Page 13 of Faking It For Real

"Are you familiar with the graduation rates for student-athletes compared to the general student population?" Dylan asked, his voice taking on the formal tone he used for class debates.

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."

"They're higher," Dylan said firmly. "At this university, athletes graduate at a 94% rate compared to 87% for non-athletes. We have mandatory study halls, academic advisors who track our progress weekly, and GPA requirements to remain eligible for competition."

"Statistics can be manipulated," Olivia challenged. "And those resources you mentioned aren't available to regular students."

"Because regular students aren't trying to fit a full-time athletic career into their college experience," Dylan replied, clearly frustrated. "Look, I maintain a 3.8 GPA in Political Science while playing hockey at a nationally competitive level. I'm not asking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that my circumstances require some flexibility."

Olivia looked genuinely surprised. "A 3.8 in PoliSci? While playing hockey?"

"Yes." Dylan crossed his arms. "Did that not fit your 'dumb jock' narrative for your exposé?"

"It's not an exposé," Olivia protested, though her expression suggested otherwise. "It's an investigative piece on academic integrity."

"Using athletes as your convenient villains," Dylan shot back.

"I'm following the evidence to its logical conclusion," Olivia insisted.

"You're starting with a conclusion and seeking evidence to support it," Dylan corrected. "That's not journalism; that's confirmation bias. I believe that violates the basic rules of journalistic integrity, though I'm not an expert in your field." He deliberately used journalism terminology, though I could tell he was just tossing out phrases he'd probably heard in a class once.

Olivia's eyes narrowed. "And I believe you're about to get crosschecked into the penalty zone for unsportsmanlike conduct in this discussion." She used hockey terms with similar inaccuracy, clearly trying to beat him at his own game.

Tyler choked on his tea, trying to suppress a laugh. I glanced at Mia and found her watching the exchange with the same bewildered amusement I felt. Our eyes met briefly, and I could have sworn I saw the corner of her mouth quirk up in a smile before she quickly looked away.

"Penalty box," Dylan corrected automatically. "And crosschecking usually gets you two minutes, not a match penalty, unless it's particularly egregious."

"Fine," Olivia conceded. "You get a two-minute time-out in the penalty container for excessive mansplaining."

Even I had to bite back a laugh at that one. Dylan looked momentarily stunned, then broke into a reluctant grin.

"Touché, Martinez." He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Though I maintain that your article premise is flawed."

"Noted, Parker." She returned the gesture with her own cup. "Though I maintain that my journalistic instincts are sound."

The tension dissipated, replaced by a strange kind of combative respect between them. Mia caught my eye again, and this time she did smile—a small, wry expression that somehow made me feel like we were sharing a private joke about our ridiculous friends.

The moment was broken by the buzz of my phone. Coach Alvarez's name flashed on the screen, and my stomach dropped. I'd completely forgotten about his summons to his office after practice.

"I need to go," I said, standing abruptly. "Coach wants to see me."

Dylan gave me a sympathetic look. "Good luck, man. Want me to wait?"

"No, I'll meet you back at the apartment." I hesitated, then nodded to the group. "Thanks for the coffee."

My gaze lingered on Mia for a moment longer than necessary. "See you at practice, I guess. Just... stay off the ice."

"No promises," she replied, but there was a teasing note in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Try not to crash into the boards next time. It ruins my composition."

I almost smiled despite the dread pooling in my stomach. "I'll do my best."

Coach Alvarez was not happy. He sat behind his desk, arms crossed, expression grim as I entered his office.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sat, bracing myself for the lecture I knew was coming.

"So," Coach began, "want to explain what happened out there today?"

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