Page 24

"Do we need to tell anyone?" Ethan asked, sprawled across my tiny couch, his championship medal still hanging around his neck despite the celebration being over for hours. "About how we started, I mean."

I looked up from my laptop where I'd been sorting through the hundreds of game photos. "I've been thinking about that. Don't you think it would be weird to keep it secret? Like we'd be building our relationship on a lie?"

"Technically, we'd be building our relationship on a lie about how we stopped lying." He grinned at his own twisted logic.

I threw a pillow at his head, which he caught effortlessly. "This is serious! What about your teammates? Your family? My family?" I groaned, imagining my mother's reaction. "My parents raised me on this whole 'honesty is the foundation of everything' philosophy. They'd be so disappointed."

Ethan sat up, suddenly serious. "Hey." He reached for my hand, pulling me down beside him on the couch. "We did nothing wrong. We made an arrangement that benefited us both, and then we fell in love for real. That's not something to be ashamed of."

"I know, but—" I bit my lip. "It feels dishonest somehow. Not us, not what we have now, but letting people believe we've been genuinely together all this time."

"Then we tell them," Ethan said simply. "The people who matter."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He reached for my notebook on the coffee table and flipped to a blank page. "Let's make a list of who absolutely needs to know."

And that's how we ended up creating "The Fake Dating Confession List," complete with columns for "Name," "How Much Detail To Share," and "Anticipated Reaction."

The most daunting name on the list was "Mia's Parents," which Ethan had helpfully annotated with "Will they hate me? Bring gift as distraction?"

"They won't hate you," I assured him, though my stomach twisted nervously. "They already love you, actually. That's what makes this so hard."

"What if we did a video call?" Ethan suggested. "That way we can see their reactions, but they can't physically murder me."

I laughed despite my anxiety. "Always thinking strategically, Captain."

That evening, we set up my laptop on the kitchen table, and I nervously dialed my parents. Their faces appeared on screen, joy lighting up their features at the sight of us together.

"Mia! Ethan!" My mother's voice was warm with affection. "What a lovely surprise! We were just talking about your big win, Ethan. Gabriel recorded the game and we've watched that final goal at least ten times."

"Masterful deking," my father agreed, giving an approving nod. "The way you read that goalie's positioning—" He made a chef's kiss gesture.

Ethan flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, sir."

"No 'sir' nonsense, it's Gabriel, remember?" My father waved dismissively. "What's the occasion for the call? Not that we need one to hear from our daughter and her novio."

I exchanged a quick glance with Ethan, who gave me an encouraging nod.

"Actually, Mama, Papa, we wanted to talk to you about something," I began, my voice shakier than I'd intended. "About me and Ethan. About how we started dating."

My mother's expression immediately turned concerned. "Is everything okay, mija?"

"Yes! Everything's great. Really great, actually." I took a deep breath. "But we haven't been completely honest about how our relationship began."

Slowly, with occasional input from Ethan, I explained our initial arrangement—the fake dating plan, our mutual goals, how it gradually became real. As I spoke, my mother's expression shifted from confusion to disappointment, her lips pressing into a thin line.

When I finished, there was a heavy silence.

"So you lied to us," my mother finally said, her voice quiet but sharp. "All those times we asked about your relationship, all those moments we shared with Ethan thinking he was truly part of your life—it was a performance."

"Elena—" my father started, but she shook her head.

"No, Gabriel. I'm disappointed. We raised Mia to value honesty above all else."

My eyes burned with unshed tears. "I know, Mama. That's why we're telling you now. Because what we have is real, and we didn't want to build it on deception."

"The beginning was...unconventional," Ethan added. "But my feelings for Mia are the most honest thing in my life. I love your daughter. That part was never fake."

My mother's expression remained stern, but my father suddenly chuckled, surprising all of us.

"Elena, do you remember your Aunt Carmen and Uncle Mateo?" he asked, turning to my mother.

Her brow furrowed. "What about them?"

"They celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last year, yes?" When my mother nodded, my father continued, "And how did they meet?"

A reluctant smile tugged at my mother's lips. "That's different, Gabriel."

"Is it? They married for his immigration papers—a completely practical arrangement. And now they're one of the strongest couples in the family." He leaned toward the camera. "Mia, Ethan, the beginning of a relationship is just that—a beginning. It's what you build that matters."

"But the dishonesty—" my mother began.

"Which they are correcting now, by their own choice," my father pointed out. "That shows character, Elena."

My mother sighed, her expression softening slightly. "Your father has a point," she admitted. "And I suppose our own courtship wasn't exactly romantic at first, was it, Gabriel?"

My father laughed outright. "Trips to the grocery store where you barely spoke to me, arguments over the best brand of canned beans—very passionate, very romantic."

"Wait, what?" I looked between my parents in confusion. "I thought you two fell in love at first sight at that community dance."

My parents exchanged amused glances. "That's the story we tell at parties," my mother explained with a small smile. "The reality was that your father was your uncle's annoying friend who needed a Spanish tutor for his community college class."

"I was not annoying," my father protested. "I was charming."

"You were persistent," my mother corrected, but her eyes were warm with affection. She turned back to us. "The truth is, mija, love rarely follows the path we expect. Sometimes the most genuine connections grow from strange beginnings."

Relief washed through me. "So you're not angry?"

"Disappointed that you didn't trust us sooner, perhaps," my mother admitted. "But not angry. Never angry with you, Mia." Her expression softened as she looked at Ethan. "And not with you either, Ethan. The way you look at my daughter—that cannot be faked."

"No, ma'am," Ethan agreed quietly. "It really can't."

After we ended the call, I collapsed against Ethan's chest, emotionally drained. "That went better than I expected."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Your parents are pretty amazing. They really get it."

"Get what?"

"That sometimes the most real things start in unexpected ways." His arms tightened around me. "Now we just have to survive telling my family."

I groaned dramatically. "Can we please wait until tomorrow for that particular horror show?"

"Absolutely," Ethan agreed. "I'd say we've earned a break. Pizza and bad movies?"

"You really do love me," I laughed, reaching for my phone to place our usual order.

Telling Ethan's family proved surprisingly less dramatic than we'd anticipated. We drove to his parents' suburban home the following weekend, rehearsing our explanation during the entire journey. But the moment we nervously shared our story in their pristine living room, Emma—Ethan's younger sister—burst out laughing.

"I KNEW something was weird!" she exclaimed, pointing triumphantly at Ethan. "You've spent your entire life avoiding anything resembling commitment, and suddenly you're bringing a girl home for Christmas? It was totally suspicious."

"It wasn't suspicious," Ethan protested. "It was... unexpected."

"Same difference," Emma dismissed with a wave. "Anyway, I think it's hilarious. And kind of romantic, in a weird, twisted way." She grinned at me. "You must be pretty special to turn my brother's fake feelings into real ones, Mia."

"Emma," Sandra, Ethan's mother, admonished gently before turning to us. "I appreciate your honesty, both of you. It couldn't have been easy to tell us."

I braced myself for Richard's reaction, expecting disappointment or perhaps lecturing about integrity. Instead, Ethan's father regarded us thoughtfully.

"The beginning of a relationship is irrelevant," he said finally. "It's the middle and end that matter. And from what I've observed, you two have something genuine now." His eyes, so similar to Ethan's, met mine directly. "Mia sees you, son. Really sees you. That's rare."

Ethan's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "I know, Dad. Trust me, I know."

That night, as we drove back to campus in comfortable silence, I found myself marveling at how smoothly our confessions had gone. "Is it weird that telling the truth about our fake relationship somehow made our real relationship feel more solid?" I asked.

Ethan considered this, his profile illuminated by passing streetlights. "Not weird at all," he decided. "It's like we're finally completely honest—with everyone else, but more importantly, with ourselves."

I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Later, curled against him on my small couch watching a movie neither of us was paying attention to, I scribbled a note in my journal: Sometimes the most authentic connections begin with honesty about inauthenticity.

As I drifted off against Ethan's shoulder, I realized we were no longer performing for anyone, not even ourselves. This was just us, real and imperfect and wonderful.

The week after the championship was a whirlwind. While Ethan navigated meetings with agents and fielded calls from NHL teams (the Pittsburgh Seals showing particular interest), I prepared for my meeting with Samantha Rivers from Sports Illustrations .

The morning of the meeting, I stood before my closet in a panic. "Everything I own looks either too casual or like I'm trying too hard," I lamented as Olivia lounged on my bed, offering unhelpful commentary.

"Wear the black pants with that blue blouse," she suggested, not looking up from her phone. "Professional but not stuffy."

I grabbed the items, grateful for the direction. "What if she hates my portfolio? What if I've built this whole thing up and she takes one look at my work and decides I'm completely mediocre?"

"Then you'll have a mediocre summer and try again next year," Olivia replied pragmatically.

"Your supportive friendship style continues to astound me," I said dryly.

Olivia finally looked up, her expression softening. "Mia, your work is exceptional. You know it, I know it, and Samantha Rivers is about to know it. Stop catastrophizing."

"I'm not catastrophizing, I'm—"

"Preparing for realistic worst-case scenarios?" she finished with a knowing smirk. "That's literally the definition of catastrophizing."

"I hate that you're a psychology minor," I muttered, pulling on the blue blouse.

"You love it," she corrected. "Now go dazzle the sports photography world with your hockey boyfriend emotions series."

The meeting was scheduled at a small gallery near campus where the university's arts showcase was being held. My hands shook slightly as I arranged my portfolio on the table, angling my laptop to display my digital work. When Samantha Rivers swept in—tall, confident, with a no-nonsense aura that immediately commanded respect—I almost knocked over my coffee in my haste to stand.

"Ms. Rivers, thank you for meeting with me," I said, extending my hand and praying it wasn't visibly trembling.

"Samantha, please," she replied with a firm handshake. "And I should be thanking you. When Ethan Wright contacted me about your work, I was intrigued, but after viewing your online portfolio, I was genuinely impressed."

Warmth bloomed in my chest at the thought of Ethan advocating for me.

"Let's see what you've brought," Samantha said, turning to my displayed work.

For the next hour, we went through my portfolio piece by piece. Samantha was thorough and direct, pointing out strengths and suggesting improvements with equal candor. When she reached my hockey emotion series, featuring Ethan and his teammates, she lingered, studying each image with heightened interest.

"This is exceptional work," she said finally. "You've captured the psychological narrative underlying the physical action. That's rare in sports photography, particularly from someone so young."

Pride swelled within me. "Thank you. I was trying to show the humanity behind the sport—the vulnerability beneath the strength."

"You succeeded." She closed my portfolio deliberately. "I'll be direct, Mia. The summer internship at Sports Illustrations is highly competitive. We received over five hundred applications this year."

My heart sank. Here came the gentle letdown.

"But I believe in making quick decisions when the right candidate is clear." She extended her hand again. "The position is yours, if you want it."

I stared at her, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The internship," she repeated patiently. "I'm offering it to you. You'll be based in our New York office, working primarily with the winter sports division, though we cross-train all our photographers. It's paid, includes housing stipend, and often leads to contract work afterward." She tilted her head slightly. "Is that something that interests you?"

"Yes!" I blurted, then modulated my tone. "I mean, yes, absolutely. I'm extremely interested. Thank you so much for this opportunity."

Samantha smiled, genuinely this time. "Your talent earned it. The fact that you have an insider's perspective on hockey now is just a bonus." Her eyes twinkled with knowing amusement. "Ethan mentioned you were dating. That connection can provide unique insights, though of course your work stands on its own."

As we finalized details, my mind raced ahead to what this meant—not just professionally, but personally. New York. Summer. Miles away from Ethan, who would be starting with Pittsburgh.

But those concerns were for later. Right now, I had achieved a critical part of my professional dream, solving my financial concerns in the process. As I walked back to my apartment, I couldn't stop smiling, despite the complicated future that success had suddenly created.

"New York," Ethan repeated, sitting on my kitchen counter as I prepared dinner that evening. "That's...far from Pittsburgh."

"Three hundred and seventy miles, approximately," I confirmed, focusing too intently on dicing an onion. "About a six-hour drive, depending on traffic."

"You've researched it already," he noted, amusement coloring his voice.

I glanced up, caught. "I might have looked into it. After I finished screaming into my pillow with excitement about the internship, of course."

"Of course." He hopped down from the counter, coming to stand beside me. Gently, he took the knife from my hand and set it down. "Mia, look at me."

I turned reluctantly, afraid of what I might see in his expression. But there was nothing but warmth and pride in his eyes.

"I am so incredibly proud of you," he said softly. "This internship is huge. Life-changing huge. And we're going to make it work."

"But three hundred and seventy miles—"

"Is nothing," he finished firmly. "Some miles between us don't stand a chance."

"That's a very hockey player way of looking at a long-distance relationship," I said, laughing despite the lump in my throat.

"Well, I am a hockey player." His hands found my waist, pulling me closer. "A hockey player who happens to have access to a car, occasional days off, and a frighteningly strong motivation to see his talented photographer girlfriend."

"Convenient."

"Very." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "We should talk about it more—make actual plans, be realistic about challenges. But not right now."

"Why not right now?"

His eyes danced with mischief. "Because right now, I want to celebrate my brilliant girlfriend landing her dream internship. The rest can wait."

As he lifted me off my feet in a spinning hug, I decided he was right. The complications of distance were problems for tomorrow. Tonight was for celebration and the simple joy of being exactly where I was, in the arms of someone who saw my success as our success.

Later, as we lay tangled together on my bed, Ethan propped himself up on one elbow, his expression turning more serious.

"We should probably talk about what this all means," he said. "For us. The distance, the schedules, the pressure."

I nodded, appreciating his directness. "I'd rather face it head-on than pretend it won't be hard."

"Hockey season is brutal," he began, his tone matter-of-fact. "Eighty-two regular-season games, half of them on the road. That means I'll be traveling constantly from October through April, minimum. If we make playoffs, add another two months."

"And my job will involve travel too," I added. "Especially if I continue specializing in winter sports."

"Media scrutiny," Ethan continued. "Not just game coverage, but personal life. Hockey players' relationships get attention, especially in devoted hockey towns like Pittsburgh."

"So I'll be dating a minor celebrity," I teased.

"Hardly," he snorted. "But still, it's a factor. And then there's the physical toll of the sport. I'll have injuries, bad moods after losses, early mornings, late nights."

I studied him, realizing what he was doing. "You're trying to scare me off."

He stilled. "What? No, I'm being realistic."

"You're listing every possible difficulty as if you're giving me an out," I observed. "Like you're saying, 'Here's your chance to run before it gets complicated.'"

Ethan was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "Maybe I am. Not because I want you to run, but because I want you to stay with complete awareness of what you're signing up for. No illusions."

"Ethan." I sat up, facing him fully. "I've watched you play hockey for months now. I've photographed the bruises, the exhaustion, the pressure. I've seen you at your lowest, most stressed moments. And I'm still here."

"You are," he acknowledged softly.

"So tell me what you're really worried about."

He looked away, vulnerability crossing his features. "That you'll resent it. The distance, the schedules, the limitations it puts on your life and career. That's what happened with Vanessa. She loved the idea of dating a hockey player until it actually impacted her life. Then it became something she tolerated, then resented, then couldn't stand."

I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together. "I'm not Vanessa."

"I know that."

"And I'm not tolerating your career. I'm building my own alongside it." I squeezed his hand. "Will it be hard? Absolutely. Will there be times I hate the distance? Definitely. But this isn't about tolerating your dream while sacrificing mine. It's about both of us pursuing what we love and figuring out how to love each other in the midst of it."

Ethan's expression shifted, relief washing over his features. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You were just too busy yelling at me for stepping on your ice to notice."

He laughed, pulling me back down beside him. "For the record, I'm still right about that. You could have killed us both."

"Drama queen," I muttered against his chest, but my tone held nothing but affection.

We spent the rest of the evening creating a more tangible plan—comparing calendars, identifying potential visit weekends, researching the best midpoint cities for meeting up during busy periods. It wasn't perfect, and there would undoubtedly be challenges we couldn't yet foresee, but it was a framework, a commitment to making space for each other within our individual journeys.

As final exams approached, we established a study routine that balanced our different needs. Ethan, I discovered, was surprisingly disciplined in his academics despite his athletic commitments. We claimed a corner table at the quietest campus coffee shop, spreading our materials across the scarred wooden surface.

"The business economics section of this final is destroying me," I groaned, shoving my notes away in frustration. "Why did I think a business minor was a good idea?"

"Because you wisely recognized that understanding the financial side of the industry would make you more marketable," Ethan replied without looking up from his own textbook. "Here, let me see."

I pushed my notes toward him skeptically. "Since when are you an expert in business economics?"

"Since I had to maintain a 3.5 GPA to keep my scholarship while also playing hockey," he replied, scanning my notes. "This stuff actually comes pretty naturally to me. Numbers make sense—they're concrete, predictable."

"Unlike photography, which is all subjective interpretation and artistic vision?" I teased.

"Exactly." He tapped a section of my notes. "Your confusion is here. You're mixing up fixed and variable costs in your example. Fixed costs don't change based on production levels—rent, insurance, base salaries. Variable costs do—materials, hourly wages, utilities."

I stared at him. "That... actually makes perfect sense the way you explained it."

"Don't sound so surprised," he laughed.

"Sorry, I just—" I shrugged. "I figured you were more of a physical learner than an academic one."

"I contain multitudes," he said solemnly, then grinned. "Actually, I just had an amazing economics teacher in high school who related everything to hockey team management. It stuck."

We spent the next hour with Ethan patiently explaining concepts I'd been struggling with for weeks, using simple examples that clarified everything. In return, I helped him prepare for the media portion of his professional development course, using Olivia's journalism insights to coach him on handling difficult interview questions.

"The key is to acknowledge the question without necessarily answering exactly what they've asked," I explained. "Like if someone asks, 'Do you think your teammate's penalty cost you the game?' you don't say yes or no. You pivot to, 'Every game has multiple turning points, and we win and lose as a team.'"

"That's... manipulative," Ethan observed.

"That's media training," I corrected. "And trust me, you'll need it. Reporters will try to create stories where there aren't any, especially in a hockey town like Pittsburgh. Better to be prepared."