Page 6

I stared at my phone, unable to process the words on the screen. Maybe if I blinked enough times, the email would transform into something less catastrophic.

Due to university-wide budget constraints, we regret to inform you that your photography scholarship will be reduced by 30% for the upcoming semester...

The rest of the message blurred as tears welled in my eyes. A 30% reduction. That was nearly $4,000 I suddenly needed to find. I did the mental math again, hoping somehow the numbers would change. My part-time job at the campus bookstore barely covered groceries and utilities. The newspaper photography gig added a bit more, but nowhere near enough to make up this shortfall.

"Mia? You home?" Olivia's voice echoed from our apartment's entrance.

I couldn't answer. My throat felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper.

"There you are! I was thinking we could—" Olivia stopped mid-sentence when she saw my face. "What happened? Who died? Who do I need to kill?"

I wordlessly held up my phone, the email still displayed.

Olivia snatched it, eyes scanning quickly. "Those absolute bastards," she hissed, then slammed the phone down with such force I worried for the screen. "This calls for emergency protocol."

Before I could respond, she marched to the freezer, extracted a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, grabbed two spoons, and returned to the table.

"We're having ice cream for breakfast," she announced, prying off the lid. "And no, I will not be taking questions at this time."

Despite everything, I felt a tiny smile tug at my lips. "It's 10 AM."

"Bold of you to assume time exists during a financial crisis." She thrust a spoon into my hand. "Eat. Then we'll figure this out."

We ate in silence for a few minutes, the sugary coldness oddly comforting against the warm anxiety blooming in my chest.

"I can't ask my parents," I finally said, voicing my first coherent thought. "Dad just picked up that second shift at the warehouse, and Mom's already juggling her teaching job with weekend tutoring. They're stretched thin helping with Miguel and Sophia's school expenses as it is."

Olivia nodded sympathetically. She'd met my family during fall break last year and understood our financial situation. My parents had emigrated from Mexico before I was born, working tirelessly to give their children opportunities they never had. The thought of calling them with this news made my stomach clench.

"What about emergency aid through the university?" Olivia suggested, digging for a particularly large chocolate chunk.

"The deadline was last month." I'd already checked during my initial panic. "Most scholarship applications for next semester closed weeks ago. It's like they waited until it was too late to give us any options."

"Classic administration move," Olivia muttered darkly. "What about picking up more hours at the bookstore?"

"They're cutting hours, not adding them. Budget constraints there too." I stabbed my spoon into the slowly melting ice cream. "And I can't take on another job without sacrificing my studio time, which would tank my portfolio work, which would defeat the whole purpose of being here."

"Could you sell some prints? Your fall series was gorgeous."

"To whom? Broke college students?" I sighed. "Even if I could find buyers, I'd need to sell dozens to make a dent."

We brainstormed increasingly implausible ideas—selling a kidney ("You only need one!"), finding a wealthy campus patron ("There must be some photography-loving millionaire in town!"), or starting a lucrative photography side hustle ("Sexy graduation photos? No, wait, that sounds wrong.").

As we reached the bottom of the ice cream container, a memory from the Halloween party flickered in my mind. Ethan's desperate face as he proposed a fake dating scheme. His obvious panic when Vanessa approached. The way he'd said: "I'll give you exclusive access to the team. It would be mutually beneficial for both of us."

"What if..." I began slowly, then stopped. The idea was ridiculous.

"What if what?" Olivia prompted, licking her spoon. "I'm open to literally any suggestion right now, including light crime."

"What if I took Ethan up on his offer?"

Olivia's spoon clattered to the table. "Excuse me? Captain Ethan? The same guy whose head you wanted to use as a tripod a few weeks ago? That Ethan?"

"The very same." I chewed my lower lip. "At the Halloween party, he asked me to pretend to be his girlfriend until the end of hockey season. To keep his Ex away so he could focus on impressing scouts."

"And you turned him down, because you're a sane person."

"I did," I confirmed. "But he offered exclusive access to the team. Insider access that could significantly improve my sports portfolio."

Olivia was already shaking her head. "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"The Sports Illustrations summer internship," I continued, warming to the idea despite myself. "The deadline is right after hockey season ends. It comes with a $5,000 scholarship stipend for next year."

"Mia—"

"And Ethan's dad is friends with Samantha Rivers."

That stopped her. Even Olivia, with her principled stand against athlete worship, knew that name. Samantha Rivers was the photography director for Sports Illustrations , legendary in our field.

"No," she said, but with less conviction. "There has to be another way."

"If there is, I'm all ears." I gestured to the empty ice cream container. "But right now, this seems like my best option. It's not like I'd actually be dating him. It's a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial exchange of services."

"It's a terrible idea," Olivia insisted. "You can barely stand to be in the same room with him."

"That's not entirely true," I admitted, thinking of our coffee shop encounter. "He's... not as horrible as I initially thought."

"High praise indeed," Olivia said dryly.

"The point is, I need money for tuition, and this could be a pathway to getting it. It's not ideal, but neither is dropping out."

Olivia studied me for a long moment. "You're seriously considering this."

"I am."

"What about your dignity? Your principles? Your frequent and eloquent rants against entitled athletes?"

"All temporarily on hold due to financial emergency," I replied, attempting a smile. "Look, it's four months of pretend dating. I've endured worse for less reward."

"Like what?"

"Remember my ex, John? Three months of actual dating, and all I got was a broken heart and his terrible playlist cluttering up my music library."

Olivia snorted. "Fair point." She sighed heavily. "If you're really going to do this, I reserve the right to mock you mercilessly throughout the entire fake relationship."

"I would expect nothing less." I stood up, suddenly energized with purpose. "Now I just need to find Ethan and tell him I've reconsidered."

"And what exactly are your terms going to be?" Olivia asked, following me to the sink where I rinsed our spoons. "Because if you're doing this, you'd better get something concrete out of it."

"Access to the team, obviously," I said, thinking aloud. "But you're right, I need more." I leaned against the counter. "I need an introduction to Samantha Rivers. A genuine recommendation for the internship."

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "You're going to ask Mr. Hockey Star to put his reputation on the line for you? Bold."

"It's no different than what he's asking of me," I pointed out. "He wants to use my public image to solve his problem. I'll use his connections to solve mine."

"If you put it that way..." Olivia nodded slowly. "It almost makes sense in a twisted, rom-com-plot kind of way."

"Exactly. It's just business." I grabbed my phone and opened social media, scrolling through the university athletics page until I found a post from yesterday. "Men's hockey team has weight training this afternoon. I'll catch him at the gym."

"I can't believe you're actually doing this," Olivia whispered, eyes wide.

"Desperate times," I shrugged, already mentally rehearsing what I'd say to Ethan. "But don't worry—I'm going in with my eyes wide open. No catching feelings, no drama. Just a straightforward exchange of services until hockey season ends."

Olivia gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher. "If you say so," she said, in a tone that suggested she thought otherwise. "Just promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"When this inevitably blows up in your face, remember that I told you so."

"Such faith," I laughed, heading to my room to change. "But don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing."

As I pulled on a clean sweater, I tried to ignore the flutter of nervousness in my stomach. This was just a business arrangement. Nothing more. Now I just had to convince Ethan that I was worth the investment.

The university gym was bustling with afternoon activity when I arrived. Student athletes in various team gear moved between equipment stations while regular students claimed whatever machines remained. The air smelled of sweat, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang that always seems to permeate weight rooms.

I spotted the hockey team immediately. They traveled in a pack, distinctive in their matching workout shirts, rotating between stations with disciplined efficiency. Ethan was at the squat rack, his back to me, focused on his form as he completed a set. Even from behind, I could tell it was him—something about the set of his shoulders, the controlled way he moved.

I hesitated near the entrance, suddenly questioning my plan. This was crazy, wasn't it? Pretending to date someone for financial gain? What kind of person did that make me?

A person who wants to stay in school , I reminded myself firmly. A person doing what needs to be done.

Before I could lose my nerve, I strode forward, weaving between exercise machines until I reached the weightlifting area. A few of the hockey players noticed me approaching, their curious glances making my cheeks warm. I recognized Dylan, who gave me a friendly if confused nod.

Ethan finished his set and turned to rack the weights, finally spotting me. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by wariness.

"Mia," he said, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you," I replied, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "Privately, if possible."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Give me a second."

He said something to his teammates that I couldn't hear, then gestured for me to follow him toward the hallway that led to the locker rooms. Once we were away from the main gym floor, he stopped and turned to face me.

"Is this about the newspaper? Because I already approved the team photo session for next week—"

"It's about your proposal," I interrupted. "From the Halloween party."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh." A pause. "I thought you said it was ridiculous."

"I did," I acknowledged. "And it is. But I've... reconsidered."

Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"

I took a deep breath. The hallway suddenly felt very small, or maybe it was just Ethan's presence. He was taller than I remembered, his shoulders broader. A trickle of sweat ran down his neck, disappearing into his shirt collar. I forced myself to focus.

"My situation has changed," I said carefully. "The university just cut my scholarship by thirty percent. I can't afford next semester without additional funding."

Understanding dawned on his face. "And you think dating me will somehow solve that problem?"

"Not dating you," I corrected. " Pretending to date you. And not directly, no. But the Sports Illustrations summer internship comes with a scholarship stipend. If I land it, I can stay in school."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Your portfolio offer was good," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady despite my growing desperation and the unnerving proximity to him. "But I need more than just team access. I need connections."

"What kind of connections?" Something in his tone had changed—cautious interest, perhaps.

"Your dad is friends with Samantha Rivers, the photography director at Sports Illustrations ," I said, meeting his eyes directly. "I need an introduction. A recommendation."

Ethan let out a low whistle. "You've done your homework."

"When it comes to my career, always." I squared my shoulders. "So here's my counter-offer: I'll be your fake girlfriend until the end of hockey season. I'll keep Vanessa away, attend your games, do all the social media stuff—whatever it takes to be convincing. In exchange, you get me that introduction to Samantha, plus the team access you already offered."

He was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I could feel my heart pounding, a mixture of anxiety and the strange, undeniable chemistry that seemed to crackle between us whenever we were alone.

Chemistry? No. That's just nerves , I told myself firmly.

"That's asking a lot," he finally said. "My dad's connections aren't something I trade on lightly."

"And my public persona isn't something I fake lightly," I countered. "We're both asking for significant favors here."

Another pause. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a real smile that transformed his usual serious expression into something almost boyish.

"You're tough, you know that?"

"I prefer 'determined,'" I replied, allowing myself a small smile in return.

"Determined," he repeated, nodding. "I like that." He seemed to come to a decision. "Alright, Mia. You've got yourself a deal."

Relief washed over me so intensely I nearly sagged against the wall. "Really?"

"Really. But we need to work out the details. This has to be convincing."

"Agreed."

"Are you free tonight? We should probably discuss the parameters."

"Parameters," I echoed, amused despite myself. "Very romantic."

That earned me another smile. "Hey, you're the one who called it a business arrangement."

"True." I considered my schedule. "I have a late lab session until 11 PM. After that?"

" Midnight Munchies Diner?" he suggested. "Open 24 hours, and they have decent coffee."

"I know it," I nodded. "Midnight, then."

"It's a date," he said, then immediately winced. "I mean, not a date-date. A meeting. A business meeting."

I laughed, surprised by his awkwardness. "I know what you meant."

"Right. Good." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. "So, midnight. Midnight Munchies. I'll be there."

"See you then," I said, turning to leave before I could second-guess myself.

"Mia?" he called after me.

I looked back over my shoulder. "Yes?"

"I'm glad you reconsidered."

There was something in his voice—relief, maybe, or genuine gratitude—that made my stomach do a peculiar flip.

"Don't get too excited," I warned him. "We still have to pull this off."

"We will," he said with surprising confidence. "See you at midnight."

As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on my back. What had I just gotten myself into? Four months pretending to date Ethan Wright, hockey captain and embodiment of everything I'd claimed to despise about college sports culture.

It's just business , I reminded myself. A means to an end. Nothing more.

But as I pushed through the gym doors into the crisp evening air, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that I'd just crossed a point of no return.

The Midnight Munchies Diner was exactly as I remembered from late-night study sessions: vinyl booths in faded teal, checkerboard floor tiles, and the perpetual smell of coffee and pancakes. At 12:07 AM, it was sparsely populated—a couple of taxi drivers at the counter, a group of students surrounded by textbooks in the corner, and now me, sliding into a booth by the window.

I'd come straight from my photography lab, my hair still smelling faintly of darkroom chemicals despite my quick bathroom freshen-up. My camera bag sat beside me, heavy with equipment I'd been using for my latest assignment.

"Coffee?" A server appeared, coffeepot in hand, looking as tired as I felt.

"Yes, please," I said gratefully. "The largest size you have."

She filled a mug the size of a soup bowl and placed it before me. "Anything else to start?"

"I'm waiting for someone, actually," I replied, glancing toward the door.

As if on cue, it swung open, and Ethan walked in. He'd changed since the gym, now wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater that made his eyes look even bluer than I remembered. His hair was still damp, presumably from a shower.

The server followed my gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Your friend's here," she said, a knowing tone in her voice that I chose to ignore.

Ethan spotted me and made his way over, sliding into the booth across from me. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Coach called right as I was leaving."

"It's fine," I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug. "I just got here myself."

The server reappeared. "Coffee for you too, hon?"

"Please," Ethan nodded. "And can we see menus?"

Once we were settled with coffee and menus, an awkward silence fell. This was the first time we'd voluntarily sought each other's company, with no friends as buffers and no immediate crisis to address. I took a sip of coffee, using the mug to hide my uncertainty.

"So," Ethan finally said, "this fake relationship."

"Right." I set down my coffee. "We should establish parameters."

"That sounds very scientific," he said, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"I think it should be," I replied, pulling a small notebook from my bag. "Clear expectations. Defined boundaries. Scheduled end date."

"You brought notes?"

"I like to be prepared."

Ethan leaned back, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Of course you do."

Before I could decide if that was a compliment or a criticism, the server returned for our orders.

"Chocolate chip pancakes, please," I said. "With extra whipped cream."

"At midnight?" Ethan asked, eyebrows raised.

"Problem?"

"Not at all. Make that two orders," he told the server, who scribbled on her pad and disappeared.

"Pancakes at midnight," I observed. "We already have something in common."

"Terrifying," he deadpanned, then smiled to show he was joking. "So, these parameters. What are you thinking?"

I flipped open my notebook. "Term length: from now until the end of hockey season. That's approximately four months."

"Agreed," he nodded. "Until the final game, whenever that might be."

"Hopefully the championship," I said, surprising myself with the sentiment.

Ethan looked equally surprised. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Well, the longer you play, the more portfolio pieces I get," I explained quickly.

"Ah, of course." Was that disappointment in his voice? Surely not.

"Next item," I continued briskly. "Public appearances. I assume you want me at your games?"

"As many as you can manage," he confirmed. "Especially home games. And team events when possible."

"What about your family events?" I asked. "Would I be expected to meet your parents?"

Ethan's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "My father doesn't visit often, and when he does, it's usually just to critique my play. I don't think that will be necessary."

"Okay," I said, noting something uncomfortable in his tone. "What about you? Would you be coming to any of my events?"

"Do you have exhibitions or something?"

"There's a student showcase in January," I said. "And sometimes smaller gallery events."

"I can do that," he nodded. "Just give me the dates when you know them."

"Great." I made a note. "Social media presence. We should probably connect online. Post occasional couple-y content."

"Nothing excessive," he stipulated. "I don't want this to look like a sudden personality transplant."

"Agreed. Natural, gradual progression." I tapped my pen against the page. "Which brings us to physical boundaries."

Ethan nearly choked on his coffee. "Excuse me?"

"If we're dating, people will expect certain... physical displays of affection," I said, my cheeks warming despite my clinical tone. "Hand-holding, hugging, maybe occasional kissing. We should establish what's acceptable."

He cleared his throat. "Right. That makes sense."

"I'm comfortable with hand-holding and hugging," I said, focusing intently on my notebook. "And kissing if the situation absolutely requires it. For convincingness."

"Convincingness," he repeated, the hint of a smile in his voice. "Is that a technical term?"

"You know what I mean," I said, looking up to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"I do," he agreed. "And those boundaries sound reasonable to me."

"Good." I took another sip of coffee. "Financial arrangements. To be clear, I don't want your money."

"I wasn't going to—"

"I know, but I wanted to make that explicit," I interrupted. "This is an exchange of services, not a transaction."

"Understood," he said solemnly. "I'll cover date expenses when we're out, but that's it."

"Fair enough."

Our pancakes arrived then, towers of fluffy goodness topped with melting chocolate chips and clouds of whipped cream. We both dove in, the serious conversation momentarily paused by the comfort of breakfast food at midnight.

"These are amazing," Ethan said after a few bites.

"Best stress food in town," I agreed. "I've solved many life crises with these pancakes."

"Is that what we're doing now? Solving a crisis?"

"Two crises, technically," I corrected. "Your ex problem and my tuition problem."

He nodded thoughtfully, chasing a chocolate chip around his plate. "We need a backstory. People will ask how we got together, especially after our... memorable first meeting."

"You mean when I accidentally stepped on the ice and you nearly took my head off?"

"I didn't nearly take your head off," he protested. "I was justifiably concerned about safety."

"You yelled at me in front of the entire team," I reminded him.

"And you called me an entitled jock," he countered, but there was no heat in his voice. "Not our finest moment."

"Definitely not meet-cute material," I agreed, smiling.

"So what's our story? How did the hockey captain and the photography student overcome their mutual animosity to fall madly in love?"

I rolled my eyes at "madly in love" but considered the question seriously. "It should be plausible. Maybe... after our coffee shop truce, you started explaining hockey to me to help with my assignment?"

"That could work," he nodded. "I noticed your talent and offered more access to help your portfolio."

"And during those sessions, we discovered we didn't actually hate each other," I continued, warming to the narrative.

"I was impressed by your dedication to your craft," Ethan added, building on the story.

"And I realized you weren't just a mindless jock," I said, making him laugh.

"High praise," he said, mimicking my earlier tone.

"The highest," I confirmed with a grin. "So, gradually, these professional sessions became more personal..."

"Until I finally asked you out properly," Ethan finished.

"When, exactly?"

"Last week? After the home game against State?" he suggested. "I was on a post-win high, finally worked up the courage."

"And I said yes because...?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Because of my irresistible charm, obviously."

I snorted. "Let's say I was impressed by your dedication. On the ice and to helping me with my work."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "Though I'm noting that you didn't deny the irresistible charm part."

"Don't push your luck, Wright," I warned, but I was smiling.

"So that's our story," he said, leaning back. "Professional cooperation that blossomed into romance. Simple, believable."

"With just enough truth to make the lie convincing," I agreed.

"Speaking of convincing," Ethan said, setting down his fork, "we should probably know some basic things about each other. Favorite colors, foods, that sort of thing."

"Good point." I pulled out my phone. "Let's exchange numbers. I'll send you a list of questions, with my answers included. You can respond with yours."

"Very efficient," he noted, pulling out his own phone.

We exchanged numbers, and I tried to ignore the strange flutter in my stomach as I entered his name in my contacts.

"So," he said, after we'd demolished our pancakes, "we start tomorrow?"

"I guess we do," I nodded. "What's our first public appearance as a couple?"

"The team has an afternoon practice," he said. "You could come take photos, and I could walk you home after?"

"That works," I agreed. "I'll be there."

Ethan signaled for the check, insisting on paying despite my protest. As we left the diner, the cold night air hit my face, making me shiver slightly. Without comment, Ethan moved to walk between me and the street, a small but noticeable gesture of chivalry.

"Which way are you headed?" he asked.

"Westfield Apartments," I replied. "About ten minutes that way."

"I'll walk you," he said, falling into step beside me.

"You don't have to do that," I said quickly. "We haven't officially started the fake relationship yet."

"It's after midnight," he pointed out. "Fake boyfriend or not, I'm not letting you walk home alone."

"Fine," I conceded. "But only because it's cold and having you as a windbreak is nice."

He laughed. "Happy to be of service."

We walked wrapped in a surprisingly comfortable silence, breaths pluming white in the cold air. Lamplight pooled gold on the deserted campus walkways, the quiet broken only by the crunch of our footsteps.

When my building loomed ahead, the silence stretched, and though we stopped right by the entrance, neither of us reached for the door just yet.

"So," I said, suddenly awkward again. "Tomorrow. Practice at 3?"

"I'll tell the security guard to expect you," he nodded. "You can set up wherever gives you the best angles."

"Thanks." I shifted my camera bag to my other shoulder. "For dinner, too."

"Anytime." He hesitated, then added, "This might actually work, you know."

"The fake relationship?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "We managed an entire meal without arguing once."

"A modern miracle," I agreed, returning his smile. "Maybe we're growing as people."

"Or maybe we're just really good actors," he suggested.

"Either way," I said, taking a step toward my building, "I guess we'll find out how convincing we can be."

"I guess we will." He waited until I reached the door before adding, "Goodnight, Mia."

"Goodnight, Ethan," I replied, surprised by the warmth in my voice.

As I rode the elevator to my floor, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd grossly miscalculated something important. This was supposed to be a simple business arrangement, yet our midnight meeting had felt almost enjoyable.

It's just good acting , I assured myself. Getting into character early.