Page 50 of Faking It For Real

I expected hesitation, maybe outright refusal. This was asking for access to the very parts of himself he kept carefully guarded. To my surprise, he didn't even pause.

"Okay."

I blinked. "Okay? Just like that?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "Just like that. I trust you, Mia."

The simple statement hit me with unexpected force.

"Thank you," I managed, oddly touched. "I promise I'll be respectful of your space. Just tell me if anything feels off-limits."

"I'm an open book," he smiled. "When do we start?"

"Now?" I suggested. "I mean, if you're heading to class or something, I could just...follow along? Get some natural moments?"

He chuckled. "Stalking me for art's sake, huh?"

"It's not stalking if you consent," I retorted.

"Fair enough, stalker." His smile widened. "I'm all yours."

The phrase sent a ridiculous flutter through me, which I promptly ignored.

Over the next few days, my camera became an extension of my arm as I shadowed Ethan through his routine. I captured moments no one else saw: the intense focus in his eyes during Coach's strategy talks; the way he patiently helped Tyler perfect a defensive move, his instruction far gentler than his on-ice captain persona would suggest.

One afternoon, I photographed him sitting alone in the empty arena, staring at the ice with an expression so complex and unguarded that I almost felt like I was intruding. When he heard my camera click, he looked up, but didn't mask his expression as he might have weeks ago.

"Caught me brooding, huh?" he asked with a small smile.

"Contemplating," I corrected, sitting beside him on the bench. "What were you thinking about?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer.

"My dad's injury," he finally said. "It happened on this exact date, fifteen years ago. Shattered kneecap, ending a career that was supposed to be legendary." His eyes remained fixed on the ice. "I was seven. I remember the screaming, then the silence afterward that was somehow worse."

I lowered my camera, sensing this wasn't a moment to document. "I'm sorry."

A humorless shrug. "That’s a long time ago. But sometimes..." He sighed, breath misting slightly. "Sometimes I stand here and think,what if that's me next? One wrong move, and everything I've worked my whole damn life for vanishes."

My hand found his, covering it instinctively. "That's a terrifying thought," I said softly. "And yeah, the risk is real, I get that." I squeezed his hand gently. "But it doesn't cancel out the other part. When you're out there, there's this... light. Real joy in how you play."

His eyes met mine, surprised and searching. "You see that?"

"I'm a photographer," I reminded him gently. "Seeing is literally my job."

That earned a genuine laugh. "So what else do you see, Ms. Professional Observer?"

"I see someone who carries too much weight but still finds moments of pure connection with the game," I said honestly. "I see leadership that goes beyond barking orders—the way you adapt your approach for different teammates. And..." I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.

"And?" he prompted.

"And I see a lot more than just a hockey player," I admitted quietly.

The air between us felt charged with something dangerous. Before either of us could speak again, his phone buzzed with a text from Coach, breaking the moment.

"Team meeting," he explained, standing. "Dinner after? You can tell me more about what that fancy camera of yours has revealed."

I nodded, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest at the casual invitation. "It's a date."

---