Page 1 of Faking It For Real

Chapter 1: Ethan

My alarm was set for 5:15 AM, but my eyes snapped open at 4:59. I stared at the ceiling, already feeling that familiar tightness in my chest. Game day. Well, practice day, but with NHL scouts becoming a regular fixture at our university rink, every practice felt like game seven of the Stanley Cup finals.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The apartment was silent except for the distant sounds of Dylan's snoring from the other bedroom. My best friend and teammate operated on a completely different schedule—one that generally didn't acknowledge the existence of mornings before 9 AM.

In the kitchen, I pulled out my blender, mentally calculating the exact right protein-to-carb ratio I'd need to sustain me through today's brutal practice. Coach Alvarez had promised a "special surprise" yesterday, which generally translated to "I'm going to make you skate until you puke." As I measured protein powder, I pulled up my tablet to review our latest plays.

The sound of the blender had barely died down when Dylan appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in at least twelve different directions, eyes barely open.

"Dude," he groaned, "do you have to commune with the sunrise gods every single morning? Some of us were up until 2 AM finishing Professor Wilson's essay." He shuffled toward the coffee maker, moving like a zombie with a hangover.

"That essay was assigned three weeks ago," I pointed out, taking a sip of my shake. It tasted like chalk and optimism, as always.

"Yes, Captain Responsible, I'm aware." Dylan dramatically pressed buttons on the coffee maker. "But some of us have a very specific creative process that involves procrastinating until the last possible moment and then experiencing a beautiful panic-induced clarity."

I snorted. "How'd that work out for you?"

"I'll have you know I wrote four thousand words of pure genius. Or complete garbage. I won't know which until I'm sober enough to read it." Dylan leaned against the counter, observing me with amusement. "Meanwhile, there you are, performing your daily ritual. Tell me, what exactly happens during these crack-of-dawn sessions? Do you commune with the spirit of hockey past? Do you photosynthesize protein powder directly through your skin?"

"I prepare. Something you might want to try sometime."

Dylan dramatically clutched his chest. "Preparation? The very concept offends my soul. Besides, I need the chaos. Have you seen the difference between your side of the apartment and mine?"

"You mean the difference between 'habitable' and 'potential health code violation'?"

"I prefer 'carefully curated disaster zone,'" Dylan grinned, pouring his coffee. "It's my creative process."

My phone rang, interrupting our banter. My father's name flashed on the screen, and just like that, the easy morning atmosphere evaporated. I took a steadying breath before answering.

"Hey, Dad."

"Ethan, you're up." It wasn't a question. Richard Wright had long abandoned pleasantries since I was twelve.

"Yes, sir. Just having breakfast before practice." I turned away from Dylan, who suddenly became very interested in the refrigerator contents.

"What's Alvarez running today? Has he improved that power play setup I mentioned last week? The one where you were wasting too much time on the transition?"

I gripped my phone tighter. "We've been working on it."

"Working on it isn't good enough, Ethan. Those scouts demand precision, execution. Not effort." I could practically see my father pacing in his home office, surrounded by his NHL trophies and the framed jersey that represented his career cut short by a devastating knee injury. "Have you watched the game footage I sent? I marked several moments where your positioning was sloppy."

"I've reviewed it." Three times, actually, making careful notes each time.

"And?"

"And I'll do better today."

A heavy sigh came through the phone. “This isn’t just another practice, son. Every second on that ice is an audition for your future. One slip—”

“—and it could cost me everything,” I cut in, the words rolling off my tongue from years of hearing them. “I know, Dad. I won’t let you down.”

"See that you don't." A pause. "Call me after practice."

The call ended, and I set my phone down, my knuckles white against the counter's edge. My stomach clenched as an unwanted memory surfaced—me at fourteen, hiding in a locker room equipment closet after missing the winning shot in a junior championship. I could still feel the cold metal against my cheek, still smell the stale sweat and equipment. Still hear my father's disappointed silence on the drive home, louder than any shouting could have been.

I shoved the memory down, straightening my shoulders. That was then. This was now. And now, I was Captain Ethan Wright, NHL prospect, with a future as bright as the ice under arena lights.

"Your dad?" Dylan asked quietly, all traces of his usual joking manner gone.

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