Page 43 of Faking It For Real

Ethan:Team's going toPizza e Formaggito celebrate. Want to come?

It wasn't technically part of our agreement. Team celebration dinners weren't mandatory "boyfriend duties." But I realized with surprising clarity that I wanted her there—not for show, but because her presence had become something I genuinely enjoyed.

Mia:Sure! What time?

Ethan:Meet at the rink in 20? I can drive us over.

Mia:See you then.

AtPizza e Formaggi, a family-style Italian restaurant that was the team's traditional celebration spot, I found myself introducing Mia not just as "my girlfriend" but as an individual with her own identity and achievements.

"This is Mia," I told the restaurant owner, who knew all the regulars by name. "She's the photographer who's been documenting theWolves. She's brilliant."

The pride in my voice was unfeigned, and the smile Mia gave me in response created a warmth in my chest.

Throughout dinner, I found myself watching her more than participating in the rowdy team conversation. The way she became animated when discussing photography with Tyler, who turned out to have an unexpected interest in visual arts. How she held her own in a spirited debate with Dylan about whether photo filters were enhancing or destroying photography. The genuine attention she gave to freshman defender Reyes’ nervous questions about how to pose for the upcoming team photos.

"Dude," Dylan murmured at one point, nudging me while Mia was in deep conversation with Tyler. "You're staring."

"No, I'm not," I denied automatically.

"You absolutely are," he countered. "And not in a 'this is for show' kind of way. In a 'I'm completely whipped' kind of way."

"That's ridiculous," I hissed, though something uncomfortable shifted in my stomach at his observation.

"Is it, though?" Dylan raised his eyebrows. "Because you just listened to her entire explanation of F-stops without checking your phone once. I've seen you check your phone during Coach's inspirational speeches."

"I was being polite," I insisted.

"Uh-huh," Dylan nodded, clearly unconvinced. "Just be careful, man. Remember what this arrangement is actually about."

His warning followed me through the remainder of dinner, a nagging reminder that this wasn't real—that it couldn't be real, given our respective goals and the temporary nature of our agreement.

Yet when Mia laughed at something Sanchez said, I found myself wishing, just for a moment, that we'd met under different circumstances.

Later, as Tyler chuckled, "I still can't believe Ethan actually listened to your entire explanation of F-stops," Mia looked surprised, glancing at me with a question in her eyes.

"What can I say?" I shrugged, aiming for casual. "It was actually interesting."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dylan narrated with exaggerated amazement, "We are witnessing unprecedented developments in the evolution of Ethan Wright. Scientists are baffled by this sudden capacity for interest in non-hockey subjects."

"Shut up, Dylan," I muttered, though there was no heat in it.

"The subject's scowl lines also appear to be receding," Reyes joined in, emboldened by Dylan's example. "Possibly due to exposure to regular human interaction."

"You're all hilarious," I deadpanned. "Really. Comedy gold."

After dinner, I drove her home, the car filled with comfortable conversation about the evening, team dynamics, and her upcoming photo assignments. When we reached her apartment building, I walked her to the door—another unnecessary gesture that had somehow become habit.

At her door, there was a moment of uncertainty. Should I kiss her goodnight? It would maintain our cover if anyone was watching, but there was no real need. No audience that mattered.

Before I could decide, Mia solved the dilemma by squeezing my hand and offering a quick, "Thanks for tonight. It was fun."

"Yeah," I agreed, oddly disappointed by the lack of contact. "It was. See you at practice tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it," she nodded, already slipping inside. "Goodnight, Ethan."

"Goodnight, Mia."

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