Page 32 of Faking It For Real

I smiled at the thoroughness, then began typing my own response:

Ethan:Ethan Wright. Born January 8. From Boston originally. Parents Richard and Sandra. Sister Emma. Dad was NHL until knee injury, now a hockey commentator. Mom teaches high school English. Favorite food: my grandmother's shepherd's pie, good sushi, anything with protein after a game. Allergic to cats and bullshit. Coffee order: black, unless I need extra energy, then double espresso.

I hesitated, then added:

Ethan:Also, I hate cilantro. Tastes like soap. And I secretly like cheesy action movies, the kind with impossible explosions and bad one-liners.

I hit send before I could overthink it, then followed up with:

Ethan:Your turn. Tell me something not on your list.

There was a pause before the typing indicator appeared.

Mia:I'm terrified of deep water. Can't even watch underwater scenes in movies without getting anxious. And I have a ridiculous sweet tooth—I keep emergency chocolate in all my camera bags.

I found myself smiling at this unexpected vulnerability.

Ethan:Why photography? When did you know that's what you wanted to do?

Mia:I got my first camera when I was 10—a beat-up Polaroid from a yard sale. Loved the instant magic of it. By high school, I was saving every penny for better equipment. Just always made sense to me, seeing the world through a lens. What about hockey? Was it always the plan?

The question gave me pause. The honest answer was complicated.

Ethan:My dad put me on skates at 5. By 7, I was in a youth league. It's always been the expectation. But somewhere along the way, it became my dream too. Hard to separate those things sometimes.

I worried it was too revealing, but her response came quickly.

Mia:That makes sense. The expectations we grow up with become part of us, for better or worse. But it seems like you genuinely love it, at least from what I've seen at practices.

Ethan:I do. Even with the pressure, there's nothing like the feeling of being on the ice.

We continued exchanging messages for nearly an hour, the conversation flowing more easily than I would have expected. I was in the middle of explaining the finer points of penalty killing when my phone rang—my father's name flashing on the screen.

"I should take this," I texted Mia. "My dad calling. Talk tomorrow?"

"Of course," she replied. "Good night, Ethan."

Switching over to the call, I braced myself. "Hey, Dad."

"Ethan." My father's voice was as clipped and businesslike as ever. "Just watched the footage from your last game."

No greeting. No "how are you." Straight to hockey analysis.

"And?" I prompted, already feeling the familiar tension creeping into my shoulders.

"Your second period was sloppy. Three missed opportunities on the power play, and that pass to Dylan in the third? Telegraphed it completely. The defender nearly intercepted."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to maintain my composure. "We won, Dad."

"A win doesn't mean you played your best," he countered. "ThePittsburghSealsscout was there. You think he didn't notice those mistakes?"

"I'm aware of that," I said evenly. "Coach and I already reviewed the footage. I know what I need to work on."

"Good," he said, though his tone suggested he doubted it. "The rankings just came out. You're still in the top twenty prospects, but you've slipped two spots."

My stomach clenched. "It's early in the season."

"Early is when impressions are made," he replied. "You can't afford to coast on reputation, Ethan. Not with your history."

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