding an urgent team meeting. He’d scrambled for his clothes, pausing only long enough to murmur a rushed, "Mia, I... shit. I shouldn't have—that crossed a line. I'm sorry," before practically bolting out the door. Caught completely off guard, I’d managed only a weak, "It's okay, it's not a big deal," to his retreating back.

And we hadn't spoken about it since. Not one word. We’d slipped back into our routine, but now layered with this thick, vibrating tension. He hadn't pushed, and frankly, I was relieved. I'd decided then and there, in the echoing silence after he left, that it wasn't going to be a big deal. It was a moment, fueled by swirling emotions. An anomaly.

“Honestly, it’s no big deal,” I said, the words sounding flimsy even to my own ears. I was trying to convince myself as much as Olivia.

She rolled her eyes and jabbed the air with her fingers. “‘No big deal’—the completely professional, zero-feelings arrangement that just happens to come with sleepovers every weekend and now invites to join my family for the holidays.”

"Olivia," I sighed, sitting on the edge of my bed. "It's complicated."

"It's really not," she countered, her expression softening. "You're into him. He's into you. The only complicated part is that you're both pretending this is still just a business deal."

I buried my face in my hands. "The arrangement has an expiration date, remember? Hockey season ends, he gets drafted, I hopefully get my opportunity with Sports Illustrations , and we both move on. That's the deal."

The memory of his skin against mine, the intensity in his eyes just moments before his phone rang, made that 'deal' feel suddenly, terrifyingly fragile.

"Says who?" Olivia challenged. "Those were the original terms, sure. But circumstances change. Feelings change."

"That's the problem," I admitted quietly. "I can't afford for circumstances to change. I need that Sports Illustrations connection. My scholarship—"

"I know," Olivia interrupted gently. "But have you considered that maybe you can have both? The career opportunity and the guy?"

I looked up at her, surprised by the suggestion. "You think so? You're usually the one warning me away from entitled athletes."

She shrugged. "What can I say? Your hockey captain has grown on me. Like a fungus, but still." She sat beside me on the bed. "Besides, I've seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching. That's not a guy who's just playing pretend."

Her words awakened a dangerous hope in my chest that I quickly suppressed. "Even if that were true—and I'm not saying it is—his career is taking him away after graduation. NHL draft, remember? He'll be going wherever they send him. I can't build my future around someone else's uncertain path."

"Having feelings for someone doesn't mean sacrificing your career," Olivia pointed out. "It just means you might have to work a little harder to find a way forward together."

I zipped my overnight bag with more force than necessary. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's one Christmas dinner with his family, not a proposal."

"Fine, fine," Olivia raised her hands in surrender. "But for what it's worth, I think you should at least consider having an honest conversation with him before the season ends. Clear the air about what's really happening between you two."

I nodded noncommittally, but her suggestion lodged itself in my mind as I finished packing.

Ethan picked me up the next morning for the drive to his parents' suburban home. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and checking his mirrors more often than necessary.

"Relax," I said, placing my hand over his restless one. "It's going to be fine. I'm a very convincing fake girlfriend, remember?"

He gave a tight smile. "It's not that. My dad can be... intense. Especially around the holidays when he has more time to fixate on my hockey progress."

I squeezed his hand. "Well, I'll be there to run interference if needed. I've become quite skilled at diverting uncomfortable conversations."

"Thanks," he said, smiling. "For doing this, I mean. It's beyond what our arrangement requires."

There was that word again—arrangement. It felt increasingly inadequate to describe what existed between us now, yet neither of us seemed willing to address the elephant in the room.

"It's fine," I said lightly. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to avoid my cousin Rebecca's interrogation about my love life for one more day."

His laugh eased some of the tension. We settled into comfortable conversation for the remainder of the drive, discussing everything from our professors' eccentricities to our predictions for Dylan and Olivia's increasingly obvious connection.

"Twenty bucks says they're officially together by New Year's," Ethan wagered.

"No need to bet," I laughed. "They were still arguing when I left this morning, but it was about whether Dylan would look better in a green or red sweater for some party they're apparently attending together. They're practically married already."

When we arrived at Ethan’s home, I found myself unexpectedly nervous. The house was impressive—a large, perfectly maintained suburban property with tasteful Christmas decorations adorning the exterior. I'd brought carefully chosen gifts: artisanal whiskey for his father, a monogrammed scarf for his mother, art supplies for his younger sister Emma, and, after much deliberation, a leatherbound notebook with a hockey player embossed on the cover for Ethan, intended for recording game strategies.

"Ready?" Ethan asked as we approached the front door, our hands linked.

I nodded, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Ready."

His mother, Sandra, answered the door with a warm smile that immediately put me at ease. She was slender and elegant, with Ethan's same blue eyes and an easy grace as she welcomed us inside.

"You must be Mia," she said, enveloping me in a surprising hug. "We've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," I replied with a smile.

"Ethan doesn't bring girls home often," she said conspiratorially. "So you must be special."

The weight of our deception suddenly felt heavier—these weren't random classmates we were fooling, but his family.

We moved into the living room where Ethan's father, Richard, watched from his armchair, assessing me with a shrewd gaze that reminded me intensely of Ethan's expression when evaluating opponents on the ice. He was still handsome, with the same strong jawline as his son, though his hair was shot through with gray and there was a hardness to his features that Ethan's lacked.

"So you're the photographer," he said as he shook my hand. "Ethan says you've been documenting the team this season."

"Yes, sir," I confirmed. "For the university paper and my portfolio."

"Hmm." He met my gaze. "And how did you two meet again? Ethan was rather vague about the details."

Before I could recite our practiced story, I was rescued by a whirlwind of teenage energy as Emma, Ethan's sixteen-year-old sister, bounded into the room.

"Is this her? Is this Mia?" she demanded, looking me up and down with unabashed curiosity. "Finally! I was beginning to think Ethan made you up."

"Emma," Sandra admonished, but there was fondness in her tone. "Give them a moment to settle in."

"It's fine," I laughed, charmed by Emma's directness. "It's nice to meet you, Emma."

"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "I want to show you something while Mom finishes dinner."

Ethan shot me an apologetic look as his sister dragged me from the room, but I just smiled reassuringly. I could handle one enthusiastic teenager.

Emma led me to her bedroom, a colorful space covered in posters of bands I only vaguely recognized and hockey memorabilia that suggested she shared her family's passion for the sport.

"So," she said, closing the door and turning to face me with crossed arms. "What are your intentions with my brother?"

I nearly choked on my surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She narrowed her eyes, a perfect miniature version of Ethan's intimidating captain stare. "Ethan doesn't date much, and when he does, the girls are usually just interested in the hockey star thing. So what's your deal?"

I found myself oddly touched by her protective attitude. "My 'deal' is that I like your brother," I said honestly. "Not just the hockey player, but the person."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. "Good answer. He likes you too, you know. Like, really likes you."

"Did he tell you that?" I asked, my heart beating a little faster despite myself.

"He didn't have to," she rolled her eyes. "The way he talks about you is different. Plus, he's been weirdly happy lately. It's kind of gross but also nice, I guess."

I smiled at her assessment. "He makes me happy too."

The words slipped out before I could censor them, and I was startled by their simple truth.

"Cool," Emma pronounced, her interrogation apparently complete. "Want to see embarrassing baby pictures of him?"

"Absolutely," I grinned.

By the time we rejoined the others for dinner, Emma had thoroughly briefed me on Ethan's childhood mishaps and I had gained a dedicated ally in the Wrights’ household. Dinner itself was delicious—a traditional holiday spread that Sandra had clearly spent hours preparing—but the conversation was dominated by Richard's hockey stories and pointed questions about Ethan's recent practices.

"Coach Alvarez tells me you've been hesitating on your left-side shots," Richard commented between bites of turkey. "Says you're overthinking instead of acting on instinct."

Ethan's fork paused momentarily on its way to his mouth. "I've been working on it," he said evenly. "My accuracy has improved."

"Accuracy means nothing if you miss your window of opportunity," Richard countered. "Hockey is about split-second decisions. Remember that game in your sophomore year? You had the perfect shot but hesitated, trying to aim, and by then the defenseman was on you."

I watched Ethan shrink slightly under his father's criticism, his shoulders tensing, confidence visibly dimming. My protective instincts flared.

"Ethan's left-side shots looked pretty decisive in the last game," I interjected. "The paper even featured one of my photos of his goal—perfect form, no hesitation."

Richard's attention swiveled to me, surprise evident in his expression. "You follow the technical aspects that closely?"

"I've learned a lot about hockey these past few months," I said with a small smile. "Especially watching Ethan. His awareness on the ice is incredible—it's like he sees plays unfolding seconds before they actually happen."

To my surprise, Ethan jumped in. "Mia's developed an incredible eye for the game. Her photography captures aspects of hockey most people miss entirely." He turned to his father. "The university paper did a feature spread with her photos last week. The athletic department's talking about commissioning her for official team portraits next season."

The pride in his voice seemed genuine, warming me from the inside out as he pulled out his phone to show his father the recent feature. Richard examined the photos with obvious interest, his expression softening slightly.

"You have a good eye," he conceded, looking up at me. "These capture the speed and physicality well."

"Thank you," I said, pleased by the compliment. "I'm still learning, but Ethan's been a patient teacher."

"Photography is just a hobby though, right?" Richard asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer. "What's your actual career plan?"

"Photography is my career plan," I corrected gently. "I'm currently in sports photography with the hope of working for major publications eventually."

Richard made a noncommittal sound. "Tough field to make a living in. Lots of competition, not many staff positions these days."

"Dad," Ethan's voice carried a warning.

"I'm just being realistic," Richard defended. "Creative fields are unstable. It's important to have a backup plan."

"Mia has more talent and determination than most people I know," Ethan said, his hand finding mine under the table.

I squeezed his hand gratefully, touched by his defense. The conversation gradually shifted to safer topics, though I remained acutely aware of the pressure Ethan faced in this household. Every hockey reference seemed loaded with expectation, every question from his father a potential evaluation.

After dinner, Emma volunteered to help clear the table while Sandra fetched old photo albums at my request. We gathered in the living room, Ethan groaning good-naturedly as his mother displayed his childhood memories.

"Please tell me we're not doing the embarrassing baby photo routine," he pleaded.

"We absolutely are," I confirmed cheerfully. "Emma already gave me a preview, but I need the full experience."

The albums were revealing in ways beyond mere embarrassment. I traced Ethan's progression through the years—from a joyful child with a gap-toothed smile to an increasingly serious young man. Hockey appeared in nearly every photo: Ethan in oversized gear as a toddler, Ethan receiving trophies, Ethan on various teams with his father often in the background, looking on with expressions ranging from pride to critical assessment.

What surprised me most, however, were the non-hockey photos tucked between team shots. A young Ethan with paint-covered hands, proudly displaying a colorful abstract canvas. Ethan focused intently on a detailed drawing of the family home. Ethan beside a blue ribbon-winning sketch at what appeared to be a school art show.

"You never told me you were an artist," I said, genuinely surprised.

Sandra smiled wistfully. "He was quite talented. His elementary art teacher wanted him to attend a specialized summer program for gifted young artists."

"It wasn't a big deal," Ethan dismissed, looking uncomfortable. "Just a kid's hobby."

"These are really good, Ethan," I insisted, examining a detailed sketch of a hockey arena that showed remarkable perspective and shading for a twelve-year-old. "Do you still draw?"

"No time," he said with a shrug. "Hockey keeps me busy."

But I caught something in his expression that made me wonder if there was more to the story.

Later, when we'd been shown to the guest room (after Sandra insisted we take separate rooms, with Emma rolling her eyes dramatically at her mother's pretense), I brought it up again.

"Tell me about the art," I said softly, sitting cross-legged on the bed as Ethan leaned against the dresser. "You clearly had a passion for it."

He was quiet for a long time.

"I loved it," he finally admitted, his voice low. "Drawing, painting—it was the one thing that was just for me, not connected to hockey or my dad's expectations. It was...freeing."

"Why did you stop?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't a conscious decision at first. Hockey schedules got more demanding, traveling for tournaments took up weekends I used to spend drawing. By high school, it was clear where my future was supposed to be."

"But did you want to keep creating art?"

"It doesn't matter what I wanted," he said with a resignation that broke my heart. "Hockey was the path. The family legacy. My ticket to a secure future."

I moved to stand in front of him, taking both his hands in mine. "It matters to me, what you wanted. What you still want."

His eyes met mine, vulnerability evident in their blue depths. "Sometimes I miss it," he confessed. "The quiet focus, the way time disappears when you're creating something from nothing. It's the closest I get to that feeling on the ice, those rare seconds when everything is seamless, effortless flow."

"You could pick it up again," I suggested. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe. After the season."

"After the season," I echoed, the phrase carrying different implications for each of us. For him, hopefully NHL draft selection. For me, a potential career opportunity. For us together—well, that remained undefined.

Later, after sneaking a sweet, lingering goodnight kiss that would have scandalized Sandra, I laid down on my bed. As I drifted toward sleep, I kept thinking about the artistic side of Ethan I'd discovered tonight—the creative, sensitive person beneath the hockey armor.

Christmas morning brought a surprisingly relaxed breakfast, with Richard distracted by football pre-game coverage and Sandra fussing over a cinnamon roll recipe that had apparently been in her family for generations. After eating, we gathered in the living room to exchange gifts, the traditional Wright family Christmas carols playing softly in the background.

I was touched by their thoughtfulness—Sandra gave me a beautiful scarf, noting that "Ethan mentioned you're always cold at the rink," while Emma presented me with a hand-decorated photo frame. Even Richard's gift—a book of classic sports photography—showed consideration for my interests.

When Ethan opened my gift—the leather notebook with the embossed hockey player—the immediate, genuine pleasure that lit up his face washed away all my earlier deliberation. Watching him trace the figure on the cover with his fingertips, a slow, warm smile spreading across his lips, I knew I'd gotten it right.

"This is perfect," he said, meeting my eyes with warmth that made my heart flutter. "Thank you."

"I thought you could use it for game strategies or..." I hesitated, "Or maybe sketches, if you ever feel like drawing again."

His smile deepened. "Maybe I will."

Finally, Ethan handed me a small, carefully wrapped package. "It's not much," he said with uncharacteristic nervousness. "But I thought you might like it."

Inside was a professional camera strap, custom embossed with my initials and tiny hockey sticks woven into the design. It was beautiful—durable leather with perfect stitching.

"Ethan," I breathed, running my fingers over the embossed details. "This is... perfect."

"Yeah?" The relief in his voice was palpable. "I noticed your current strap was fraying, and I thought—"

I cut him off with a quick kiss, forgetting momentarily about his family's presence until Emma made a gagging sound that dissolved into giggles.

"Get a room, you two," she teased.

"We literally had separate rooms and you all enforced it," Ethan retorted, but he was laughing too, the tension of the previous evening entirely dissipated in the warm Christmas morning atmosphere.

As we prepared to leave after lunch, I found myself unexpectedly reluctant to go. Despite the complicated dynamics with Richard, there was something genuinely nice about being included in a family's holiday traditions.

Sandra hugged me tightly at the door. "Come back anytime, dear," she said warmly. "It's nice to see Ethan so happy."

Richard's goodbye was more reserved but not unfriendly. "Good luck with your photography career," he said, shaking my hand. "Ethan can introduce you to a few of my old teammates if you need professional contacts."

Emma, predictably, was the most demonstrative, extracting promises that I would text her and send updates on "my idiot brother's behavior."

As we drove back toward campus, Christmas music playing softly on the radio, I watched Ethan's profile illuminated by the winter sunlight. He seemed lighter somehow, humming along to the music, one hand resting casually on my knee. The weight of his father's expectations temporarily lifted.