Page 40 of Faking It For Real

"I know," I assured him. "I'll be better."

"You'd better be," he warned, then nodded toward the ice. "Now get back out there and show me the player I know you are."

I rejoined practice with renewed determination, forcing thoughts of Mia and our arrangement to the back of my mind. Hockey first. It had always been hockey first. Nothing—certainly not a fake relationship—was going to change that.

For the remainder of practice, I was my usual self—precise passes, sharp shots, effective leadership. But as soon as I stepped off the ice, my phone buzzed with a notification, and my hard-won focus wavered again.

Mia:Still on for coffee this afternoon? Need to discuss team photo shoot logistics.

It was a perfectly professional message. Nothing in it to explain the ridiculous leap my stomach made upon reading it. Get a grip, Wright.

Ethan:Definitely.Brewed Sunshineat 3?

Mia:Perfect. See you then.

I stuffed my phone into my bag, ignoring Dylan's knowing look from across the locker room. This was just business—our arrangement in action. Nothing to get worked up about.

Brewed Sunshinewas crowded with the post-lunch student rush when I arrived. I spotted Mia immediately, tucked into a corner table, her laptop open in front of her. She was so focused on the screen that she didn't notice me approach, giving me a moment to observe her unguarded.

Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore dark-framed glasses I hadn't seen before, which she absently pushed up her nose as she frowned at whatever she was reviewing. The November sunlight streaming through the window caught the warm undertones in her skin, giving her an almost luminous quality.

I shook off the thought and cleared my throat. "Hey."

She looked up, startled, then smiled. "Oh, hey. I didn't see you come in."

"You were pretty absorbed," I observed, gesturing to her laptop as I sat across from her. "Photography stuff?"

"Editing some shots from last week's game," she nodded, turning the screen toward me. "What do you think?"

The image showed our defensive line setting up during a critical third-period play. What struck me wasn't just the technical quality of the shot, but how she'd captured the intensity in my teammates' postures, the focus in their eyes, the coiled energy as they prepared to defend.

"That's... wow," I said, impressed. "You really got the feeling of the moment."

"Thanks," she said, looking pleased. "I'm learning to anticipate the flow of the game better. Your explanations have helped."

"Glad to hear it," I replied, genuinely flattered. "So, team photo shoot?"

"Right." She closed her laptop, all business now. "The paper wants a feature on the team's championship prospects. Coach approved Monday afternoon for a group shot on the ice and some individual portraits in the locker room."

"Sounds straightforward enough," I nodded. "Any particular look you're going for?"

"For the group shot, standard team formation but with equipment," she explained. "Helmets under arms, sticks held vertical. For the individual portraits..." She hesitated. "I was thinking something more personal. Catching what drives each player."

"That's... ambitious," I said, intrigued. "How would that work?"

Mia's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, her hands beginning to gesture expressively as she explained her vision. "For Tyler, I want to capture that focused intensity he gets right before a save—that moment of absolute concentration. For Dylan, his pre-game ritual with the left skate first, always seven taps of the stick against the boards. For you..." She paused, studying me thoughtfully. "For you, I want to capture the moment right after you give the team a direction. There's this look you get—confidence mixed with absolute certainty. It's when you're most yourself, I think."

I stared at her, caught off guard by her observation. How many hours had she spent watching us—watching me—to notice these details? And why did her understanding feel so oddly intimate?

"You've been paying attention," I managed, unsure how else to respond.

"It's my job," she shrugged, but there was a hint of color in her cheeks. "Good photography means seeing what others miss."

"And what else have you seen?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Our eyes met across the table, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

"That you're not what I first thought," she finally said, her voice softer. "You're more... complicated."

---