Page 20

I walked until my feet hurt, blind to where I was going, numb to the cold that bit through my thin jacket. Campus was quiet at this hour, just the occasional group of students heading to or from parties, their laughter feeling like salt in a fresh wound.

My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket—texts and calls from Ethan—but I couldn't bring myself to look. His hesitation when Vanessa confronted him played on loop in my mind. That damning silence that confirmed what I'd been trying to deny for weeks: that despite my own growing feelings, for him, this was still just an arrangement.

I'd been such a fool.

I found myself at the arts building, dark and locked for the night. How fitting. I sank onto a bench outside, finally pulling out my phone to see a string of messages:

Mia, I can explain.

It's not what you think.

Please call me.

Three missed calls, one voicemail.

I should have known better. From the very beginning, this had been a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial transaction. He'd never promised anything more. It was my own fault for letting my heart get tangled up in our pretense.

The cold finally drove me back to my apartment. Olivia was waiting up, a mug of tea in hand and a concerned frown on her face.

"There you are! I've been worried sick. Dylan texted me about what happened at the party." She took in my red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips, and her expression shifted from concern to fury. "That absolute jackass. I'm going to kill him."

"It's fine," I said, my voice hollow even to my own ears. "We had a deal. Fake relationship. That's all it ever was."

"Bullshit," Olivia declared, guiding me to the couch. "That stopped being fake a long time ago, and you know it."

I crumpled then, the tears I'd been holding back breaking free in ugly, heaving sobs. Olivia wrapped her arms around me, letting me cry it out on her shoulder.

"He didn't even deny it," I managed between sobs. "Vanessa called him out, and he just... stood there. Like he was caught in a lie. Which I guess he was. We both were."

"He's an idiot," Olivia said flatly. "A complete and utter idiot. And right before the semifinals too. Talk about spectacularly bad timing."

I pulled back, wiping my eyes. "The Semifinals. God, I still have to photograph that game. How am I supposed to do that now?"

"You'll be professional," Olivia said, squeezing my hand. "Because you're Mia Navarro, and you don't let men—even stupidly attractive hockey captains—derail your career."

I attempted a smile but couldn't quite manage it. "I don't think ice cream is going to fix this one."

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but it can't hurt. And I happen to have an emergency pint of butterscotch in the freezer."

An hour later, we were sprawled on the couch, an empty ice cream container between us, watching a mindless reality dating show where the drama seemed tame compared to my own life. My phone had finally stopped buzzing with Ethan's attempts to contact me.

"You know what the worst part is?" I said during a commercial break. "I actually thought he was starting to have real feelings for me too. Especially after the ski trip."

Olivia muted the TV. "What exactly happened on that trip, Mia? You've been weirdly vague about it."

I felt my cheeks warm. "Nothing, really. We shared a room, but that was just logistics."

"Uh-huh," she said skeptically. "And?"

I sighed, giving up. "And... well, there was kissing. A lot of kissing." I hesitated, then plunged. "And sex." My face found the nearest pillow, voice muffled. "And this wasn't the first time."

"Oh, Mia." Olivia's voice softened slightly, though still tinged with 'I told you so.' "I knew something was up. You were practically levitating after that trip. No wonder you seem so... lost now."

"I'm not lost," I insisted, turning my head slightly. "I'm just... frustrated. With myself. I knew what this was supposed to be. I'm the idiot who went and made it complicated by catching feelings."

Olivia shook her head. "Takes two to tango, Mia. Ethan's been looking at you like you hung the moon for weeks now. Something real was happening there, whether he wants to admit it or not."

I sighed, too exhausted to argue. "It doesn't matter now."

"So what are you going to do?" Olivia asked.

"Sleep, hopefully," I said, standing up. "And tomorrow, I'll be the consummate professional. I'll photograph the game, fulfill my assignment for the paper, and move on."

Olivia looked skeptical but didn't push. "Alright. But if you need me to accidentally spill something on him during the game, just give me the signal."

I managed a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

In my room, I finally listened to Ethan's voicemail: "Mia, it's me. Look, what Vanessa was saying—it's not true. I mean, yes, it started that way, but things changed. I changed. Please call me back."

His voice sounded strained, desperate even. For a moment, I was tempted to call him back. But what was the point? Tomorrow was the semifinals—his big moment with the scouts. The last thing he needed was more emotional complications.

And the last thing I needed was more confusion about where we stood.

I sent a single text in response:

I need some space. I'll be at the game tomorrow to do my job for the paper. We can be professional about this. Good luck with the semifinals.

Then I turned off my phone and crawled into bed, hugging a pillow to my chest as silent tears slid down my cheeks.

Morning came too soon, my eyes swollen and my head pounding from a night of fitful sleep. I forced myself through my routine: shower, coffee, equipment check. Today was about my job, not my broken heart.

When I turned my phone back on, there were more texts from Ethan, but I ignored them. Instead, I focused on a message from my photography professor:

Mia - Looking forward to seeing your hockey emotion series at next week's showcase. The selection committee is particularly interested in your perspective on athletics and vulnerability. Good luck capturing the semifinals today!

Right. The University Arts showcase. In all the drama, I'd almost forgotten about submitting my hockey series. The photos I'd taken of Ethan over the past months, tracking the emotional journey of an athlete under pressure. The project had become intensely personal, more revealing than I'd initially intended.

Now I wondered if I could even finish it. If I could look through my lens at Ethan today and see anything but my own hurt reflected back.

Stepping into the rink, I was met by a roar of excitement—the semifinals had turned the stands into a living sea of team colors, chants echoing off the rafters. I cut through the surge of hockey fans toward the press area, offering quick nods to the photographers I’d grown familiar with over the season.

"Big game today," remarked Bill from the local paper. "Your boyfriend ready for the scouts?"

I winced internally but kept my expression neutral. "Ethan's always ready," I replied, busying myself with my camera settings to avoid further conversation.

The Wolves took the ice for warm-ups, and despite my resolve, my eyes immediately found Ethan. He looked focused, intense, skating with fluid precision as he led the team through drills. If he was affected by last night's events, it didn't show in his performance.

But through my lens, I caught the details others might miss—the tightness around his eyes, the slightly clenched jaw, the way he scanned the sidelines until he spotted me. Our eyes met briefly before I lowered my camera, my heart thumping painfully in my chest.

I kept my promise to be professional, moving around the arena to capture different angles, focusing on my technical skills rather than the emotions churning inside me. It was almost like the early days of our arrangement, before things got complicated. Before I started to care.

Between periods, I avoided the areas where I knew the Wolves would be, staying in the press section to review my shots. I'd captured some good action—Tyler making an impressive save, Dylan scoring the first goal of the game, the team's celebration afterward.

And Ethan. Always Ethan. My lens seemed to find him automatically, documenting his leadership on the ice, his intensity during plays, the brief moments of pure focus when everything else seemed to fall away.

But there was something different about him today. A mechanical quality to his movements that hadn't been there before. He was playing perfectly—making the right passes, taking strategic shots, coordinating the team with practiced signals—but the joy was missing. The passion I'd grown to recognize and capture was absent, replaced by a clinical precision that was impressive but somehow hollow.

I remembered what Dr. Lawrence had said about my early hockey photos: technically skilled but missing the emotional core. Today, that's exactly how Ethan was playing.

After the game—a hard-fought victory that sent the crowd into a frenzy—I packed up my equipment quickly, hoping to avoid the post-game celebrations. I had what I needed for the paper. What I didn't need was to see Ethan.

I was almost to the exit when Olivia intercepted me.

"Leaving already? The after-party is just getting started," she said, falling into step beside me.

"I got my shots," I replied, patting my camera bag. "I need to get these edited for tomorrow's paper."

Olivia nudged me, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, come on. Don't be so stubborn. You know you can't avoid Ethan forever."

"I'm not going, Olivia," I insisted, my stomach twisting. "And have we forgotten that the whole 'relationship' with Ethan was fake from the start?"

"Hmm." She linked her arm through mine as we walked. "Well, for what it's worth, Dylan says Ethan's been a complete mess. Apparently, he's been obsessively focused on hockey all week, barely sleeping, reviewing game footage until dawn."

I shouldn't have cared. I should have been immune to news of Ethan's state of mind. But my traitorous heart skipped at Olivia's words.

"He's got a lot riding on this," I said carefully. "The scouts, his future. It makes sense that he'd be focused."

"Focused is one thing. Dylan says he's like a hockey-playing robot. All technique, no heart." Olivia squeezed my arm. "Sound like someone you know?"

I sighed, remembering the mechanical quality I'd observed in Ethan's playing today. "Olivia, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it doesn't change what happened. He made it clear where his priorities lie."

"Did he, though? Or did he just panic at the worst possible moment?" She stopped walking, turning to face me. "Look, I'm not saying forgive him. I'm just saying... maybe there's more going on than you think."

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter now. Once the Championship wraps up, our deal’s done. He’ll get what he wanted—and I’ve already walked away with…” My voice cracked. “…some killer portfolio pieces.”

Olivia's gaze softened with understanding. "And a broken heart."

I couldn't deny it, so I just nodded, blinking back sudden tears.

"Come on," she said gently. "Let's go home. I'll help you edit the photos. And then we're watching the most depressing movie we can find, because sometimes you need to wallow before you can heal."

As we left the arena, I glanced back just once, catching a glimpse of the team celebrating on the ice, Ethan at the center, surrounded by teammates and coaches. He should have looked triumphant. Instead, even from this distance, there was something isolated about him, as if he stood slightly apart from the celebration happening around him.

I raised my camera one last time, capturing that moment of isolation amid victory. The perfect final image for my series on the emotional journey of an athlete.

It was only later, reviewing the photos in our apartment, that I realized what I'd captured. In all the shots from today's game, not once had I caught Ethan truly smiling. The joy I'd documented in earlier games—the pure love of the sport that shone through in unguarded moments—was nowhere to be found.

He'd won everything he'd been working toward. But through my lens, he looked like someone who had lost something far more important.