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I spend the night vacillating between panic and rationalization, thankful my room is a single – the perks of being a transfer student who transferred too late to have a roommate -- and I don’t have to worry about anyone noticing how insane I’m feeling.

By morning, I've convinced myself that this arrangement is strictly professional—a strategic alliance for mutual benefit, nothing more. I can handle three weeks of pretense if it gets me closer to the Whitmore Prize and the future I've planned.

This mantra carries me through my morning classes and all the way to the central quad, where Declan and I agreed to meet for our first public "date." I deliberately arrive ten minutes late, a petty act of defiance against the butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach.

I’m wearing a pair of jeans and an aqua top, a color my friend Mia always says suits my dark hair and dark eyes. I’ve even put on some makeup, telling myself it’s for the ruse, not for actually wanting to impress Declan.

The quad is crowded with students enjoying the rare February sunshine, sprawled across benches and patches of grass. I scan the area, half-hoping Declan won't show so I can abandon this ridiculous scheme with a clear conscience.

No such luck. He's there, lounging on one of the central benches, impossible to miss. He's ditched his usual athletic wear for dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip that makes his eyes look even bluer in the sunlight. Several girls nearby are casting appreciative glances his way, but his attention is fixed on his phone.

I take a deep breath and approach, clutching the strap of my messenger bag like a lifeline. He looks up before I reach him, as if he's sensed my presence, and the smile that spreads across his face seems so genuine that for a moment I forget this is all pretend.

"There she is," he says, standing to greet me. Without warning, he pulls me into a hug, his mouth close to my ear as he murmurs, "Coach is watching from the administration building. Second floor, corner window."

I stiffen in his embrace, then force myself to relax, awkwardly patting his back. He smells good—that woodsy cologne mixed with something clean and uniquely him. It's disturbingly nice.

"You could have warned me," I whisper back.

"Would you have come if I had?" He pulls back, but keeps one arm draped casually around my shoulders as he leads me toward one of the campus food trucks that line the quad during the day. "Relax, Gardner. You look like you're being marched to execution."

"I'm reconsidering this whole arrangement," I mutter, hyper-aware of the stares following us across the quad. Declan Wolfe and Ellie Gardner, together in public. The campus rumor mill will be working overtime by dinner.

"Too late now." He squeezes my shoulder, the gesture oddly comforting despite its performative nature. "What do you want to eat? My treat."

We order sandwiches and find a spot on the grass, deliberately visible without being too obvious about it. Declan sits close, our knees occasionally brushing as we eat. The physical proximity is unsettling, especially when coupled with the surprising ease of our conversation.

"So how does this work?" I ask between bites. "Do we have a backstory? How did the hockey star and the academic hermit end up together?"

He grins, shifting to lean back on one elbow, the picture of casual confidence. "We bonded over Harmon's class. You found my literary insights irresistible. I was captivated by your passionate defense of feminist interpretation."

"That's... actually not terrible," I concede. "Simple, close to the truth."

"The best lies always are." He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so unexpected I nearly flinch. "Sorry," he murmurs. "Gotta sell it."

I swallow hard, fighting the heat that rises to my cheeks at his touch. "Fine. But boundaries, remember?"

"Noted." His eyes linger on mine a moment too long before he glances away. "So, tell me something real, Gardner. Something I would know if we were actually dating."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Your favorite book. Why you chose literature as a major. Something beyond the this whole serious prickly thing you have going on.”

The request catches me off guard. I hadn't considered this aspect of our charade—the intimate knowledge actual couples share. "My favorite book changes," I say after a moment. "Currently it's Possession by A.S. Byatt. Before that, it was The Secret History."

"Dark academia," he notes. "Fits."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you have that vibe—intense, cerebral, slightly intimidating." His smile takes any sting from the words. "It suits you."

I'm not used to compliments, especially not from someone like Declan. I deflect with a question of my own. "What about you? What would I know about the real Declan Wolfe if we were actually dating?"

He considers this, absently tearing pieces from his napkin. "You'd know that I hate cilantro. That I'm afraid of heights but still go skydiving once a year to prove I can overcome it. That I read poetry when I can't sleep, which is more often than not."

"Poetry?" I can't hide my surprise.

"Auden, mostly." He shrugs, almost embarrassed. "My grandfather taught English at Princeton. He used to read it to me when I was a kid. I didn’t understand it – maybe still don’t – but it’s comforting."

This glimpse behind the facade—the thoughtful, complex person beneath the hockey star persona—is more disconcerting than any physical proximity. It's easier to maintain emotional distance when I can dismiss him as a one-dimensional stereotype.

"You'd also know," he continues, voice dropping lower, "that the NHL isn't just a dream for me. It's a way out."

"Out of what?"

He meets my eyes, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. "The life that's been mapped out for me since birth. Wolfe men go to Ivy League schools, then take their place at Wolfe Investments. Hockey is my one chance at writing my own story."

The raw honesty in his voice silences any skeptical response I might have made. For the first time, I see Declan not as the privileged golden boy I've resented, but as someone fighting their own battles against expectations and predestined paths.

"I understand that," I say quietly. "Writing your own story."

Something passes between us then—a moment of genuine connection that has nothing to do with our arrangement. It's broken by a shout from across the quad.

"Wolfe! There you are, you sneaky bastard!"

Three guys approach, all with the distinctive build of hockey players. The one in front—tall, blond, with an easy smile—reaches us first, punching Declan's shoulder.

"So the rumors are true," he says, gaze shifting curiously to me. "Declan Wolfe, finally tamed."

Declan stands, pulling me up with him, his hand finding mine with casual possession. "Brady, shut up." But there's no heat in his words. "Guys, this is Ellie. Ellie, these idiots are my teammates. Brady, Tyler, and Mason."

Brady—the blond one—extends his hand. "Pleasure to finally meet the girl who's got our captain so distracted. He won't shut up about you."

The easy lie makes me falter for just a moment before I find my footing in this new role. "All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly how smart you are," Tyler says with a grin. "And how you 'challenge him intellectually,' whatever that means."

Declan's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. "Ignore them. They're just jealous because their combined IQ barely reaches triple digits."

The friendly banter continues, and I find myself relaxing incrementally, allowing Declan's warmth to steady me as I navigate this unfamiliar social territory. His teammates are actually funny, their teasing gentle rather than mean-spirited. They treat me with curious respect, as if my association with Declan has automatically granted me acceptance into their closed circle.

When they eventually leave, extracting promises from Declan about practice schedules and team dinners, he keeps his arm around me, fingers tracing small, distracting circles against my hip.

"You did good," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "They bought it completely."

"I didn't do anything," I point out.

"Exactly. You didn't freeze up or look uncomfortable. You were natural." His smile is genuine, warming his eyes. "We might actually pull this off, Gardner."

The approval in his voice shouldn't matter to me. This is a transaction, nothing more. But I can't deny the small thrill of satisfaction that runs through me at his words.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I warn, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. "We've got three weeks to go, and this was the easy part. What's next in this master plan of yours?"

“You’ll go to the party with me at Sigma tonight.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already on to the next thing.

"Hockey game tomorrow night," he says. "Girlfriends always attend home games."

The thought of sitting in the cold arena, surrounded by rowdy fans, is less than appealing. But I did agree to this arrangement. "Fine. But I'm bringing a book."

"Wouldn't expect anything less." His grin is infectious. "I'll leave tickets at will-call. Wear my jersey."

"I don't have your jersey," I point out.

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a navy and white hockey jersey with "WOLFE" emblazoned across the back. "Now you do."

I take it reluctantly. "This seems excessive."

"Trust me, it's expected. Hockey girlfriends wear their boyfriend's number." He checks his watch. "I've got to get to practice. Walk you to your next class?"

"Not necessary," I say quickly. "I've got research to do in the library."

"Always working." He shakes his head, but there's something like admiration in his expression. "Text me later?"

"About what?"

"Anything." He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before I can react. "That's for our audience," he murmurs, then straightens with a wink. "See you tomorrow, Gardner."

As he walks away, I become aware of the eyes following him, then turning curiously to me. The whispers have already started. By nightfall, everyone on campus will know: Declan Wolfe is off the market.

And I, apparently, am his girlfriend.