Page 5

I'd successfully managed to avoid direct interaction with Mia Navarro for nearly two weeks, despite her constant presence at practices and games. It wasn't that I was holding a grudge over our first disastrous meeting—we'd established our professional boundaries, and for the most part, she'd respected them, staying safely in the stands with her camera and keeping her distance.

No, it was something else that made me deliberately avoid making eye contact when she was nearby, something about the way she watched everything with those observant brown eyes, like she was looking for something beneath the surface. Like she could see past the captain's jersey and the practiced media responses to something I preferred to keep hidden.

It was unsettling. And I didn't need unsettling, not with scouts at every game and my future hanging in the balance.

The team was on a winning streak, largely thanks to my leadership and scoring. We'd won five straight games, climbing to the top of our conference rankings and generating serious buzz among NHL circles. Pittsburgh wasn't the only team sending scouts anymore—Chicago, Boston, and Toronto had all made appearances at recent games.

The pressure should have been crushing, but somehow, I was thriving under it. My skating was sharper, my shots more accurate, my game awareness at a level I'd never reached before. Coach Alvarez had actually given me a genuine compliment after our last victory—a rare occurrence that had left the entire team in mock shock.

"Are you terminally ill, Coach?" Dylan had asked with exaggerated concern. "Because you just said something nice to Wright, and we're worried it might be a symptom of imminent death."

Everything was clicking into place exactly as I'd planned. Which was why I was deeply skeptical when Dylan cornered me after practice on a Wednesday afternoon with what he claimed was a "brilliant idea."

"No," I said immediately, not even waiting to hear it.

"You haven't even heard my proposal yet," Dylan protested, following me into our apartment.

"I don't need to. Your 'brilliant ideas' have a historical success rate of approximately zero percent." I headed for the shower, hoping to end the conversation.

No such luck. Dylan continued talking through the bathroom door. "The team needs to celebrate our winning streak. Boost morale. Team bonding. All that leadership stuff you're supposed to care about as captain."

I turned on the shower to drown him out, but when I emerged fifteen minutes later, he was waiting in the living room with a determined expression.

"Halloween party," he announced. "At the hockey house. This Saturday."

I groaned. "Dylan, I don't have time for—"

"For maintaining team morale? For rewarding everyone's hard work? For being a normal college senior for once in your life?" He crossed his arms. "Come on, Wright. We're on fire this season. The scouts are practically drooling over you. One night of normal social interaction won't derail your NHL dreams."

I hesitated. As much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. The team had been putting in extraordinary effort, and as captain, I should acknowledge that. And it had been a while since I'd done anything remotely resembling normal college life.

"Fine," I conceded. "But low-key. Just the team and a few friends."

Dylan's face split into a grin that immediately made me regret my decision. "Absolutely. Super chill. Practically a study group with costumes."

I knew he was lying. I knew it would be anything but low-key. And yet, I found myself nodding anyway.

"One condition," I added. "I'm not wearing an elaborate costume."

"Define 'elaborate.'"

"Anything that would make me look ridiculous or be impossible to quickly remove if Coach calls an emergency practice."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Your dedication to joylessness is truly inspiring, Wright. Fine. Minimal costume. But you have to at least try."

"Deal." I grabbed my playbook from the coffee table. "Now can I please review the new defensive strategy Coach wants to implement tomorrow?"

"By all means, continue your thrilling hockey monk existence." Dylan headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and I may have mentioned the party to the newspaper staff. For, you know, community coverage."

I looked up sharply. "The newspaper staff? As in—"

"Gotta go! Class! Learning! Education!" Dylan disappeared before I could throw something at him.

Great. A Halloween party with the entire hockey team, an unknown number of random students, and now the newspaper staff—which would inevitably include Mia Navarro and her nosy roommate. Just what I needed before our crucial game against Denver the following week.

But I'd already agreed, and Wright men didn't go back on their word. Even when their idiotic best friends set them up for disaster.

Halloween night arrived with the hockey house already transformed into what could only be described as a fire marshal's nightmare. Orange and black streamers hung from every possible surface, fake cobwebs clung to corners, and someone had set up a fog machine that was making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.

"Low-key, huh?" I muttered to Dylan, who was dressed as what appeared to be a zombie pirate, complete with fake blood and an eye patch.

"This is low-key," he insisted. "I restrained myself enormously. Do you see any live animals or flaming objects? No? That's restraint, my friend."

I adjusted the jersey I'd worn as my minimal-effort "zombie hockey player" costume. A bit of Dylan's fake blood on my face and a torn jersey were as far as I was willing to go, despite my roommate's protests that I was "disrespecting the sanctity of Halloween."

The party was already in full swing, with music pulsing through speakers and what seemed like half the student body crammed into the house. I recognized faces from classes, other athletic teams, and various campus organizations. So much for "just the team and a few friends."

"Drink?" Dylan offered, holding out a red cup.

"I'm good," I declined. "Scout from Toronto confirmed for Tuesday's game. Need to stay sharp."

"One beer won't dull your precious hockey skills," Dylan argued, but he didn't push it. He knew my stance on drinking during the season. "At least try to look like you're having fun. Captain's duty to set the tone, right?"

He had a point. I pasted on what I hoped was a convincing approximation of enjoyment and began circulating through the party, accepting congratulations on our recent wins and deflecting questions about NHL prospects with practiced non-answers.

As I was cornered by an enthusiastic freshman from my Economics class who wanted to discuss the Wolves' power play strategy in excruciating detail, I spotted her across the room. Mia, dressed as what looked like a witch, her camera in hand as she photographed the party for the university paper. The sleek black dress she wore was a far cry from her usual jeans and oversized sweaters, accentuating curves I'd tried very hard not to notice during practices and games.

She was smiling as she reviewed a shot on her camera, and I found myself staring, caught off guard by how different she looked away from the rink—softer somehow, more approachable. I quickly averted my gaze when she looked up, not wanting to be caught looking at her.

I excused myself from the hockey-obsessed freshman and made my way to the kitchen, needing a moment away from the noise and crowd. As I reached for a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I overheard a conversation that made my blood run cold.

"No, I'm definitely going to talk to him tonight," a familiar voice was saying. "We've had enough space after the breakup. It's time to give things another chance, especially now that the scouts are so interested in him."

Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend, whose voice I'd hoped never to hear again, was apparently at this party. And planning to "give things another chance." With me. Without my consent or interest.

I closed the refrigerator door without taking the water and leaned against the counter, momentarily paralyzed by dread. Vanessa Peterson and I had dated for eight months before breaking up last spring. She'd claimed I was too focused on hockey, too rigid, too unavailable emotionally. All of which was probably true.

The breakup had been messy, public, and had coincided with a crucial game that we'd subsequently lost—a fact my father had never let me forget. I'd spent the summer and fall focused entirely on hockey, deliberately avoiding anything resembling a relationship.

And now, just as everything was finally going right with my career, Vanessa wanted to "give things another chance." Because the scouts were interested. Of course.

I peered carefully around the doorframe, spotting Vanessa by the living room window, dressed as some kind of sexy angel, complete with wings and a halo that were particularly ironic given the manipulation I'd just overheard. She was scanning the room, clearly looking for me.

Across the crowded space, I caught sight of Mia again. She was adjusting her camera settings, seemingly oblivious to the party chaos around her. Without conscious decision, I found myself moving toward her, driven by a desperation I wasn't proud of.

"Hey," I said, coming up beside her. "Can we talk somewhere quieter for a minute?"

She looked up, surprise evident in her expression. "Um, sure?"

I led her down a less crowded hallway, away from the main party and—most importantly—away from Vanessa's hunting grounds. Mia followed with visible confusion.

"Is something wrong?" she asked once we were relatively alone. "Did I do something with the photos that—"

"No, nothing like that," I interrupted. "Your photos have been great. Really great, actually. I just..." I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how bizarre this must seem. "I need to ask you something. A favor, kind of."

Her eyebrows rose. "A favor? From me? The person you barely acknowledge at practices?"

I winced. So she had noticed. "Yeah, about that. I'm sorry. It's not personal. I just..." How to explain that her perceptive gaze made me uncomfortable without sounding completely unhinged?

"You just what?" she prompted when I didn't continue.

"I just needed to focus," I finished lamely. "Scouts and everything."

"Right." She didn't look convinced. "So what's this favor?"

I took a deep breath. "My ex-girlfriend is here. Vanessa. We broke up last spring, and it was... not good. Now she's apparently decided she wants to get back together, and I definitely do not want that. At all. Ever."

Mia tilted her head, clearly not understanding where this was going. "Okay? And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because I need a buffer. Someone to keep her away while I focus on hockey and impressing scouts." The words came out in a rush. "And I thought maybe we could pretend to be... you know. Dating. Just until the end of the season. It would be mutually beneficial—you get exclusive access to the team for better photos, and I get to focus on hockey without Vanessa drama."

I'd expected skepticism. Reluctance. Questions. What I hadn't expected was for Mia to burst out laughing.

"Are you serious right now?" she asked between giggles. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. What is this, a bad romantic comedy?"

My ears burned with embarrassment. "It's not that ridiculous. It's a practical arrangement."

"A practical arrangement," she repeated, her laughter subsiding but amusement still dancing in her eyes. "Do you even hear yourself? Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly intense about everything?"

"Once or twice," I admitted, my shoulders relaxing slightly at her reaction. At least she wasn't offended by the suggestion. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but Vanessa has a way of... complicating things. And right now, I can't afford complications. The scouts—"

"Yes, the scouts, your career, the NHL, I know." She was smiling now, but not unkindly. "You do realize that normal people would just tell their ex they're not interested, right? Use your words, Wright. 'No thank you, Vanessa. Not interested in reconciling. Have a nice life.'"

I shifted uncomfortably. "It's not that simple with her."

"It never is," Mia acknowledged. "But I'm still not seeing how pretending to date me would be an actual solution rather than creating a whole new set of problems. For one thing, we'd have to act like we actually like each other, which might be a stretch given our history."

I winced at the accuracy of her assessment. "We could manage it. We're both adults. And it wouldn't have to be anything elaborate—just enough to send a clear 'not available' message."

She studied me with those observant eyes that always made me feel exposed. "Has anyone ever told you that your approach to human relationships is concerningly transactional?"

"My therapist, actually," I admitted, then immediately regretted it. I never talked about the sports psychologist Coach had made me see after last year's fight.

Mia's expression softened slightly at my admission. "At least you're self-aware." She sighed. "This is still the worst plan I've ever heard."

Before I could respond, a familiar voice called from behind me. "Ethan? There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

I turned to see Vanessa approaching, her angel wings bobbing as she navigated the narrow hallway. She was as beautiful as ever, with her perfect blonde hair and carefully applied makeup, but all I felt was a sinking dread.

"Vanessa," I said flatly. "Hey."

She brushed past Mia as if she didn't exist, positioning herself between us. "I've been trying to find you all night. We really need to talk about us."

I caught Mia's eye over Vanessa's shoulder, silently pleading for help. She looked torn between amusement at my predicament and something like sympathy.

"Vanessa, this is Mia Navarro," I said awkwardly, gesturing around the angel wings. "She's the photographer for the university paper, covering our season."

Vanessa barely glanced at Mia. "Nice to meet you. Ethan and I actually have some private things to discuss, so if you'll excuse us—"

"Actually," I interrupted, desperate to avoid being alone with Vanessa and her reconciliation plans, "Mia and I were in the middle of something important."

"It can wait," Vanessa said firmly, her hand closing around my arm. "I need to talk to you about us. About giving things another chance now that your career is taking off."

At least she wasn't bothering to hide her motivations. I looked to Mia again, hoping for rescue, but she was already backing away, her expression a mixture of amusement and what looked annoyingly like pity.

"I should get back to work anyway," she said. "Lots more photos to take. Nice meeting you, Vanessa."

She turned and walked away, leaving me to face Vanessa's reconciliation offensive alone. I watched Mia disappear into the crowd, feeling pathetic and desperate. I needed a better plan—or a more compelling offer—if I was going to survive this season with my sanity intact.