Page 55 of Faking It For Real

"Prove it," she challenged, nodding toward the dance floor where couples were already swaying to a slow song. "Unless you'd rather avoid the risk to my poor toes."

"Your toes are safe with me," I promised, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor.

My bravado dissolved the instant my hand touched her waist, the silky fabric cool beneath my suddenly clumsy fingers. Taking her hand felt like closing an electric circuit. All those dance tutorials I'd watched? Laughably inadequate. They hadn't taught me how to handle the subtle floral scent of her hair, or the feeling of her breathing so close, or the simple, terrifying fact of holding Mia herself.

We moved awkwardly at first, both too aware of our performance. But as the song progressed, we gradually relaxed into each other. My hand settled more naturally at her waist, hers found a comfortable position on my shoulder, and our movements became fluid instead of mechanical.

"Not hopeless after all," Mia observed with a small smile, looking up at me.

"Don't sound so surprised," I said, adopting a wounded expression. "I have hidden talents."

"So you keep saying."

We continued dancing, falling into a comfortable rhythm. Around us, other couples moved in their own worlds—including Dylan and Olivia, who appeared to be dancing and arguing simultaneously, neither willing to break away despite their animated disagreement.

"Look at those two," Mia said, following my gaze. "They're ridiculous."

"Completely," I agreed. "Obviously can't stand each other."

"Obviously," she echoed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Just like their dedicated research into each other's trigger points is purely academic."

"Purely," I nodded solemnly. "I've never seen two people work so hard to pretend they're not attracted to each other."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized their potential double meaning. Mia's eyes met mine, a flash of something vulnerable crossing her features before she looked away.

"Some people have trouble recognizing what's right in front of them," she said quietly.

The song changed to something more upbeat, breaking the moment. We separated slightly, both seemingly grateful for the shift in atmosphere.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur. We danced to fast songs in groups, laughed at the increasingly ridiculous dance moves Dylan kept attempting, and posed for the official formal photos with exaggerated smiles. Throughout it all, I found myself watching Mia.

When the formal began winding down around midnight, guests gradually filtering out toward after-parties or back to dorms, I found myself reluctant to end the evening.

"Do you want to go to the hockey house party?" I asked Mia as we retrieved our coats. "Or we could grab late-night waffles atBrewed Sunshine?"

She looked thoughtful. "Actually, would you mind if we just walked for a bit? It's a beautiful night."

The winter night was surprisingly mild, the sky a clear, deep canvas pricked with stars. We strolled across campus in comfortable silence, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Our breath formed small clouds in the air, but it wasn't cold enough to be uncomfortable.

Without discussion, we found ourselves at the university fountain—the ornate centerpiece of the main quad, lit with subtle blue lights that made the water shimmer like liquid silver. By unspoken agreement, we sat on the wide stone edge, close enough that our shoulders touched.

"I had fun tonight," Mia said after a moment. "More than I expected to."

"Me too," I admitted. "Though I still maintain my dancing wasn't that bad."

She laughed. "It wasn't bad at all. Vanessa clearly underestimated you."

"She underestimated a lot of things," I said, surprised by the lack of bitterness I felt. Just months ago, the breakup had seemed like a major setback, a distraction I couldn't afford with scouts watching. Now it felt distant, inconsequential.

"Like what?" Mia asked, genuinely curious.

I thought for a moment. "Like the fact that relationships aren't just accessories to show off when things are going well. Or that I might actually want someone who understands the pressure I'm under instead of adding to it." I glanced at her profile, illuminated by the fountain's blue light. "Someone who sees me as more than just a hockey player."

She turned to meet my gaze. "What do you want them to see?"

Her question hung between us, heavy with unspoken truths. I couldn’t voice the real answer—that our pretend romance was starting to feel real to me, that I craved her seeing me as more than just a hockey captain or a camera’s subject, or even her stand-in boyfriend.

When a cold breeze swept past, she shivered. On impulse, I slipped my arm around her shoulders. She leaned in without hesitation, fitting perfectly against me as though we’d shared this moment a hundred times before.

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