Page 8

The Harvest Festival was in full swing by the time I arrived, slightly breathless from speed-walking across campus. My morning photoshoot for the art department had run long, leaving me barely enough time to rush home, change, and make it to the main entrance by one-thirty.

I'd put more thought into my outfit than I cared to admit, finally settling on a burgundy sweater, my most flattering jeans, and a cream-colored scarf. It was just part of the performance, I told myself—we needed to look like a real couple, which meant making an effort.

The quad had been transformed into a fall wonderland. Hay bales and pumpkins decorated the perimeter, while strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, ready to illuminate the space when evening fell. Booths selling everything from apple cider to hand-knitted scarves lined the walkways, and the air smelled of cinnamon, fried dough, and woodsmoke from the central fire pit where students were roasting marshmallows.

I scanned the entrance area, suddenly nervous. What if he didn't show? What if this whole arrangement was already falling apart before it properly began?

Then I saw him, and my nervousness shifted into something else entirely. Ethan stood near the ticket booth, tall and undeniably striking in a blue flannel shirt that somehow intensified the color of his eyes. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and he was scanning the crowd with an intensity that suggested he was genuinely looking for me.

When he spotted me, his face transformed with a smile that seemed authentic. He raised a hand in greeting, and I waved back, making my way toward him.

"Hey," I said, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry if I'm late."

"You're right on time," he assured me. "I was early. Team meeting ended sooner than expected."

We stood there for an awkward moment, neither quite sure how to proceed. We'd discussed the parameters of our fake relationship, but the practical application was proving more challenging than the theory.

"So," I began, "how do we—"

Before I could finish, Ethan leaned down and kissed me—a quick, gentle press of his lips against mine. It was over almost before it registered, but it still sent a surprising jolt through me.

"Sorry," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I just saw a couple of teammates over there. Thought we should look convincing."

"No, that's... that's fine," I managed, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. His lips had been softer than I'd expected, and I found myself momentarily flustered. "That's what we agreed on. When necessary."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Should we head in?"

"Lead the way," I nodded, grateful for the change of subject.

Ethan purchased our tickets, ignoring my attempt to pay for my own, and we entered the festival grounds. The initial awkwardness persisted as we walked side by side, not quite touching, both hyperaware of the other's presence.

"So," he said after a moment, "what's your professional opinion on the aesthetics of hay bales and decorative gourds?"

The randomness of the question startled a laugh out of me. "Are you asking if I find autumn décor photographically appealing?"

"I am," he nodded solemnly. "As my girlfriend, I should know these things about you."

"Well," I played along, "I appreciate the organic textures, but the picture-perfect layout feels a bit forced. Too arranged. Honestly, I prefer naturally occurring fall scenes—leaves caught in rain gutters, frost patterns on windows, that sort of thing."

"Noted," he said with exaggerated seriousness. "No artisanal pumpkin displays in our future home."

"Our future—" I began, then caught his teasing smile. "Very funny."

"Had to break the ice somehow," he shrugged. "We look like we're on an extremely uncomfortable first date."

"Aren't we?" I pointed out. "Technically?"

"Fair point." He hesitated, then offered his hand. "Would this help? For appearances?"

I looked at his outstretched hand, then nodded, slipping my fingers between his. His palm was warm against mine, the calluses from hockey creating an interesting texture against my skin.

"Better?" he asked.

"More convincing, anyway," I agreed.

With the physical connection established, we began to relax, wandering through the festival with gradually decreasing stiffness. We sampled hot apple cider, debated the merits of various pumpkin-flavored foods ("Pumpkin spice has gone too far," Ethan insisted after we tried a particularly offensive pumpkin spice beef jerky), and observed the carving contest with critical eyes.

"That one's clearly superior," I said, pointing to an intricately carved scene of a haunted forest. "The depth perspective is incredible."

"I don't know," Ethan countered. "The simplicity of the geometric design over there shows remarkable precision. Sometimes less is more."

I looked at him with new interest. "That's surprisingly artistic insight from a hockey player."

"Don't sound so shocked," he laughed. "I do have thoughts beyond power plays and face-offs."

"So I'm discovering," I admitted. "Any other hidden depths I should know about?"

Something flickered in his expression—vulnerability, perhaps—before he masked it with a casual smile. "I'm an open book. An extremely boring one about hockey."

"Somehow I doubt that," I said, studying him. “You always wanted to play hockey? Never considered anything else?”

He paused, thoughtful. “Honestly, I don’t know. Hockey was just… there. It was the expectation, my future. Sometimes I wonder if I love it because I really love it, or simply because I’ve never known anything else.”

The honesty in his admission caught me off guard.

"What about you?" he asked. "Was photography always the dream?"

"Not initially," I admitted. "I wanted to be a veterinarian until I realized I couldn't handle seeing animals in pain. But photography... it found me, in a way."

He gave me a warm smile. “That’s sweet.”

I thought back to my first camera, how I’d roam dawn-lit streets and dusty backroads, chasing moments only a lens could reveal—hiking miles into forgotten corners just for the chance at one perfect shot.

As we drifted toward the game booths, I continued, “These days my dream is to work for Sports Illustrations . I was drawn by the scholarship initially, but watching your team taught me why I love photography: it captures the thrill of victory, the sting of defeat, the raw human effort—all distilled into a single frame.”

"I never thought of it that way," Ethan said, looking genuinely intrigued. "I usually find team photographers annoying. No offense."

"None taken," I laughed. "They can be pretty intrusive. Always in your face at your best and worst moments."

"Exactly!" he agreed. "After a bad play, the last thing I want is someone documenting my frustration for posterity."

"But that's where the real story is," I countered. "Anyone can take a victory shot. It's capturing the journey—the setbacks, the struggle—that makes a compelling visual narrative."

He considered this, then nodded slowly. "I guess I can see that. Still don't want a camera in my face after I miss a shot, though."

“Noted,” I said with a smile. “From now on, I’ll make sure to capture your best side.”

"All my sides are good," he replied with a cocky grin that I found surprisingly charming.

Our conversation was interrupted by Dylan's voice calling Ethan's name. We turned to find him approaching with several other hockey players, all carrying various prizes from the game booths.

"Well, well," Dylan said, eyeing our still-joined hands with exaggerated interest. "If it isn't the campus's newest couple, gracing us mere mortals with their presence."

"Subtle, Dylan," Ethan said dryly. "Really subtle."

Dylan winked at me. "He's much more tolerable with you around, Mia. Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

I felt myself blush but managed a casual smile. "I'll do my best."

"Have you guys tried the games yet?" Tyler asked, holding up a small stuffed bear. "I dominated the ring toss."

"We were just heading that way," Ethan replied.

"You should try the apple bobbing contest," Reyes suggested with a mischievous grin. "Couples competition is starting in five minutes."

"Couples competition?" I echoed, alarm bells ringing.

"Oh yeah," Dylan nodded enthusiastically. "They've got all sorts of ridiculous couple-based games. Three-legged races, pumpkin rolling, apple bobbing. Very romantic. Nothing says true love like face-planting into a tub of water."

“We’ll pass,” Ethan said, his tone unyielding.

“Afraid you’ll lose?” I found myself saying, surprising both of us.

He arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

A teasing smirk slid across my face. “Come on—don’t tell me Ethan Wright, star player of the Wolves, is intimidated by a few silly couples’ games?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Is that a challenge, Navarro?”

"Absolutely," I nodded. "Unless you're scared."

"Oh, this I gotta see," Tyler grinned.

And somehow, that's how we ended up at the apple bobbing station, Ethan rolling up his sleeves while I tied my hair back, both of us squaring off like it was the championship game of an extremely ridiculous sport.

"The rules are simple," the student volunteer explained. "Each couple takes turns. One minute per person. Most apples retrieved wins a prize. No hands allowed."

"Strategy?" Ethan asked me quietly.

"Go for the ones floating near the edges," I replied without hesitation. "Easier to corner them."

"Good call," he nodded approvingly. "I'll take left side, you take right?"

"Deal," I agreed, oddly pleased by our instant teamwork.

When our turn came, Ethan went first, diving in with impressive focus. His technique was surprisingly effective—he'd trap an apple against the side of the tub, then secure it with his teeth. By the time his minute was up, he'd retrieved three apples, putting us in the lead.

"Beat that," he challenged, water dripping from his chin.

"Watch and learn, Wright," I retorted, adjusting my position.

When the timer started, I employed my strategy, working methodically around the tub's perimeter. The water was ice-cold, making me gasp as I submerged my face, but determination drove me forward. As the volunteer called the ten-second warning, I made a final lunge for a fourth apple, barely securing it as time expired.

I emerged triumphant, water streaming down my face, apple clenched between my teeth. The small crowd that had gathered applauded as I deposited the apple in our basket, putting our total at seven—two more than the next best couple.

"Yes!" Ethan exclaimed, offering his hand for a high-five that I enthusiastically returned. Our palms connected with a satisfying smack, and something about the shared victory, however silly, made me genuinely smile.

"We make a good team, Mia," he said, handing me a towel.

"Don't sound so surprised," I replied, wiping my face. "I'm very competitive."

"I never would have guessed," he deadpanned, but his eyes were warm with amusement.

We were declared the winners, earning a ridiculous trophy made from a spray-painted apple and a gift certificate to the campus coffee shop. The absurdity of it all—standing there soaking wet, clutching our prize—struck me suddenly, and I burst into laughter.

Ethan joined in, his deep laugh blending with mine. "We must look insane," he managed between chuckles.

"Completely," I agreed, still laughing. "Worth it, though."

"Absolutely," he nodded. "Coffee's on us for the next week."

"I'll hold you to that," I warned him.

"I'd expect nothing less," he replied, his gaze lingering on mine for a moment that stretched just beyond casual.

Our victory seemed to break the last of the awkwardness between us. As we continued through the festival, now accompanied by various teammates and their dates, the performance became easier, more natural: Ethan's arm around my shoulders as we watched the pie-eating contest, my hand on his arm as I pointed out a particularly beautiful sunset breaking through the clouds. Small touches that should have felt forced but somehow didn't.

We were sampling caramel apples at a booth near the central fire pit when I spotted her. Vanessa. Standing about twenty feet away, watching us with undisguised skepticism.

"Ethan," I said under my breath, "three o'clock. Vanessa."

He tensed immediately, his hand tightening on my waist. I turned slightly to study her—tall, willowy, beautiful in that conventional way that made ordinary girls like me feel decidedly average. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater that probably cost more than my camera bag, her hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders.

"Maybe she won't come over," Ethan said hopefully.

The universe, apparently determined to maximize awkwardness, immediately proved him wrong as Vanessa began walking directly toward us, a tight smile fixed on her face.

"Ethan!" she called, her voice carrying the practiced warmth of someone who expects to be the center of attention. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Vanessa," he acknowledged with a nod, his arm still firm around my waist. "Didn't realize you were coming to the festival."

"Oh, I never miss it," she replied, her gaze flicking to me, coolly assessing. “We meet again—what was your name, again?”

"Her name is Mia," Ethan stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Ah, yes. The photographer," Vanessa said, a slow recognition dawning in her eyes. "How... unexpected. Especially given your rather memorable first meeting."

"Things change," I replied with a pleasant smile that I hoped concealed my discomfort.

"Clearly," she said, her gaze traveling between us. "And quite quickly too. It's only been what? Two weeks since Halloween?"

"We've been spending a lot of time together for the newspaper feature," Ethan explained, his voice sounding oddly strained. "Mia's been photographing the team."

"How convenient," Vanessa said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "And here I thought you were avoiding relationships to 'focus on hockey.'" The air quotes were audible in her tone.

I felt Ethan flounder beside me, clearly uncomfortable with her direct reference to their breakup. Time to take control of the narrative.

"Ethan's knowledge has been invaluable for my sports photography," I said smoothly. "When you understand the game better, you can anticipate the key moments. We started with professional sessions, but..." I glanced up at him with what I hoped was a convincing look of affection. "Sometimes you find connections where you least expect them."

"Funny," Vanessa replied, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "Just a few weeks ago, he was telling everyone how irresponsible you were for stepping onto the ice during practice. Something about almost ending his career?"

"We worked through that," Ethan said, finding his voice again. "Mia's been really supportive of my schedule, my goals. She gets it."

Vanessa's eyebrows rose slightly. "Does she?" Her gaze returned to me, cold and calculating. "So you're what? His personal photographer now? Following him around capturing his journey to the NHL?"

The condescension in her voice sparked a genuine flare of irritation. Before I could formulate a sufficiently diplomatic response, Ethan did something completely unexpected.

He kissed me.

Not the quick, perfunctory peck from earlier, but a real kiss—gentle yet firm, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his body angling toward mine. I froze momentarily in surprise, then found myself responding, my hand instinctively moving to his shoulder, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that swept through me.

The world narrowed to the sensation of his lips on mine, the warmth of his hand against my face, the subtle scent of his cologne. For a disorienting moment, I forgot about Vanessa, about our arrangement, about everything except the unexpected softness of the kiss and the way my heart hammered against my ribs.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wide with something like surprise—as if he'd shocked himself as much as me. We stared at each other for a suspended moment, both slightly breathless, both careful not to acknowledge what had just happened.

"Well," Vanessa said, her voice breaking the spell, "I guess that answers my question."

I turned, having almost forgotten she was there, to find her looking distinctly deflated.

"I should go find my friends," she continued, already backing away. "Enjoy the festival."

As she disappeared into the crowd, Ethan and I remained frozen, neither quite meeting the other's eyes.

"Sorry about that," he finally said, voice slightly rough. "I panicked."

"It's fine," I assured him quickly. "It worked, right? She seemed convinced."

"Yeah," he nodded. "Very convinced."

We lapsed into silence, both pretending to be intensely interested in the people passing by. The ease we'd developed throughout the afternoon had vanished, replaced by a new awareness that felt dangerous.

"Should we get something to eat?" Ethan finally suggested, clearly grasping for normalcy.

"Good idea," I agreed. "I saw a booth selling loaded baked potatoes back that way."

We resumed our tour of the festival, maintaining our couple facade but with a new undercurrent of tension. The easy conversation from earlier was replaced by more careful exchanges, both of us skirting around the kiss that had been far more affecting than either of us had anticipated.

As evening fell and lights illuminated the quad, we'd recovered enough of our composure to enjoy the live music performing on the small stage area. Standing among the crowd, Ethan's arm around my shoulders against the growing chill, I found myself wondering how much of this was still pretense and how much was becoming genuinely enjoyable.

By the time we decided to leave, the temperature had dropped significantly. Ethan insisted on walking me home, and I was too cold to argue. We walked in companionable silence through the darkened campus, streetlights casting golden pools on the path ahead.

"That wasn't so bad," Ethan said as we approached my apartment building. "As first fake dates go."

"High praise," I smiled. "Though I think we need to work on our backstory a bit more. Vanessa clearly wasn't buying it initially."

"Until the kiss," he pointed out, then immediately looked like he regretted mentioning it.

"Right," I nodded, feeling heat rise to my cheeks despite the cold air. "That was... convincing."

"Sorry if it was too much," he said, looking genuinely concerned. "I should have warned you or something."

"It's fine," I assured him. "It's what we agreed to, right? Physical displays when necessary for convincingness."

"Convincingness," he repeated with a small smile. "Still not sure that's a real word."

"English is flexible," I shrugged, returning his smile.

We reached my building's entrance, stopping at the bottom of the steps. Here was another moment of potential awkwardness—the end-of-date goodbye. Should there be another kiss? A hug? A casual wave?

"Well," I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Thanks for the caramel apple. And the trophy." I held up the ridiculous spray-painted apple.

"Anytime," he replied. "We make a surprisingly good apple-bobbing team."

"We do," I agreed. "Who knew?"

Another silence fell, heavier this time.

"I should go up," I finally said. "Early class tomorrow."

"Right," he nodded. "Me too. Early practice."

Neither of us moved.

"Ethan," I began, not sure what I was going to say.

"Mia," he said at the same time.

We both laughed, breaking some of the tension.

"You first," he offered.

"I was just going to say... this was nice," I admitted. "Not nearly as awkward as I expected."

"Agreed," he said, looking relieved. "We might actually pull this off."

"We just might," I nodded. Then, before I could overthink it, I stood on tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight, Ethan."

I turned and hurried up the steps before he could respond, swiping my key card with slightly shaky hands. When I glanced back from the doorway, he was still standing there, one hand lifted to his cheek, looking slightly dazed.

I waved once, then slipped inside, letting the door close behind me. In the elevator, I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. It was the performance affecting me, I told myself. The adrenaline of pulling off our first public appearance. Nothing more.

The elevator doors opened to reveal Olivia standing directly in front of them, arms crossed, expression determined.

"Spill," she demanded, physically blocking my path to our apartment door. "Every detail. Now."

"Hello to you too," I said, attempting to sidestep her. "It's been a long day, and I—"

"Nope," she interrupted, holding up my slightly smeared lipstick like a detective presenting evidence. "This says otherwise." She dramatically shined her phone flashlight in my eyes. "Where were you on the evening of November 12th, and was making out with Hockey Captain Ethan part of the itinerary?"

"We didn't make out," I protested. "It was one kiss. For show."

"Uh-huh," Olivia nodded skeptically. "And was there lens flare during this 'show' kiss? Spill the aperture details."

I couldn't help laughing at her ridiculous photography puns. "You're impossible."

"And you're avoiding the question," she countered, following me to our door. "On a scale of 'dead fish' to 'spontaneous combustion,' how was it?"

"It was..." I paused, searching for a suitably neutral description that wouldn't reveal how much the kiss had actually affected me. "Appropriate for the circumstances."

"Wow," Olivia deadpanned. "Romance novel worthy. I'm swooning."

Once inside, she continued her interrogation while I made tea, demanding every detail of the date—who was there, what Vanessa said, how the kiss happened. I provided the facts while carefully omitting my emotional responses, treating it like a report rather than a personal experience.

"So let me get this straight," Olivia said, perched on the kitchen counter. "He kissed you to convince his ex-girlfriend that you're really dating. In front of half the hockey team and a significant portion of the student body."

"That's the gist, yes."

"And you're still insisting this is just a business arrangement? No feelings whatsoever?"

"Absolutely," I nodded firmly. "It's a practical solution to both our problems. Nothing more."

"Right," she said, clearly unconvinced. "And I'm the queen of England."

"Your Majesty," I curtsied sarcastically, taking my tea to my bedroom. "If the interrogation is complete, I'd like to review my photos from this morning's shoot before bed."

"Fine, avoid the conversation," Olivia called after me. "But this isn't over. You're developing feelings for Hockey Boy, and no amount of denial is going to change that!"

"Goodnight, Olivia," I sang back, closing my door on her knowing grin.

Alone in my room, I set my tea on the nightstand and dropped onto my bed, finally allowing myself to replay the events of the day. The easy conversation as we wandered the festival. The surprising fun of the ridiculous games. The way Ethan had looked at me after the apple bobbing victory, a mixture of respect and something warmer.

And the kiss.

Despite my protests to Olivia, it had been far from 'just for show.' There had been a moment—brief but undeniable—when the performance had slipped away, replaced by something genuine. Something that had made my heart race and my mind go temporarily blank.

I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the surprising softness of Ethan's mouth against mine, the gentle pressure of his hand at my waist, the way his eyes had widened afterward in a mixture of surprise and something that looked oddly like wonder.

This is dangerous territory , I warned myself. The whole point is to keep this fake and functional. No complications.