Page 18 of Faking It For Real

The Wolves held on to win 2-1, sending the home crowd into a frenzy. As the players celebrated on the ice, I continued shooting, trying to capture the elation of victory, the relief after intense pressure, the bonds between teammates who'd battled together.

When Ethan skated past my position during the victory lap, our eyes met briefly. Something passed between us—acknowledgment, perhaps, or a shared appreciation for the moment. He gave a slight nod before continuing on, and I found myself smiling as I raised my camera again.

It was only later, reviewing the images in my apartment bedroom, that I recognized the strange warmth in my chest for what it was—a dangerous spark of attraction to the very person I'd been so determined to dislike. I slammed my laptop closed, disturbed by the realization.

This was not part of the plan. I was here to do a job, to make money for tuition, to advance my real photography career. Developing any kind of feelings for Ethan Wright was absolutely not on the agenda.

Yet, as I fell asleep that night, it was the image of his transformed face that lingered in my mind, stirring emotions I wasn't prepared to examine.

Chapter 5: Ethan

I'd successfully managed to avoid direct interaction with Mia Navarro for nearly two weeks, despite her constant presence at practices and games. It wasn't that I was holding a grudge over our first disastrous meeting—we'd established our professional boundaries, and for the most part, she'd respected them, staying safely in the stands with her camera and keeping her distance.

No, it was something else that made me deliberately avoid making eye contact when she was nearby, something about the way she watched everything with those observant brown eyes, like she was looking for something beneath the surface. Like she could see past the captain's jersey and the practiced media responses to something I preferred to keep hidden.

It was unsettling. And I didn't need unsettling, not with scouts at every game and my future hanging in the balance.

The team was on a winning streak, largely thanks to my leadership and scoring. We'd won five straight games, climbing to the top of our conference rankings and generating serious buzz among NHL circles. Pittsburgh wasn't the only team sending scouts anymore—Chicago, Boston, and Toronto had all made appearances at recent games.

The pressure should have been crushing, but somehow, I was thriving under it. My skating was sharper, my shots more accurate, my game awareness at a level I'd never reached before. Coach Alvarez had actually given me a genuine compliment after our last victory—a rare occurrence that had left the entire team in mock shock.

"Are you terminally ill, Coach?" Dylan had asked with exaggerated concern. "Because you just said something nice to Wright, and we're worried it might be a symptom of imminent death."

Everything was clicking into place exactly as I'd planned. Which was why I was deeply skeptical when Dylan cornered me after practice on a Wednesday afternoon with what he claimed was a "brilliant idea."

"No," I said immediately, not even waiting to hear it.

"You haven't even heard my proposal yet," Dylan protested, following me into our apartment.

"I don't need to. Your 'brilliant ideas' have a historical success rate of approximately zero percent." I headed for the shower, hoping to end the conversation.

No such luck. Dylan continued talking through the bathroom door. "The team needs to celebrate our winning streak. Boost morale. Team bonding. All that leadership stuff you're supposed to care about as captain."

I turned on the shower to drown him out, but when I emerged fifteen minutes later, he was waiting in the living room with a determined expression.

"Halloween party," he announced. "At the hockey house. This Saturday."

I groaned. "Dylan, I don't have time for—"

"For maintaining team morale? For rewarding everyone's hard work? For being a normal college senior for once in your life?" He crossed his arms. "Come on, Wright. We're on fire this season. The scouts are practically drooling over you. One night of normal social interaction won't derail your NHL dreams."

I hesitated. As much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. The team had been putting in extraordinary effort, and as captain, I should acknowledge that. And it had been a while since I'd done anything remotely resembling normal college life.

"Fine," I conceded. "But low-key. Just the team and a few friends."

Dylan's face split into a grin that immediately made me regret my decision. "Absolutely. Super chill. Practically a study group with costumes."

I knew he was lying. I knew it would be anything but low-key. And yet, I found myself nodding anyway.

"One condition," I added. "I'm not wearing an elaborate costume."

"Define 'elaborate.'"

"Anything that would make me look ridiculous or be impossible to quickly remove if Coach calls an emergency practice."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Your dedication to joylessness is truly inspiring, Wright. Fine. Minimal costume. But you have to at least try."

"Deal." I grabbed my playbook from the coffee table. "Now can I please review the new defensive strategy Coach wants to implement tomorrow?"

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