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Fiona

The lights of the arena are blinding, casting a sharp glare on the ice as I settle into the plush seats of the owner's box. The whole place is buzzing, fans chanting and stomping their feet, the air thick with the electric excitement of game night. I glance over at Lacey, my best friend since middle school, who’s practically bouncing in her seat beside me. She’s all wide eyes and eager anticipation, looking at the ice as if she’s never been to a hockey game before.

“This is insane,” Lacey says, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’ve been to a hundred games, but there’s something about sitting here in the owner’s box that makes it feel... I don’t know, like a whole other level.”

I chuckle, feeling a slight knot in my stomach. The box is a little too perfect—high-end, exclusive, and all the things I’m still getting used to. My dad’s business is his world, and sometimes it feels like I’m just living in it, playing a part in his empire. It’s not like I don’t appreciate the perks, but I also didn’t ask for the spotlight to come with it. Especially when it comes to this whole “fake relationship” nonsense.

Lacey’s looking at me with a grin now, one eyebrow raised. “So, tell me again why you didn’t mention you and Stellan Stephenson were dating?”

I freeze for a moment, almost choking on my sip of water. “What?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but failing miserably. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.

“You heard me,” she says, her voice a little too loud, which makes me cringe. She’s teasing, but I can tell she’s also genuinely curious. “You never said anything about you and The Striker .”

I shake my head, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest at the mention of Stellan’s name. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

Lacey gives me a look, her lips pressed together in that knowing way that only best friends can manage. “You’re lying. I know you, Fi. You’re totally into him, and you didn’t tell me?”

I cringe. I hate lying to Lacey. But what else can I do? I can’t exactly tell her the truth—that I’m pretending to date one of the most famous, unpredictable, and wild players in the NHL to clean up his image. That would definitely be a conversation killer.

“It’s complicated,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It’s just for the media. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” Lacey says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “For the media . That’s cute, Fi. Real cute. Just tell me one thing—what’s it like being with him? You’ve been around him enough to know if the bad boy thing is for real, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Lace, seriously. It’s just pretend. You know I don’t have time for a relationship right now.”

She eyes me, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh, sure. Just make sure you don’t fall for him. You know how those hockey players are—riding high on their fame and then crashing down the minute they find someone else to hook up with.”

“I’m not falling for anyone, okay?” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intended. “It’s a business arrangement. That’s all.”

Lacey gives me a soft, teasing smile. “Okay, if you say so.” She leans back in her seat, watching the game. “I still can’t believe I’m sitting here watching Stellan Stephenson play. He’s a damn legend.”

I force myself to focus on the game, trying to push Lacey’s teasing out of my mind. The players are warming up, skating around with that fierce energy that only athletes like them seem to possess. But then, there’s Stellan, gliding effortlessly across the ice, his movements smooth and confident. I watch, almost entranced, as he lines up for a shot during warm-ups. The crowd goes quiet for a second, waiting to see what happens next.

He pulls the puck back with a practiced ease that makes my breath catch, and in the blink of an eye, he unleashes a shot—a crazy backhand that curves unpredictably into the net. The crowd roars with approval, and I can hear the collective “wow” from everyone around us.

“That’s his move, isn’t it?” Lacey says, her voice full of awe. “The Unpredictable Backhand. No one else can do it like him.”

I nod, feeling a strange sense of pride for him, even though we’re just playing pretend. “Yeah. It’s like his signature. No one knows what he’s going to do next, but when he pulls it off, it’s impossible to stop.”

“Must be nice to be that good,” Lacey says, her eyes locked on the ice, where Stellan’s pulling off more impossible shots. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger on him a little longer than necessary, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of jealousy twist in my stomach.

I try to shake it off, but it lingers. I know Stellan’s the center of attention wherever he goes, and I know how attractive he is—especially on the ice, where he’s so in his element. There’s something magnetic about the way he plays, how he seems to command every moment, as though nothing can stand in his way.

“Stop staring at him, Lace,” I mutter, half-teasing, half-embarrassed.

“I’m not staring ,” she protests, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’m just appreciating the view. Geez, Fi. It’s not like you have a claim on him or anything.”

I roll my eyes but can’t hide the slight flush that creeps up my neck. I don’t have a claim on him. It’s all fake. I remind myself again. It’s all part of the plan, the arrangement .

The game starts, and the players take their positions. Stellan’s already lining up on the ice, ready to make his first move. The arena is electric, and I find myself leaning forward, caught up in the rhythm of the game. Stellan’s on fire, moving with such precision and skill that I almost forget why I’m here in the first place. Every shot he takes is a work of art, and the crowd goes wild with each one.

The game goes on, with Stellan continuing to dazzle, his moves like poetry in motion. I can see why he’s called The Striker —he’s a force to be reckoned with, unpredictable and unyielding, and damn, does he look good doing it.

I catch myself clenching my hands in excitement as Stellan makes another amazing play, his speed and skill leaving everyone else in the dust. He’s so naturally gifted, it’s almost like the game is made for him.

“God, he’s amazing,” Lacey says, her voice soft with admiration. “I can’t believe you’re, like, with him. You’re dating a freaking hockey legend.”

I wince at the word “dating.” It feels weird hearing it. I’m not dating him. I’m just pretending, playing a part. But damn, watching him on the ice, in the heat of the moment, I almost forget it’s all an act.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, trying to deflect the conversation, “he’s just good at his job.”

“Right, just his job,” Lacey says, a smirk on her face. “Well, what’s it like kissing him? Does he... I don’t know... kiss like a pro ?”

I choke on my sip of water, staring at Lacey wide-eyed. “What? What kind of question is that?”

Lacey shrugs, her grin widening. “I mean, come on, Fi. He’s the Striker . He probably knows how to work his magic on and off the ice.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

But as I laugh, something shifts in my chest. I’m still pretending. I’m still acting . But I can’t help but wonder: What would it be like to kiss Stellan for real? To feel the heat of him pressing close, to feel his lips against mine without the cameras or the fake smiles.

I shake my head, trying to dismiss the thought. I’m not going to fall for him. I can’t. This is just a game.

But as Stellan skates past, flashing a smile in my direction, I feel a flutter in my stomach. And for a moment, I wonder if this game has already gone too far.