Page 42 of Faking It For Real

"Digital, actually," she corrected with a grin. "Film is for my personal projects."

"I stand corrected," I said solemnly. "Digital immortalization it is."

As she climbed the steps, she turned back briefly. "Ethan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being... easy to work with. On this whole arrangement."

"You too," I replied, meaning it more than I'd expected to.

I watched her disappear into the building before continuing to my own class, trying to ignore the strange sense of lightness in my chest that had nothing to do with our business arrangement and everything to do with the way she'd looked at me when she said I was "complicated in a good way."

Over the next two weeks, Mia and I fell into a surprisingly comfortable routine. She attended practices regularly, gradually learning more about hockey, while I found myself genuinely interested in her photography process. After practices, I'd often explain plays or strategies, introducing her to various team members and coaches.

The photographs she took improved dramatically as her understanding of the game deepened. She had a particular talent for capturing emotional moments—Tyler's intense concentration before a crucial save, Dylan's exuberant celebrations, the team's collective determination during close games. Her work began appearing prominently in the university paper, drawing attention not just to theWolvesteam but to her skill as a photographer.

Most surprising to me was how we'd begun communicating beyond what was strictly necessary for our arrangement. It started with simple texts about schedule coordination:

Ethan:Practice cancelled tomorrow. Coach has flu.

Mia:Thanks for letting me know. I'll use the time to edit yesterday's shots.

But gradually evolved into sharing random thoughts and small victories:

Mia:Just got an A on my portfolio project! Professor said my hockey series showed "remarkable emotional intelligence."

Ethan:That's awesome! Congratulations! We should celebrate.

Mia:Milkshakes at Dairy Snacks this afternoon?

Ethan:It's 40 degrees outside.

Mia:Your point?

Ethan:No point. Milkshakes it is. Meet you at 4?

And sometimes, late at night, the texts became more personal:

Ethan:Dad called tonight. Picked apart my game for 20 minutes straight.

Mia:That's rough. You played brilliantly today. I have photographic evidence.

Ethan:Thanks. That actually helps.

Mia:Want to see the best shot from today? Might make you feel better.

Ethan:Absolutely.

The photo she sent was of me mid-play, focused and determined, executing a perfect pass to Dylan. There was something in my expression she'd captured—a moment of pure flow, of absolute presence—that reminded me why I loved this game beyond my father's expectations.

Ethan:This is incredible. You really see something different.

Mia:Just capturing what's already there.

I saved the photo, finding myself returning to it after particularly brutal practices or difficult calls with my father. There was something steadying about seeing myself through Mia's lens—something that reminded me of who I was beyond others' expectations.

The night after a particularly good game—a 5-2 victory where I'd scored twice and assisted on two more goals—I found myself texting her without thinking.

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