Page 9

I couldn't focus. The puck skittered past my stick for the third time in as many minutes, and Coach Alvarez's whistle pierced the air with painful sharpness.

"Wright! What the hell was that?" he bellowed from the side of the rink. "My grandmother could have made that pass, and she's been dead for twelve years!"

Scattered laughter echoed from my teammates, quickly silenced by my glare. I skated back to position, determined to get my head in the game, but my mind kept sliding back to Saturday night. To the Harvest Festival. To Mia's surprised intake of breath when I'd kissed her. To the way she'd responded—hesitant at first, then with a warmth that had caught me completely off guard.

It was for show, I reminded myself for the dozenth time. A performance for Vanessa's benefit. Nothing more.

Yet the memory stubbornly refused to be categorized so neatly. There had been a moment—unmistakable—when the act had faltered, when something genuine had flickered between us. And that moment had been replaying in my mind with annoying persistence ever since.

"Wright!" Coach's voice snapped me back to the present. "Bench. Now."

I skated over, bracing for the inevitable lecture. Coach's expression was thunderous as he leaned in close, voice pitched low but intense.

"Whatever's going on in that head of yours, sort it out," he said. "We've got scouts at Thursday's game, and this"—he gestured toward the ice where drills continued without me—"won't cut it."

"Yes, Coach," I nodded, genuinely contrite. "Won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," he replied, then softened marginally. "Everything okay otherwise? You're not usually this distracted."

I hesitated, wondering how much to share. "Just adjusting to some changes," I finally said. "I've got it under control."

"Good." He clapped my shoulder. "Because I need my captain focused. The team follows your lead, Ethan."

"I know," I assured him. "I'll be better."

"You'd better be," he warned, then nodded toward the ice. "Now get back out there and show me the player I know you are."

I rejoined practice with renewed determination, forcing thoughts of Mia and our arrangement to the back of my mind. Hockey first. It had always been hockey first. Nothing—certainly not a fake relationship—was going to change that.

For the remainder of practice, I was my usual self—precise passes, sharp shots, effective leadership. But as soon as I stepped off the ice, my phone buzzed with a notification, and my hard-won focus wavered again.

Mia: Still on for coffee this afternoon? Need to discuss team photo shoot logistics.

It was a perfectly professional message. Nothing in it to explain the ridiculous leap my stomach made upon reading it. Get a grip, Wright.

Ethan: Definitely. Brewed Sunshine at 3?

Mia: Perfect. See you then.

I stuffed my phone into my bag, ignoring Dylan's knowing look from across the locker room. This was just business—our arrangement in action. Nothing to get worked up about.

Brewed Sunshine was crowded with the post-lunch student rush when I arrived. I spotted Mia immediately, tucked into a corner table, her laptop open in front of her. She was so focused on the screen that she didn't notice me approach, giving me a moment to observe her unguarded.

Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore dark-framed glasses I hadn't seen before, which she absently pushed up her nose as she frowned at whatever she was reviewing. The November sunlight streaming through the window caught the warm undertones in her skin, giving her an almost luminous quality.

I shook off the thought and cleared my throat. "Hey."

She looked up, startled, then smiled. "Oh, hey. I didn't see you come in."

"You were pretty absorbed," I observed, gesturing to her laptop as I sat across from her. "Photography stuff?"

"Editing some shots from last week's game," she nodded, turning the screen toward me. "What do you think?"

The image showed our defensive line setting up during a critical third-period play. What struck me wasn't just the technical quality of the shot, but how she'd captured the intensity in my teammates' postures, the focus in their eyes, the coiled energy as they prepared to defend.

"That's... wow," I said, impressed. "You really got the feeling of the moment."

"Thanks," she said, looking pleased. "I'm learning to anticipate the flow of the game better. Your explanations have helped."

"Glad to hear it," I replied, genuinely flattered. "So, team photo shoot?"

"Right." She closed her laptop, all business now. "The paper wants a feature on the team's championship prospects. Coach approved Monday afternoon for a group shot on the ice and some individual portraits in the locker room."

"Sounds straightforward enough," I nodded. "Any particular look you're going for?"

"For the group shot, standard team formation but with equipment," she explained. "Helmets under arms, sticks held vertical. For the individual portraits..." She hesitated. "I was thinking something more personal. Catching what drives each player."

"That's... ambitious," I said, intrigued. "How would that work?"

Mia's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, her hands beginning to gesture expressively as she explained her vision. "For Tyler, I want to capture that focused intensity he gets right before a save—that moment of absolute concentration. For Dylan, his pre-game ritual with the left skate first, always seven taps of the stick against the boards. For you..." She paused, studying me thoughtfully. "For you, I want to capture the moment right after you give the team a direction. There's this look you get—confidence mixed with absolute certainty. It's when you're most yourself, I think."

I stared at her, caught off guard by her observation. How many hours had she spent watching us—watching me—to notice these details? And why did her understanding feel so oddly intimate?

"You've been paying attention," I managed, unsure how else to respond.

"It's my job," she shrugged, but there was a hint of color in her cheeks. "Good photography means seeing what others miss."

"And what else have you seen?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Our eyes met across the table, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

"That you're not what I first thought," she finally said, her voice softer. "You're more... complicated."

"Complicated," I repeated, unsure if it was a compliment.

"In a good way," she clarified. "There's more going on beneath the surface than most people realize."

Something warm unfurled in my chest at her words—a dangerous feeling of being seen, perhaps for the first time. I needed to redirect this conversation before it ventured further into personal territory.

"Well, the team will be excited about the shoot," I said, reverting to safer ground. "Especially the individual portraits. Everyone loves a chance to show off."

"I'd expect nothing less from hockey players," she replied with a small smile. "Now, what angles would you recommend for capturing the team dynamic best?"

We spent the next hour discussing photography logistics—the best vantage points around the rink, lighting challenges in the arena, how to position players for maximum effect. It was surprisingly easy, and I found myself genuinely engaged in helping her plan the shoot.

"You know," she said as we finished our coffees, "you have a good eye for composition. Ever tried photography yourself?"

"Not beyond terrible phone pictures," I admitted.

"You should sometime," she suggested. "You might enjoy the perspective shift—being the observer rather than the observed."

"Maybe I'll borrow your camera someday," I joked. "Give you a taste of your own medicine."

"Touch my camera without permission and lose a hand, Wright," she shot back, but her smile took the sting from the words.

We left the coffee shop together, falling into step as we crossed campus. The afternoon was crisp but sunny, the quad vibrant with late autumn colors. Without discussion, we headed toward the photography building where Mia had her next class.

"So," she said after a comfortable silence, "how are things with Vanessa since the festival? Any fallout?"

"Radio silence, actually," I replied. "Which is exactly what I wanted. I think our performance was convincing."

"Good," she nodded. "That's good."

Another pause, this one less comfortable.

"And your finances?" I asked. "Any progress on that front?"

"Not yet," she sighed. "But the paper is increasing my assignments, which helps a little. And I've started researching summer internships more seriously."

"I haven't forgotten about the Samantha introduction," I assured her. "My dad's coming for the State game in December. I'll talk to him then."

"No rush," she said, though her expression suggested otherwise. "We have time."

We reached the photography building, stopping at the bottom of the steps. Students flowed around us, rushing to afternoon classes, but we stood in our own small bubble of hesitation.

"Well," she finally said, "thanks for the input on the shoot. It really helps."

"Anytime," I nodded. "That's what fake boyfriends are for, right?"

She laughed, the sound unexpectedly musical. "Absolutely. Right there in the job description: 'Must provide expert hockey photography consultation.'"

"Along with caramel apple procurement and apple bobbing excellence," I added, earning another laugh.

"You're setting a very high bar for fake relationship services," she observed.

"I aim to exceed expectations," I replied with mock seriousness. "It's the Wright way."

Something flickered in her expression. But she only smiled, shouldering her camera bag more securely.

"I should get to class," she said. "See you at practice tomorrow?"

"I'll be there," I confirmed. "Can't miss my daily dose of being immortalized on film."

"Digital, actually," she corrected with a grin. "Film is for my personal projects."

"I stand corrected," I said solemnly. "Digital immortalization it is."

As she climbed the steps, she turned back briefly. "Ethan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being... easy to work with. On this whole arrangement."

"You too," I replied, meaning it more than I'd expected to.

I watched her disappear into the building before continuing to my own class, trying to ignore the strange sense of lightness in my chest that had nothing to do with our business arrangement and everything to do with the way she'd looked at me when she said I was "complicated in a good way."

Over the next two weeks, Mia and I fell into a surprisingly comfortable routine. She attended practices regularly, gradually learning more about hockey, while I found myself genuinely interested in her photography process. After practices, I'd often explain plays or strategies, introducing her to various team members and coaches.

The photographs she took improved dramatically as her understanding of the game deepened. She had a particular talent for capturing emotional moments—Tyler's intense concentration before a crucial save, Dylan's exuberant celebrations, the team's collective determination during close games. Her work began appearing prominently in the university paper, drawing attention not just to the Wolves team but to her skill as a photographer.

Most surprising to me was how we'd begun communicating beyond what was strictly necessary for our arrangement. It started with simple texts about schedule coordination:

Ethan: Practice cancelled tomorrow. Coach has flu.

Mia: Thanks for letting me know. I'll use the time to edit yesterday's shots.

But gradually evolved into sharing random thoughts and small victories:

Mia: Just got an A on my portfolio project! Professor said my hockey series showed "remarkable emotional intelligence."

Ethan: That's awesome! Congratulations! We should celebrate.

Mia: Milkshakes at Dairy Snacks this afternoon?

Ethan: It's 40 degrees outside.

Mia: Your point?

Ethan: No point. Milkshakes it is. Meet you at 4?

And sometimes, late at night, the texts became more personal:

Ethan: Dad called tonight. Picked apart my game for 20 minutes straight.

Mia: That's rough. You played brilliantly today. I have photographic evidence.

Ethan: Thanks. That actually helps.

Mia: Want to see the best shot from today? Might make you feel better.

Ethan: Absolutely.

The photo she sent was of me mid-play, focused and determined, executing a perfect pass to Dylan. There was something in my expression she'd captured—a moment of pure flow, of absolute presence—that reminded me why I loved this game beyond my father's expectations.

Ethan: This is incredible. You really see something different.

Mia: Just capturing what's already there.

I saved the photo, finding myself returning to it after particularly brutal practices or difficult calls with my father. There was something steadying about seeing myself through Mia's lens—something that reminded me of who I was beyond others' expectations.

The night after a particularly good game—a 5-2 victory where I'd scored twice and assisted on two more goals—I found myself texting her without thinking.

Ethan: Team's going to Pizza e Formaggi to celebrate. Want to come?

It wasn't technically part of our agreement. Team celebration dinners weren't mandatory "boyfriend duties." But I realized with surprising clarity that I wanted her there—not for show, but because her presence had become something I genuinely enjoyed.

Mia: Sure! What time?

Ethan: Meet at the rink in 20? I can drive us over.

Mia: See you then.

At Pizza e Formaggi , a family-style Italian restaurant that was the team's traditional celebration spot, I found myself introducing Mia not just as "my girlfriend" but as an individual with her own identity and achievements.

"This is Mia," I told the restaurant owner, who knew all the regulars by name. "She's the photographer who's been documenting the Wolves . She's brilliant."

The pride in my voice was unfeigned, and the smile Mia gave me in response created a warmth in my chest.

Throughout dinner, I found myself watching her more than participating in the rowdy team conversation. The way she became animated when discussing photography with Tyler, who turned out to have an unexpected interest in visual arts. How she held her own in a spirited debate with Dylan about whether photo filters were enhancing or destroying photography. The genuine attention she gave to freshman defender Reyes’ nervous questions about how to pose for the upcoming team photos.

"Dude," Dylan murmured at one point, nudging me while Mia was in deep conversation with Tyler. "You're staring."

"No, I'm not," I denied automatically.

"You absolutely are," he countered. "And not in a 'this is for show' kind of way. In a 'I'm completely whipped' kind of way."

"That's ridiculous," I hissed, though something uncomfortable shifted in my stomach at his observation.

"Is it, though?" Dylan raised his eyebrows. "Because you just listened to her entire explanation of F-stops without checking your phone once. I've seen you check your phone during Coach's inspirational speeches."

"I was being polite," I insisted.

"Uh-huh," Dylan nodded, clearly unconvinced. "Just be careful, man. Remember what this arrangement is actually about."

His warning followed me through the remainder of dinner, a nagging reminder that this wasn't real—that it couldn't be real, given our respective goals and the temporary nature of our agreement.

Yet when Mia laughed at something Sanchez said, I found myself wishing, just for a moment, that we'd met under different circumstances.

Later, as Tyler chuckled, "I still can't believe Ethan actually listened to your entire explanation of F-stops," Mia looked surprised, glancing at me with a question in her eyes.

"What can I say?" I shrugged, aiming for casual. "It was actually interesting."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dylan narrated with exaggerated amazement, "We are witnessing unprecedented developments in the evolution of Ethan Wright. Scientists are baffled by this sudden capacity for interest in non-hockey subjects."

"Shut up, Dylan," I muttered, though there was no heat in it.

"The subject's scowl lines also appear to be receding," Reyes joined in, emboldened by Dylan's example. "Possibly due to exposure to regular human interaction."

"You're all hilarious," I deadpanned. "Really. Comedy gold."

After dinner, I drove her home, the car filled with comfortable conversation about the evening, team dynamics, and her upcoming photo assignments. When we reached her apartment building, I walked her to the door—another unnecessary gesture that had somehow become habit.

At her door, there was a moment of uncertainty. Should I kiss her goodnight? It would maintain our cover if anyone was watching, but there was no real need. No audience that mattered.

Before I could decide, Mia solved the dilemma by squeezing my hand and offering a quick, "Thanks for tonight. It was fun."

"Yeah," I agreed, oddly disappointed by the lack of contact. "It was. See you at practice tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it," she nodded, already slipping inside. "Goodnight, Ethan."

"Goodnight, Mia."

Driving back to my apartment, I found myself replaying moments from the evening. The way she'd leaned in slightly when I was speaking, genuinely interested in my explanation of power play strategy. How she'd snuck the mushrooms from her pizza onto my plate, having noticed at previous meals that I liked them while she didn't.

These small intimacies had accumulated over the weeks, building something that felt increasingly real despite its artificial foundation.

Back at the apartment, I found Dylan waiting up, apparently for the express purpose of continuing his earlier observation.

"So," he began as soon as I walked in, "want to talk about it?"

"About what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.

"About the fact that you're falling for your fake girlfriend," he said bluntly. "Which is exactly what I predicted would happen, if you recall."

"I'm not falling for anyone," I insisted, dropping onto the couch beside him. "It's an arrangement. A mutually beneficial one."

"Right," Dylan nodded. "And all those late-night texts are purely business."

I shot him a look. "How do you know about those?"

"Dude, the walls in this apartment are thin, and you have the world's loudest text notification sound," he pointed out. "Plus, you get this stupid smile every time your phone buzzes after 11 PM."

"That's not—" I began, then stopped, unable to formulate a convincing denial. "It's complicated."

"No, it's actually very simple," Dylan countered. "You like her. As in, actually like her, not pretend-for-Vanessa like her. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," I said firmly. "This arrangement has an expiration date. We both have priorities that don't include a real relationship."

"If you say so," Dylan shrugged, standing up. "But from where I'm sitting, it looks like your priorities might be shifting. Just something to think about."