Page 5 of Faking the Rules

"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."

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