Page 22

I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the letter I'd found under our door this morning. I'd read it at least a dozen times, analyzing every word, looking for insincerity or excuses. But all I found was raw honesty that made my chest ache.

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.

That line kept replaying in my head. Not because it was particularly poetic or romantic, but because it felt so genuine. So unlike the image of the confident, laser-focused hockey captain that Ethan presented to the world.

A soft knock at my bedroom door interrupted my thoughts.

"Mia? You alive in there?" Olivia's voice called.

"Unfortunately," I replied.

The door cracked open, and Olivia peeked in. Her expression was a careful mix of concern and neutrality.

"I brought tea," she said, holding up a steaming mug as a peace offering. "And I promise not to mention He Who Must Not Be Named unless you bring him up first."

I smiled weakly, accepting the tea. "Thanks."

She settled on the edge of my bed, eyeing the letter beside me. "So... interesting mail day?"

"Technically it wasn't mailed. It was slipped under our door sometime last night." I sighed, picking up the pages. "It's from Ethan."

"I gathered that from the dramatic sighing and re-reading. What does Captain Clueless have to say for himself?"

I handed her the letter, watching as she read it, her expression shifting from skepticism to something softer.

"Well," she said finally, "that's... actually not terrible."

"Right?" I took the letter back. "It's honest. No excuses. Just... explanation."

"And apparently genuine feelings." Olivia nudged my knee. "Which confirms what I've been telling you all along—that boy has been gone for you for months now."

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. "Dylan says Ethan's a wreck. That the team is worried about him for tomorrow's Championship game."

"Interesting that you know what Dylan says." Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Accidental run-in at the coffee shop? Psychic connection? Ouija board?"

"He texted me," I admitted. "Said he was sorry about everything and that Ethan hasn't been the same since the party."

"And how do you feel about that?"

I stared into my tea, watching the steam curl upward. "Confused. Hurt, still. But also... I don't know. I saw it in the photos from the semifinals. He was playing like a machine. All the technical skill was there, but the joy was gone." I looked up at her. "I did that to him."

"Whoa, hold up." Olivia raised both hands. "You did not do anything to him. He made choices. He prioritized hockey over being honest about his feelings. He hesitated when Vanessa called him out. Those are all on him, not you."

"I know, but—"

"No buts. You are not responsible for Ethan Wright’s emotional state or his robot hockey playing." Her voice softened. "That said, it's okay if you still care about him. It's okay if you want to forgive him. Just don't do it because you think you somehow broke him. Do it because you want to."

I nodded, taking a sip of tea. "I do care about him. That's the problem. I can't just switch it off, no matter how much I want to."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet." I set the mug on my nightstand. "I need time to think."

Olivia stood, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "Fair enough. I'm here if you need to talk. Or if you need me to egg his car. Or, you know, whatever else best friends do in these situations."

After she left, I picked up my phone, checking it for what felt like the hundredth time that day. No new messages from Ethan, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He was giving me the space I'd asked for, at least.

There was, however, a new email notification that made my heart skip:

From: Samantha Rivers

Subject: Your Photography Portfolio

I opened it with trembling fingers:

Dear Ms. Navarro,

I recently became aware of your work through a mutual connection. Your hockey emotion series, in particular, has been brought to my attention as something exceptional. I'll be visiting your university next week and would be interested in speaking with you about your portfolio and future goals.

Sports Illustrations is always looking for fresh perspectives, especially those that capture the human elements of athletics. If you're available, perhaps we could meet to discuss potential opportunities.

Best regards,

Samantha Rivers

Photography Director, Sports Illustrations

I stared at the screen in disbelief. Sports Illustrations . The Photography Director. Wanting to meet with me.

And "through a mutual connection"—that could only be Ethan. He'd kept his promise, even after everything.

My phone buzzed with a text from Olivia: Someone's at the door for you. Thai food and apologies, apparently. Want me to tell him you're out?

I took a deep breath, tucking the letter under my pillow. Maybe this was a sign. Or maybe it was just Ethan being Ethan—honoring commitments, tying up loose ends before moving on to finals and his NHL future.

Either way, I deserved to hear what he had to say in person.

No , I texted back. Tell him I'll be right out.

In our small living room, Ethan stood awkwardly holding bags from my favorite Thai restaurant. He looked terrible—exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his usually perfect hair disheveled. He was wearing a simple gray t-shirt and jeans instead of his usual team apparel, making him look somehow younger and more vulnerable.

"Hi," he said softly when I appeared.

"Hi," I replied, crossing my arms protectively across my chest.

Olivia glanced between us. "Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. I'll be in my room with headphones on. Very loud headphones." She retreated down the hall, shooting me a thumbs-up behind Ethan's back.

Once we were alone, Ethan lifted the food bags slightly. "I brought Thai. I thought... maybe you haven't eaten. I know you forget sometimes when you're working on photos."

The fact that he remembered that about me made something twist in my chest.

"Thanks," I said, gesturing to the couch. "We can sit."

We arranged ourselves at opposite ends of the sofa, the food between us like a buffer zone. I opened the containers, finding my usual order—pad thai with extra lime and green curry on the side.

"You remembered," I said quietly.

"Of course I did." He fidgeted with his chopsticks. "Mia, I—"

"I got an email from Samantha Rivers today," I interrupted, not ready yet for his apology. "Photography Director at Sports Illustrations . She mentioned a 'mutual connection.'"

Ethan looked down. "I called her yesterday. I thought... regardless of what happened between us, I wanted to keep my promise about helping your career. You deserve that opportunity."

"Thank you," I said sincerely. "That was... that was good of you."

"It wasn't charity," he said quickly. "You're incredibly talented, Mia. Your work deserves to be seen. I just made the introduction—the rest is all you."

We ate in silence for a few moments, the awkwardness gradually giving way to something more comfortable, if still tentative.

Finally, Ethan set down his food. "I need to apologize. Properly." He took a deep breath. "What happened at the party—my hesitation when Vanessa confronted us—it wasn't because I was caught in a lie. It was because I was caught in a truth I hadn't fully admitted to myself yet."

I looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time. "What truth?"

"That somewhere along the way, this stopped being fake for me." His voice was quiet but steady. "That I was terrified of these feelings because they didn't fit into my carefully planned hockey future. That I didn't know how to want something—someone—as much as I wanted hockey."

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. "So you pulled away."

"I panicked," he admitted. "The championship was coming, scouts were watching, my father was calling daily with advice and pressure. It felt like my entire future was balancing on a knife's edge. And then there was you—this amazing person who made me feel things I hadn't expected, who saw parts of me no one else did." He ran a hand through his hair. "I convinced myself I needed to compartmentalize. Focus solely on hockey until after the championship. That I could fix things with you later."

"And how did that work out?" I couldn't keep the slight edge from my voice.

"Terribly," he said with a rueful smile. "I played the worst best game of my career. Technically perfect, emotionally empty. Coach called me a 'hockey robot.'"

Despite myself, I felt a smile tug at my lips. "I saw that in the photos. All form, no joy."

"You did?" He looked surprised.

"Of course I did." I hesitated, then added, "I saw your letter too. The one you left last night."

He nodded. "I meant every word."

"I know," I said softly. "That's what makes this so hard. If you were just another entitled jock who used me and moved on, this would be easy. I could just hate you and be done with it."

"But instead, I'm a complicated entitled jock who developed real feelings and then screwed everything up?" he offered with a self-deprecating smile.

I laughed despite myself. "Something like that."

"I saw your photo series," he said after a moment. "The one that won the showcase award. 'The Weight of Victory.'"

I tensed slightly. "And?"

"It was like looking in a mirror I didn't know was there." His voice was thoughtful. "You captured everything I couldn't say out loud. The pressure. The isolation. The moments of pure joy and the heavy expectations. How did you see all that?"

I considered the question seriously. "Photography is about watching. Really seeing someone. I've been watching you for months, Ethan. I saw your joy when you played, the weight you carried as captain, how you supported your teammates while feeling disconnected from them." I met his gaze directly. "I saw you."

Something shifted in his expression. "No one's ever really seen me like that. Not my coaches, not my teammates. Not even my family. Especially not my family."

"Maybe you never let them," I suggested gently.

"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment. "The semifinals is over. The scouts were impressed, according to Coach. They're coming back for the Finals. To 'get to know the real Ethan Wright,' whatever that means."

"And who is the real Ethan Wright?" I asked.

"I'm still figuring that out." He looked at me, his eyes sincere. "But I know he's someone who cares about you. Who regrets hurting you more than anything. Who wants a chance to show you that what started as pretense became the most real thing in his life."

My breath caught at the echo of his words from the letter. "Ethan—"

"I'm not asking for forgiveness right away," he said quickly. "I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. I just... I want a chance to prove that I can be better. That I can be someone who deserves you."

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten. We'd both entered this arrangement with clear boundaries and expectations. Neither of us had anticipated developing real feelings—or the complications those feelings would bring.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "This is all... a lot."

He nodded, accepting this without argument. "I understand. Take all the time you need." He hesitated, then added, "But before I go, I have one request. It's okay if you say no."

"What is it?" I asked cautiously.

"Tomorrow is the finals game." He took a deep breath. "Would you wear my away jersey? It's a team tradition for partners during important games. Like a good luck charm."

The significance of the request wasn't lost on me. Wearing his jersey would be a public statement, erasing the "fake" aspect of our relationship.

"That's a big ask," I said quietly.

"I know." He looked down, then back up with surprising vulnerability in his eyes. "It's also kind of a superstition I've had since juniors. Having someone I care about wear my number... it helps me find my focus. The joy in the game, not just the pressure."

"I'll think about it," I finally said, not ready to commit either way.

Relief crossed his face. "That's all I can ask for." He stood, gathering the takeout containers. "Thank you for listening, Mia. It means more than you know."

At the door, there was an awkward moment—neither of us seemed to know the appropriate goodbye. A handshake felt too formal after everything we'd shared, but a kiss would be premature given our uncertain status.

Ethan solved the dilemma by pulling me into a gentle hug. "Thank you," he whispered against my hair. "For seeing me. The real me."

Before I could respond, he released me and stepped back. "Goodnight, Mia."

After he left, I leaned against the closed door, mind whirling with conflicting emotions. Olivia's door opened almost immediately.

"Well?" she demanded, headphones hanging around her neck. "What happened? Are you back together? Did you forgive him? Do I still need to slash his tires?"

"We talked," I said simply. "He apologized. It was... sincere."

"And?"

"And I told him I need time to think." I moved past her toward my room. "He asked me to wear his jersey to tomorrow's finals game."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up. "That's serious stuff in hockey world. Like, practically a proposal."

"It's not like that," I protested. "It's just a team tradition."

"Uh-huh." She clearly didn't believe me. "So are you going to do it?"

I paused at my bedroom door. "I don't know yet."

"But you're considering it," she said, reading me too well as usual. "Which means you're considering forgiving him."

"Maybe," I admitted. "He kept his promise about Sports Illustrations , even after everything. And his letter was honest. No excuses, just explanation."

"And he brought your favorite Thai food," Olivia added with a small smile. "The boy knows your weakness."

I couldn't help smiling back. "True."

In my room, I pulled out my photo portfolio, flipping through the hockey emotion series that had won the showcase award. Images of Ethan throughout the season—focused in practice, triumphant after goals, frustrated after losses, quiet in moments of preparation.

My favorite was a shot I'd taken when he didn't know I was watching. He was sitting alone on the bench after everyone else had left, still in partial gear, head tipped back as he stared at the ceiling with an expression of such raw vulnerability that it almost hurt to look at it. The mighty hockey captain, momentarily unguarded, letting the weight of expectations show on his face.

That was the real Ethan Wright—not just the confident leader or the skilled player, but the person beneath who carried the burden of others' dreams alongside his own.