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I was skating on autopilot, my body going through the motions while my mind remained oddly detached. Pass. Shoot. Check. Defend. The mechanics of hockey broken down to their simplest components, executed with machine-like precision.

We were winning, but I felt nothing. Not relief. Not excitement. Not even pressure. Just a cold, clinical focus that kept me moving, leading, playing the game I'd spent my entire life perfecting.

"Ethan! Line change!" Coach Alvarez called from the bench.

I skated over, gulping water as Coach adjusted our strategy for the third period. We were up by one goal, but our opponents were pressing hard. In the stands, I could sense rather than see the scouts, their presence a weight I'd carried for so long I barely noticed it anymore.

What I did notice was Mia, moving along the boards with her camera. She was keeping her distance, professional and focused.

"Ethan! Are you listening?" Coach's sharp voice cut through my thoughts.

"Yes, sir. Defensive pressure on their right wing, watch for the cross-ice pass."

He narrowed his eyes, not entirely convinced. "Get your head in the game, Wright. We need all of you out there, not just your body going through the motions."

By the final buzzer of the semifinals, we’d secured a 3–1 victory—and punched our ticket to the championship game. The rink exploded in celebration: helmets soaring, gloves sailing, bodies colliding in hugs and high-fives. I threw my arms around teammates, hoisted sticks in triumph, and grinned for every camera in sight.

Still, part of me scanned the crowd for Mia, hoping she’d step forward for a post-game quote or photo. She didn’t. Instead, I caught her slipping her gear into its bag, head down, intent on disappearing without a word.

“Great game, son.” Coach Alvarez’s hand settled on my shoulder. I turned to see pride mixed with concern in his eyes. “You played smart—conservative, but effective.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

He studied me, brow furrowed. “The scouts loved your technical skill. But they saw what I saw.”

I braced myself. “What’s that?”

“You played like a machine today—precise, yes, but without heart.” He crossed his arms.

A spark of defensiveness flared. “Hey, we won. We’re heading to the finals.”

Coach gave a small nod. “Exactly. You got us here. But there’s a difference between winning and winning in a way that makes every early-morning skate and late-night drill feel worthwhile. Today felt like sacrifice without joy. Remember that before you hit the ice in the championship.”

With that, he moved off to congratulate the rest of the team, leaving me amid the jubilation, his words echoing in my ears as we celebrated our passage to the biggest game of the season.

The victory party at the hockey house was in full swing—music thumping, chants erupting, beers raised high. I drifted through the crowd, accepted congratulations, smiled for photos. But inside, I felt oddly distant.

“Dude, you just led us to the finals,” Dylan said, materializing at my side with two cold beers. “You could at least pretend to be happy about it.”

I took the beer. “I am happy.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “You look like you’re at your own funeral. I get you’re hung up on Mia—but you’re one win away from a championship. Maybe enjoy that for five minutes before you vanish into a black hole?”

“Hey, I’m not brooding,” I protested—but even as I said it, I realized I’d been leaning against the wall, checking my phone every thirty seconds for a text that wasn’t coming.

Dylan rolled his eyes and took a long swig. “Did you notice the scouts from three pro teams were circling Coach all night, raving about you?”

“I did,” I admitted, though each compliment felt strangely hollow. “It’s just… a lot to process.”

He softened, clapped me on the back. “I get it, man. But we still have the championship to win. Why don’t you head home, get some rest? We’ve still got one more win to get.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Dylan. I think I will.”

Back at our apartment, the quiet was a balm after the party’s chaos. I showered, scrubbed until my skin prickled, hoping to wash away the emptiness that refused to leave. We’d won the semifinals 3–1, secured our spot in the championship— the biggest game of my life, just days away—and yet I felt as if something essential had slipped through my fingers.

Wrapped in a towel, I wiped steam from the mirror and stared at the reflection: team captain, likely NHL draftee, one step from glory… and utterly alone.

The next morning, Coach Alvarez steered us into a special drill session—finals prep. My legs still trembled from yesterday’s battle, but it was the hollowness in my chest I couldn’t skate away.

As the final whistle blew and the team trickled toward the locker room, Coach waited at the boards with two steaming mugs. “Wright,” he called, voice steady. “A word.”

I skated over, bracing for critique.

He handed me a mug. “Scouts from all three teams were on the line this morning. They loved your split-second reads, your composure under pressure. They’re eager to see you in the finals.”

I nodded around the rim. “Thanks.”

He studied me, cup hovering. “But they all had the same question—where was the fire? Yesterday, you treated the semifinal like just another box to tick.”

I glanced down. “I was focused on the win.”

His voice softened. “Focus wins games. But championships? They’re won with heart. With joy. Remember why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.”

I met his gaze. “I do love it.”

He gave my shoulder a firm, encouraging squeeze. “Then let it show out there. Rest up, Wright—the finals are waiting for the real you.”

Back at our apartment, I pushed open the door to find Dylan at the stove—pan sizzling, spatula in hand—an almost unheard-of sight.

“Don’t look so stunned,” he said, flipping what might soon be an omelet. “Even I can master basic fire control.”

“Sure looks more like controlled chaos,” I teased. “Science experiment meets breakfast.”

He jabbed the spatula in my direction. “Mockery isn’t part of today’s menu. Sit before I turn you into a side of hash browns.”

I laughed and slid onto the stool. Dylan scooped the scrambled remnants onto two plates and slid one across.

“Eat up,” he ordered. “You look one practice skate away from zombieland.”

I took a tentative bite. “Actually… not bad.”

“High praise,” he smirked, watching me. “But seriously—when was the last time you slept? You’ve got eye bags under eye bags.”

I shrugged. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a caffeine.”

“Right.” Dylan set down his fork and leaned forward, voice low. “Look, finals are on the horizon. You’ve busted your ass to get here, but you’re still stuck in neutral—especially with Mia.”

My fork froze. “But what can I do?”

“You promised to help her with that Sports Illustrations connection, right? Have you even tried?”

I shook my head. “I… haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Then start there. That’s step one.” He said leaning in. “Fix the one thing you can control before you hit the ice again. And please—shower first. You’re not exactly making a strong case for rookie of the year right now.”

After finishing our breakfast, Dylan ducked out for class, and I found myself staring at my phone with Samantha Rivers’ contact on the screen. My dad’s old college friend, editor at SI. Would she remember me? Would she take my recommendation?

Only one way to find out. I hit “call.”

“Hello, Samantha Rivers speaking.”

“Ms. Rivers, hi—Ethan Wright here, Richard Wright’s son.”

“Ethan! Just spoke to your dad—heard about your semifinal victory. Congratulations on your spot in the finals.”

“Thanks. It was a team effort.”

“Always modest. So, what can I do for you?”

I drew a breath. “I’m calling because I want to recommend someone for your internship program—a photographer named Mia Navarro. She’s been documenting our season, capturing every emotion on the ice.”

There was a pause. “We get thousands of applicants, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “But her work is on another level. She doesn't just take pictures; she captures the story—the raw grit, the real passion.”

Another thoughtful silence. “Is there a way I can view her work?”

“She’ll be featured in the University arts showcase next week. I can send you the details.”

“Great!” Samantha exclaimed. “Please do.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you, Ms. Rivers—that means a lot to both of us.”

“Call me Samantha,” she replied. “I’ll look at her work. No promises beyond that, but I’ll give it a fair shot.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

I hung up and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. We’d won the semifinals and now we were headed into the big one—the finals. But for the first time in days, I felt like I’d done something that mattered off the ice, too. And maybe, just maybe, I could finally start fixing more than my game.

That night, I couldn't sleep, again. The apartment was quiet, Dylan having gone to some party to "maintain our social standing now that you've become a hermit," as he put it.

I paced our small living room, thoughts circling endlessly. I landed in the finals. The scouts had been impressed, according to Coach. My future in hockey looked promising. Yet here I was, restless and dissatisfied, replaying that moment at the party when I'd failed to deny Vanessa's accusations.

What would I say to Mia if she were willing to listen? How could I explain that moment of hesitation without sounding like I was making excuses?

The truth was simple but difficult to articulate: I'd frozen because Vanessa had been partially right. Our relationship had started as a fake arrangement. But somewhere along the way—maybe at the Harvest Festival, maybe during our coffee study sessions, maybe when I saw her interact with my family at Christmas—it had become real for me. And that reality terrified me more than any hockey game ever could.

On impulse, I grabbed my keys and headed out. It was nearly midnight, but I knew one place that would still be open: the 24-hour diner where Mia and I had first negotiated our fake relationship.

Midnight Munchies was quiet at this hour, just a few students cramming for exams and a couple of truckers passing through. I slid into the same booth where Mia and I had sat that night, ordering coffee from a waitress who looked like she'd seen every type of midnight crisis imaginable.

When she brought my coffee, I also asked for paper and a pen. She raised an eyebrow but returned a moment later with a few sheets of the diner's order pad paper and a ballpoint pen with the diner's logo.

"Desperate times call for desperate stationery," she said with a shrug.

I stared at the blank paper, unsure where to begin. But once I started writing, the words flowed more easily than I expected:

Mia,

I've written and deleted about a dozen text messages to you since the party. None of them seemed adequate. Maybe this won't be either, but I have to try.

I messed up. When Vanessa confronted us, I hesitated not because I was caught in a lie, but because she was partially right. Our relationship did start as an arrangement. That part was true. What I should have said—what I wish I'd had the courage to say—is that somewhere along the way, it stopped being fake for me.

I don't know exactly when it happened. Maybe it was at the Harvest Festival, when you defended me to Vanessa the first time. Maybe it was when you wore that ridiculous hockey jersey to the arena and asked me a million questions about the rules. Maybe it was when you met my family at Christmas and somehow charmed even my father. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of all those small moments when you saw me—really saw me—not just as a hockey player, but as a person.

I've spent my entire life focused on one goal: making it to the NHL. Everything else has been secondary. When things between us started to feel real, it terrified me. Not because I didn't want it, but because I didn't know how to want something else with equal intensity. I didn't know how to balance hockey with... well, with you.

So I did what I always do when I'm scared—I retreated to what I know. Hockey. Training. The familiar pressure of expectation. I convinced myself I was just being focused. Disciplined. That after the championship, I could figure out the rest.

But playing in that semifinal without you—really without you, not just physically—made me realize something important: achieving my hockey dreams means nothing if I have to become a machine to do it. If I have to shut down the parts of myself that you helped me rediscover.

I don't expect you to forgive me. I wouldn't, in your position. But I wanted you to know that what started as pretense became the most real thing in my life. You changed how I see myself and the game I've dedicated my life to. And for that gift, I am grateful, whatever happens next.

Ethan

I read over the letter twice, tempted to crumple it up and start again. It wasn't perfect. It probably didn't adequately express everything I needed to say. But it was honest, and that seemed like the most important thing right now.

Folding the letter, I paid my bill and headed back out into the night. It was late—too late for a proper visit—but I needed to deliver this now, before I lost my nerve. I drove to Mia's apartment building, relieved to see a few lights still on despite the hour.

At her door, I hesitated only briefly before sliding the folded papers underneath. I didn't knock. This wasn't about forcing a conversation or expecting immediate forgiveness. It was simply about honesty—finally being brave enough to tell the truth, even if it came too late.

Back in my car, I felt lighter somehow. Still uncertain about the future, still unsure if Mia would ever want to speak to me again, but at least I'd taken a step toward being the person I wanted to be—someone who faced difficult truths instead of hiding from them.

The next morning, I woke to Dylan shaking my shoulder.

"Dude, wake up. You need to see this."

I groaned, rolling over to squint at my roommate. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon. You finally slept, congratulations. Now check your phone. The university paper just posted their arts showcase winners online."

Suddenly alert, I sat up and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Dylan had already sent me the link, and I tapped it open with slightly shaky fingers.

The headline read: "EMOTION IN MOTION: MIA NAVARRO CAPTURES ROAD TO FINALS IN AWARD-WINNING PHOTO SERIES"

Below was a gallery of Mia's photographs from throughout the season, culminating in shots from the semifinals game. There I was, in various states of intensity, focus, celebration, and—most strikingly—isolation. The final image showed me at the center of our semifinals celebration, surrounded by teammates but somehow apart, my expression a complex mix of achievement and emptiness.

The caption read: "Navarro' winning series 'The Weight of Victory' explores the emotional journey of athletics, revealing the personal cost of public triumph through her season-long documentation of hockey captain Ethan Wright."

My throat tightened as I scrolled through the photos. She had seen everything—all the pressure, the expectations, the isolation of leadership, the moments of pure joy and crushing doubt.

"She really saw you, man," Dylan said quietly, reading over my shoulder.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice rough. "She did."

Later that day, as practice ended and the team headed for the locker room, I made a decision. I wasn't going to wait any longer. I needed to see Mia, to tell her in person what I'd tried to express in my letter. Whether she forgave me or not, she deserved that much.

I showered and changed quickly, then stopped by the small Thai place near campus—Mia's favorite—and ordered her usual: Pad Thai with extra lime and a side of green curry. Food had always been our peace offering, from those first pancakes at Midnight Munchies to Christmas cookies with my family.

With the takeout bags in hand, I drove to her apartment, my heart pounding.