Page 7

I woke up feeling oddly optimistic, which was unusual for a Thursday morning. Typically, by this point in the week, I was running on fumes, dragging myself through practices and classes while counting down to the weekend. But today was different. Today, I had a plan.

The Vanessa situation had been weighing on me for weeks. After she ambushed me at that Halloween party, it felt like her shadow loomed over my season. She kept showing up at games, texting late at night, telling anyone who'd listen she wanted to get back together. With scouts watching my every move, I couldn't afford the distraction, and I definitely couldn't afford another relationship meltdown that might question my stability.

But now I had a solution. An unconventional one, sure, but a solution nonetheless.

"You've lost your goddamn mind," Dylan announced when I explained the arrangement over breakfast.

"It's perfectly logical," I countered, spreading peanut butter on my toast with precise strokes. "Mia needs career connections; I need Vanessa to back off. We help each other for a few months, then go our separate ways. No complications."

Dylan froze mid–sip, coffee mug in hand. “No complications,” he warned. “A fake relationship with a woman who once called you ‘a sel f- centered puck jockey.’”

I shrugged, biting into my toast. “She’s changed her tune.”

He rolled his eyes and plucked last night’s pizza crust off the counter like a microphone. “Breaking news,” he announced in his best anchorman voice. “Local hockey captain—suspected brain damage—enters fake romance with one-time nemesis. Scientists baffled. Film at eleven.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “She doesn’t hate me anymore.”

“Great,” he sniffed, dumping the crust back on the plate. “So you’ll pretend to date her, forget it’s pretend, catch real feelings, and then she’ll drop the bomb that it was all for show. And I’ll get to scoop your heart off the ice while I deliver my ‘I told you so’ in interpretive dance form.”

“Not gonna happen,” I said. “It’s a fou r- month business arrangement. Nothing more.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Business arrangement, huh? That’s what all the cool kids are calling it these days?”

“Mature,” I smirked. “So—are you helping me sell this story or not?”

"Of course I'm going to help you," he sighed dramatically. "Someone has to be there to witness this spectacular disaster unfold. For posterity."

"Your support is overwhelming," I deadpanned.

"That's what best friends are for," he grinned. "Now hurry up and finish your toast. We're going to be late for Johnson's economics exam."

The locker room before afternoon practice buzzed with the usual pre-training energy—guys comparing bruises from yesterday's game, debating which drills Coach would run, complaining about classes. I'd just finished lacing up my skates when Tyler dropped onto the bench beside me.

"So," he said without preamble, "you and the photographer?"

I looked up, surprised. "Word travels fast."

"Dylan might have mentioned something," Tyler admitted. "Is it true?"

Several nearby teammates paused their conversations, clearly interested in my response. I hesitated, then nodded, committing to the plan.

"Yeah, it's true. Mia and I are seeing each other."

A chorus of reactions erupted—everything from "No way!" to "Called it!" to Dylan's theatrical groan from across the room.

"Seriously?" Sanchez, our left winger, looked skeptical. "The same girl who nearly caused you to break your neck a few weeks ago?"

"Things change," I shrugged, aiming for casual. "We've been working together on her photography assignment. Got to know each other better."

"And realized you're perfect for each other?" Tyler suggested, eyebrows raised.

"I wouldn't go that far," I said, allowing a small smile. "But there's definitely something there."

Tyler studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "She seems fierce. Exactly what you need to keep that ego in check."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said dryly.

"Anytime, Captain." He slapped my shoulder as he stood. "Just don't let it affect your game. Coach will have your head, relationship or no relationship."

As if summoned by his name, Coach Alvarez appeared in the doorway. "Wright," he called. "A word."

I followed him into the hallway, wondering if he'd somehow heard about my new "relationship" already. But his expression wasn't disapproving—more curious.

"Is it true you're seeing the newspaper photographer?" he asked without preamble.

"News really does travel fast around here," I muttered.

"Small team, big ears," he shrugged. "Is it true?"

"Yes," I confirmed, sticking to the plan. "It's fairly new, but... yes."

Coach nodded thoughtfully. "Good."

"Good?" I repeated, caught off guard.

"A stable relationship might impress the scouts," he explained. "Shows maturity, balance. The Pittsburgh scout in particular mentioned character being as important as skill." He fixed me with a pointed look. "Just don't let it distract you from what matters right now."

"It won't," I assured him.

"See that it doesn't," he said firmly. "Five minutes, then I want everyone on the ice. We're running special teams drills today."

I stood in the hallway for a moment. Did he think my relationship with Mia might actually be a good thing? The idea was oddly validating, even though the relationship wasn't real.

Shaking off the thought, I headed back to finish getting ready. The plan was in motion now. No turning back.

After economics class the next day, I cut across the quad toward the library, mind already on the upcoming weekend game. The early November air had a sharp edge to it, leaves crunching beneath my feet as I walked. I was mentally reviewing power play formations when a flash of movement caught my eye.

Mia was crouched near one of the massive oak trees, camera raised to her eye, seemingly capturing the fall foliage. Without conscious decision, I found myself changing direction, walking toward her.

She was so focused on her shot that she didn't notice me approach. I waited until she lowered the camera before speaking.

"Catching the last of the fall colors?"

She startled slightly, turning quickly. "Ethan. Hi."

"Sorry," I said, genuinely apologetic. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's fine," she assured me, straightening to her full height, which still left the top of her head somewhere around my chin. "I get absorbed when I'm shooting. Kind of lose awareness of my surroundings."

"That explains the ice incident," I observed, immediately regretting bringing it up.

To my surprise, she laughed. "Touché. Though in my defense, you guys move really fast."

"Kind of the point of hockey," I smiled.

"True," she nodded solemnly, then glanced around. "Are we officially 'on' right now? As in, should we be acting couple-y?"

I surveyed the quad. There were students scattered across the lawn, some studying, others just enjoying the crisp fall day. "Probably wouldn't hurt," I decided. "Word's already spreading."

"Already?" She looked surprised. "I haven't even told anyone except Olivia."

"I might have mentioned it to the team," I admitted. "And Coach overhead."

"Wow. So we're really doing this."

"Seems like it," I agreed, then gestured to a nearby bench. "Want to sit for a minute? We should probably figure out our first public date."

She nodded, following me to the bench and settling beside me. Not too close, but not conspicuously distant either. Just right for new couple territory.

"The Harvest Festival is this weekend," I suggested. "Saturday afternoon on the main quad. Games, food, that sort of thing. Very public, very casual."

"That could work," she agreed. "What time?"

"It starts at noon, but I have a team meeting until one. So, one-thirty?"

"Works for me." She made a note in her phone. "I have a shoot in the morning, but I'll be done by then."

"I'll meet you at the main entrance," I said, then added, "Wear something warm. It's supposed to be cold."

She gave me an amused look. "Are you concerned about my well-being, Wright?"

"Just being practical," I replied. "Can't have my fake girlfriend getting pneumonia. Bad for both our plans."

"Your concern is noted," she said, her smile still fixed. But then it vanished. "Have you seen Vanessa since Halloween?"

"Thankfully, no," I replied. "But she texted twice. I gave vague responses."

"Good. We don't want to tip our hand too early." She glanced at her watch. "I should get going. I have class in fifteen minutes."

"I'll walk you," I offered.

"You don't have to do that," she said, looking surprised.

"Isn't that what a good boyfriend would do?" I raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose he would," she conceded, gathering her camera bag. "Though I should warn you, it's clear across campus."

"I could use the exercise," I said, despite having done my morning workout.

As we walked, I found myself noticing things about Mia I hadn't before. The constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The way she gestured with her hands when explaining a particularly complex photography concept. The slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she smiled reluctantly at my terrible attempt at a photography joke.

"What do you call a deer with no eyes?" I asked.

"I don't know, what?"

"No eye deer." I grinned. "Get it? No idea?"

She groaned, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "That's terrible."

"I've got more," I warned.

"Please, no," she laughed.

When we reached her classroom building, she turned to face me. "So, Saturday. One-thirty at the Harvest Festival entrance."

"I'll be there," I confirmed.

"And don't forget to add me on social media," she added. "If we're dating, we should be connected online."

"Will do," I promised. "See you Saturday, Mia."

She gave a small wave before disappearing into the building, leaving me with the strange realization that I was actually looking forward to our fake date.

Back at my apartment that evening, I found myself searching for Mia on social media. Her profile was public, filled with an eclectic mix of photographs: artistic shots of campus architecture, candid moments with a girl I recognized as Olivia, and what appeared to be family gatherings—a large, close-knit group with Mia's same warm brown eyes and expressive gestures.

I followed her, then scrolled further into her feed, feeling oddly intrusive yet unable to stop. There was something compelling about seeing life through her lens—the way she captured light, the unusual angles, the moments of quiet beauty in ordinary settings.

A notification popped up: Mia has followed you back.

I clicked to her profile again and saw she'd added a new story—a simple shot of her camera beside a coffee cup, caption reading: "Late night editing session. Sometimes the best shots aren't the ones you expect." Was that a reference to us? Or just a general photography observation?

My phone buzzed with a text.

Mia: I realized we should probably know some basic things about each other if we're going to pull this off. Here's my list of essential info. Feel free to add anything I missed.

The message was followed by a surprisingly comprehensive list: her full name (Mia Navarro), birthday (March 12), hometown (Philadelphia), family details (parents Elena and Gabriel, younger siblings Miguel and Sophia), favorite foods (anything with cheese, spicy Thai, her mom's enchiladas), allergies (penicillin, cheap metal jewelry), and even her coffee order (large latte with an extra shot, almond milk if they have it).

I smiled at the thoroughness, then began typing my own response:

Ethan: Ethan Wright. Born January 8. From Boston originally. Parents Richard and Sandra. Sister Emma. Dad was NHL until knee injury, now a hockey commentator. Mom teaches high school English. Favorite food: my grandmother's shepherd's pie, good sushi, anything with protein after a game. Allergic to cats and bullshit. Coffee order: black, unless I need extra energy, then double espresso.

I hesitated, then added:

Ethan: Also, I hate cilantro. Tastes like soap. And I secretly like cheesy action movies, the kind with impossible explosions and bad one-liners.

I hit send before I could overthink it, then followed up with:

Ethan: Your turn. Tell me something not on your list.

There was a pause before the typing indicator appeared.

Mia: I'm terrified of deep water. Can't even watch underwater scenes in movies without getting anxious. And I have a ridiculous sweet tooth—I keep emergency chocolate in all my camera bags.

I found myself smiling at this unexpected vulnerability.

Ethan: Why photography? When did you know that's what you wanted to do?

Mia: I got my first camera when I was 10—a beat-up Polaroid from a yard sale. Loved the instant magic of it. By high school, I was saving every penny for better equipment. Just always made sense to me, seeing the world through a lens. What about hockey? Was it always the plan?

The question gave me pause. The honest answer was complicated.

Ethan: My dad put me on skates at 5. By 7, I was in a youth league. It's always been the expectation. But somewhere along the way, it became my dream too. Hard to separate those things sometimes.

I worried it was too revealing, but her response came quickly.

Mia: That makes sense. The expectations we grow up with become part of us, for better or worse. But it seems like you genuinely love it, at least from what I've seen at practices.

Ethan: I do. Even with the pressure, there's nothing like the feeling of being on the ice.

We continued exchanging messages for nearly an hour, the conversation flowing more easily than I would have expected. I was in the middle of explaining the finer points of penalty killing when my phone rang—my father's name flashing on the screen.

"I should take this," I texted Mia. "My dad calling. Talk tomorrow?"

"Of course," she replied. "Good night, Ethan."

Switching over to the call, I braced myself. "Hey, Dad."

"Ethan." My father's voice was as clipped and businesslike as ever. "Just watched the footage from your last game."

No greeting. No "how are you." Straight to hockey analysis.

"And?" I prompted, already feeling the familiar tension creeping into my shoulders.

"Your second period was sloppy. Three missed opportunities on the power play, and that pass to Dylan in the third? Telegraphed it completely. The defender nearly intercepted."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to maintain my composure. "We won, Dad."

"A win doesn't mean you played your best," he countered. "The Pittsburgh Seals scout was there. You think he didn't notice those mistakes?"

"I'm aware of that," I said evenly. "Coach and I already reviewed the footage. I know what I need to work on."

"Good," he said, though his tone suggested he doubted it. "The rankings just came out. You're still in the top twenty prospects, but you've slipped two spots."

My stomach clenched. "It's early in the season."

"Early is when impressions are made," he replied. "You can't afford to coast on reputation, Ethan. Not with your history."

By "history," he meant my sophomore year incident—a fight during a crucial playoff game that had earned me a suspension and a reputation for a hot temper. I'd worked hard to rebuild my image since then, but in my father's eyes, it remained an unforgivable lapse.

"I'm not coasting," I said, more sharply than intended. "I'm focused."

"Are you? Because I heard you're seeing someone new. Some girl from the college paper?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "How did you—"

"The hockey world is small, Ethan. News travels." His disapproval was evident. "Is this really the time to be distracted by a relationship? Months away from the draft?"

"She's not a distraction," I said, surprised by my own defensiveness. "Actually, she's incredibly focused on her own career. She understands the demands of mine."

There was a pause. "Well, just make sure it stays that way. You can't afford divided attention right now."

"It's under control," I assured him, though the irony of defending a fake relationship wasn't lost on me.

"It better be," he said. "Call me after the weekend game. I want a full report."

"I will," I promised, knowing there was no point in arguing.

After we hung up, I sat on the edge of my bed, the familiar post-call anxiety crawling through my veins. No matter how well I played, it was never quite good enough for Richard Wright. Always a critique, always areas for improvement, always the shadow of his own truncated career hanging over me.

Almost without thinking, I picked up my phone again and texted Mia.

Ethan: Looking forward to Saturday. Thanks for doing this.

Her response came quicker than I expected.

Mia: Me too. At least the festival has good food. If this fake dating thing is going to work, I should at least get some caramel apples out of it.

I found myself smiling.

Ethan: I'll buy you two. One for each hand.

Mia: Now that's the kind of romantic gesture a girl can appreciate.

Ethan: I aim to please. Especially when sugar is involved.

We exchanged a few more messages before she mentioned needing to finish editing photos. As I set my phone aside, I realized the tension from my father's call had dissipated, replaced by a surprising anticipation for Saturday.

It was just part of the plan, I reminded myself as I got ready for bed. This arrangement was mutually beneficial, nothing more. The fact that texting Mia had improved my mood was simply a fortunate side effect.