Page 9 of Faking the Rules

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "The Whitmore Prize," I answer automatically. "You said you could help with that."

"But you don't need my help," he points out. "Your work stands on its own. And you clearly hate this—the parties, the social aspects, being the center of attention."

He's not wrong. Every moment in the spotlight makes me want to retreat further into my academic shell, the safe, predictable world of books and research. So why did I say yes?

"Maybe I wanted to see how the other half lives," I say lightly, deflecting. "Experience what it's like to be part of the popular crowd for once."

"Bullshit," he says, but there's no heat in it. "Try again."

I look away, studying the bare branches of a nearby tree, anything to avoid the intensity of his gaze. "Maybe I'm tired of being invisible," I admit softly. "Of being the transfer student no one notices except to borrow notes from."

It's a truth I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself. The loneliness of my first months at Westford, the way I've used academic focus as a shield against forming connections that might lead to more hurt. Except with Mia, who made it her mission to befriend me during my second week on campus, when she spotted me sitting by myself in our humanities class. Mia can’t take anyone sitting alone, and she makes friends everywhere she goes. The exact opposite of me.

Declan's hand touches my chin gently, turning my face back to his. "You're not invisible, Ellie," he says, my first name soft on his lips. "Not to me. Not since the first day you walked into Harmon's class and proceeded to demolish his take on Hemingway with such precision that I actually felt bad for the guy."

The sincerity in his voice steals my breath. This isn't the smooth-talking hockey star or the strategic partner inour arrangement. This is something else—something genuine breaking through the performance.

"That was a good day," I manage, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere between us. "Harmon's face when I cited his own contradictory paper from 2005..."

"Priceless," Declan agrees, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheek in a gesture that feels too intimate for our fake relationship. "You're fucking brilliant, Gardner. And anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth your time."

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond to this unexpected praise. Before I can formulate a response, the back door slams open, and Brady stumbles out, clearly on a mission.

"There you are!" he exclaims, spotting us. "Wolfe, you gotta come back in. Mason challenged the lacrosse team to a keg stand competition, and it's getting ugly."

Declan sighs, his hand dropping from my face. "Duty calls," he says to me, an apology in his eyes. "Team captain responsibilities."

"Go," I say, forcing a smile. "Save the honor of hockey players everywhere."

He hesitates. "You'll be okay?"

"I'm a big girl, Wolfe. I can handle a party." I glance at my watch. "But I'll probably head out soon. Early study group tomorrow."

"Of course you have a study group," he says, but there's fondness rather than mockery in his tone. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering just a heartbeat too long. "Text me when you get home?"

"Sure," I agree.

He smiles once more, then follows Brady inside, leaving me alone with my confusing thoughts and the persistent warmth on my cheek where his lips touched my skin.

Chapter 4

The hockey arena is a world I've deliberately avoided during my time at Westford—too loud, too crowded, too full of the over-the-top school spirit I've never quite understood. But here I am the next night, clutching my student ID at the will-call window, collecting the ticket Declan left for me.

"You're Wolfe's girl?" the attendant asks, eyeing me with naked curiosity.

I force a smile. "That's me."

"He left instructions to direct you to the family section." She points toward a cordoned-off area with cushioned seats near center ice. "The blue seats, not the general student section."

The family section. Where parents, girlfriends, and other important people in the players' lives sit. This is getting more real by the minute.

I make my way to the designated area, self-conscious in Declan's jersey, which hangs nearly to my knees despite my height. I'd paired it with leggings and boots, my concession to both the cold arena and the role I'm playing. My hair is down for once, falling in waves around my shoulders—another small detail that feels like a surrender to this new identity.

The section is already half-full with what appears to be an assortment of parents, girlfriends, and university officials. I hover uncertainly at the entrance, scanning for an inconspicuous seat where I can blend into the background. Mia offered to come with me, but I turned her down, hoping I could just come in and blend into the background, get through the game before slipping back to my dorm room. It becomes clear pretty soon that isn’t going to happen.

"You must be Ellie!"

A woman in her forties approaches, elegant in a cashmere sweater and pearls, her dark hair swept into a chignon. Something about her features—the high cheekbones, the shape of her eyes—strikes me as familiar.

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