Page 47 of Faking It For Real

"Perfect. Now just angle your stick like—yeah, exactly like that," Ethan said, demonstrating a complicated-looking wrist motion that made the puck seem to dance at the end of his stick.

I watched through my viewfinder, forcing my focus onto the precise, fluid grace of his movements, the technical skill. It was a necessary distraction. Because it had been two days since the away game—two days since the dizzying high of the win had somehow combusted into something else entirely in that shadowed room. Two days since we had sex.

The aftermath had been thick with a strained, awkward silence that eventually yielded a clumsy truce: it was an accident. A fluke. We blamed the adrenaline, the sheer joy of the victory, maybe even the dangerous game of playing fake couple for so long. Whatever that impulsive moment was, it wasn't us. It couldn't be allowed to derail the arrangement.

So, we’d agreed—stiffly—to act like nothing had changed. Back to the contract. Back to our carefully defined roles.

Which was why, despite the hum of unresolved tension beneath the surface, I was here now. Taking Ethan up on his offer for better photo access meant standing on the actual ice near the players' bench, the cold a sharp, unwelcome contrast to the heat I was trying desperately to forget.

Practice was winding down, most players already heading for the showers, but Ethan remained, demonstrating puck-handling techniques to Reyes, seemingly unaffected. Or perhaps just performing better than I was.

I adjusted my camera settings, trying to capture the precise control in his movements. Hockey photography had begun to fascinate me in a way I hadn't expected.

Ethan glanced over, noticing my frustration as I reviewed yet another slightly blurred shot. He said something to Reyes, who nodded and skated away, before making his way over to me.

"Getting what you need?" he asked, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air.

I sighed, showing him the screen. "Not really. I can't seem to capture the speed and control simultaneously. It's either a blur of motion or a static pose that loses the dynamism."

Ethan studied the image, then looked up with an unexpected smile. "I could show you."

"Show me?"

"Here," he said, holding out his stick. "Sometimes understanding the mechanics helps you anticipate the moment."

I hesitated, hand hovering. Taking the stick meant proximity after two days of careful avoidance, a test of our fragile truce. But refusing felt riskier, acknowledging the very 'accident' we'd agreed to ignore.Don't make it weird, I told myself. I set my camera down and took the stick. Solid, heavier than expected.

"Your grip is all wrong," he said, moving to stand behind me. "Like this."

His hands covered mine, repositioning my fingers on the stick. An immediate jolt ran through me at the contact—his palms warm against the backs of my hands, his chest close enough to my back that I could feel his body heat.

"The key is in the wrist," he continued, his voice low near my ear as he guided my hands through a gentle motion. "It's not about strength—it's finesse and timing."

I was suddenly having trouble focusing on his words, hyperaware of his proximity, the slight brush of his breath against my hair, the way his hands completely enveloped mine. My own hands trembled slightly.

"You're shivering," he noted, misunderstanding. "It's colder on the ice than it looks, isn't it?"

"I'm fine," I managed, though cold was definitely not my problem at the moment.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my back. "Maybe you should stick to shooting hockey rather than playing it."

Something about his gentle teasing broke through my flustered state, igniting my competitive streak. "Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try operating my camera. It's not just pointing and clicking, you know."

He raised an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? I think I could figure it out."

"Please," I scoffed, warming to our banter. "You'd probably drop my precious camera trying to balance it with those hockey mitts you call hands."

"Hockey mitts?" he repeated, looking down at his hands with mock offense. "I'll have you know these are precision instruments."

"For stick handling, maybe. But my camera requires delicacy." I was fully engaged in our back-and-forth now. "You'd probably crush the shutter button and break the whole mechanism."

"Now you're just underestimating me," he said, stepping closer. "I have hidden talents, you know."

"Like what? The ability to make your hockey pads smell worse than anyone else's?"

He laughed outright at that. "Dylan would be offended. He prides himself on having the most toxic equipment in the locker room." His eyes crinkled when he really smiled. "My hidden talent is actually attention to detail."

"Is that right?" I asked, suddenly aware of how close we were standing.

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