Page 45 of Faking It For Real

Ethan had the puck, flying down the ice with the grace that still amazed me. I didn't see where the opposing player came from—just a blur from the left that crashed into Ethan with brutal force. The crowd roared as both players went down, but while the other guy bounced back up, Ethan stayed sprawled on the ice.

My heart stopped. The camera lowered slightly in my hands as I held my breath, eyes fixed on his motionless form. The arena went strangely quiet, a collective pause as everyone watched. Coach Alvarez was already on his feet, signaling to the medical staff.

"Come on," I whispered, surprising myself with the fervent prayer. "Get up, Ethan."

Seconds stretched like hours. Finally, painfully, Ethan shifted. He pushed himself up on one elbow, then to his knees. The relief that flooded through me was so powerful it made me dizzy. When he stood fully, clearly in pain but refusing the medic's suggestion to leave the ice, I found myself smiling with ridiculous pride.

I lifted my camera again, capturing his grimace and the determined set of his jaw as he skated back to position. There was something stunning about his refusal to yield, something that made my finger press the shutter button repeatedly.

The face-off after the injury timeout positioned Ethan directly across from the opposing captain, close enough to the team benches that I could hear their exchange. The opposing captain leaned in, his voice low but carrying just enough.

"Must be hard knowing you'll never be half the player your daddy was," he sneered, his mouth barely moving. "Living in his shadow suits you, though. Plenty of room for disappointment there."

I inhaled sharply, anger flaring hot and unexpected in my chest. Through my lens, I captured the exact moment the words registered—Ethan's eyes flashing cold, his jaw clenching so hard I could almost hear his teeth grinding before the referee dropped the puck.

I lowered my camera momentarily, surprised by my own visceral reaction. Since when did I care this much about hockey trash talk? Since when did seeing Ethan take a hit make my heart stop? Since when did a stranger's cruel words to him make me want to march onto the ice and commit highly photogenic acts of violence?

The second period ended with theWolvesdown by two goals, the opposing team having scored twice in quick succession. I watched Ethan in the moments before the third period, as he gathered his teammates in a tight circle. Even from my position, I could read the determination in his posture, the refusal to accept defeat in the rigid line of his back.

Whatever he said galvanized them. They returned to the ice with renewed focus, their movements more coordinated, their passes sharper. I kept shooting, marveling at how they seemed to move as a single unit now, with Ethan at the center.

The breakthrough came midway through the third period when a rival player deliberately tripped Tyler, sending him sprawling and earningWolvesa penalty shot. Coach Alvarez pointed to Ethan without hesitation.

I lowered my camera, my pulse suddenly racing. The hostile crowd rose to their feet, a thunderous wall of opposition as Ethan positioned himself for the shot. I was acutely aware that NHL scouts were supposedly somewhere in this arena, watching this exact moment.

"Come on," I whispered, my camera temporarily forgotten in my hands. "You've got this."

The arena held its breath as Ethan approached the goal with controlled speed, his movements hypnotic as he feinted left, then right, before flicking the puck with surgical precision past the goalie's outstretched glove.

"YES!" The cheer burst from me before I could stop it, loud enough to turn heads among the other press photographers. Heat flooded my face as I quickly raised my camera again, pretending I'd been shooting the whole time. From the ice, I caught Dylan's amused glance in my direction, his knowing smile making me blush harder.

Professional distance be damned, a voice in my head muttered.This is getting complicated.

The final minutes of the game were excruciating, both teams exhausted but pushing themselves harder, emotions running high. With just forty seconds left on the clock, Ethan broke away with the puck, drawing defenders to him before making an impossibly accurate pass to Dylan, who buried it in the net.

The arena erupted—half in despair, half in celebration. I was on my feet with the rest of theWolvessupporters, camera clicking furiously to capture the team's celebration. But my favorite shot—the one I knew instinctively would be special—was of Ethan's face in the second after the buzzer. Pure relief and joy transformed his features, making him look younger, unburdened, genuinely happy in a way I'd never witnessed before.

After filing the required shots to my editor Mark via my laptop, I waited outside the locker room, telling myself I was just being a convincing girlfriend. The hallway was quiet compared to the still-buzzing arena, the concrete walls amplifying the muffled sounds from inside the locker room.

I leaned against the wall, scrolling through my photos, lingering on that shot of Ethan's unguarded joy. Something about it made my chest tight. I'd photographed technically more impressive moments tonight—brutal checks, diving saves, the actual game-winning goal—but this quiet moment of genuine emotion felt more significant than any of them.

The realization hit me with uncomfortable clarity: I wasn't just photographing hockey anymore. I was photographing Ethan. I cared about the game because I cared about him.

Oh god, I thought, mild panic setting in.This is not part of the arrangement.

The locker room door burst open before I could properly freak out, players spilling into the hallway still buzzing with victory energy. I straightened, plastering on my "supportive girlfriend" smile, scanning for Ethan.

He emerged near the end, hair still damp from the shower. The moment he saw me, his face lit up in a way that did absolutely nothing to calm my internal crisis. The next thing I knew, he was striding toward me with purpose.

"You waited," he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

"Of course," I replied, aiming for casual. "Got some amazing shots. The paper's going to—"

I didn't finish because suddenly I was airborne, Ethan's strong hands gripping my waist as he lifted me in an exuberant hug that left me momentarily breathless. My camera bag bumped awkwardly between us, but I barely noticed, too distracted by the warmth of his body and the disorienting sensation of being held aloft.

"We did it!" he said, his face inches from mine, eyes bright with victory. “Did you see that final play? That shot was absolute perfection!”

His joy was so pure that I found myself laughing, hands instinctively braced on his broad shoulders for balance. "It was amazing," I agreed, suddenly very aware of how close our faces were, how easily I could just lean forward and—

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