Page 59 of Faking It For Real

"You heard me." She narrowed her eyes, a perfect miniature version of Ethan's intimidating captain stare. "Ethan doesn't date much, and when he does, the girls are usually just interested in the hockey star thing. So what's your deal?"

I found myself oddly touched by her protective attitude. "My 'deal' is that I like your brother," I said honestly. "Not just the hockey player, but the person."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. "Good answer. He likes you too, you know. Like, really likes you."

"Did he tell you that?" I asked, my heart beating a little faster despite myself.

"He didn't have to," she rolled her eyes. "The way he talks about you is different. Plus, he's been weirdly happy lately. It's kind of gross but also nice, I guess."

I smiled at her assessment. "He makes me happy too."

The words slipped out before I could censor them, and I was startled by their simple truth.

"Cool," Emma pronounced, her interrogation apparently complete. "Want to see embarrassing baby pictures of him?"

"Absolutely," I grinned.

By the time we rejoined the others for dinner, Emma had thoroughly briefed me on Ethan's childhood mishaps and I had gained a dedicated ally in the Wrights’ household. Dinner itself was delicious—a traditional holiday spread that Sandra had clearly spent hours preparing—but the conversation was dominated by Richard's hockey stories and pointed questions about Ethan's recent practices.

"Coach Alvarez tells me you've been hesitating on your left-side shots," Richard commented between bites of turkey. "Says you're overthinking instead of acting on instinct."

Ethan's fork paused momentarily on its way to his mouth. "I've been working on it," he said evenly. "My accuracy has improved."

"Accuracy means nothing if you miss your window of opportunity," Richard countered. "Hockey is about split-second decisions. Remember that game in your sophomore year? You had the perfect shot but hesitated, trying to aim, and by then the defenseman was on you."

I watched Ethan shrink slightly under his father's criticism, his shoulders tensing, confidence visibly dimming. My protective instincts flared.

"Ethan's left-side shots looked pretty decisive in the last game," I interjected. "The paper even featured one of my photos of his goal—perfect form, no hesitation."

Richard's attention swiveled to me, surprise evident in his expression. "You follow the technical aspects that closely?"

"I've learned a lot about hockey these past few months," I said with a small smile. "Especially watching Ethan. His awareness on the ice is incredible—it's like he sees plays unfolding seconds before they actually happen."

To my surprise, Ethan jumped in. "Mia's developed an incredible eye for the game. Her photography captures aspects of hockey most people miss entirely." He turned to his father. "The university paper did a feature spread with her photos last week. The athletic department's talking about commissioning her for official team portraits next season."

The pride in his voice seemed genuine, warming me from the inside out as he pulled out his phone to show his father the recent feature. Richard examined the photos with obvious interest, his expression softening slightly.

"You have a good eye," he conceded, looking up at me. "These capture the speed and physicality well."

"Thank you," I said, pleased by the compliment. "I'm still learning, but Ethan's been a patient teacher."

"Photography is just a hobby though, right?" Richard asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer. "What's your actual career plan?"

"Photography is my career plan," I corrected gently. "I'm currently in sports photography with the hope of working for major publications eventually."

Richard made a noncommittal sound. "Tough field to make a living in. Lots of competition, not many staff positions these days."

"Dad," Ethan's voice carried a warning.

"I'm just being realistic," Richard defended. "Creative fields are unstable. It's important to have a backup plan."

"Mia has more talent and determination than most people I know," Ethan said, his hand finding mine under the table.

I squeezed his hand gratefully, touched by his defense. The conversation gradually shifted to safer topics, though I remained acutely aware of the pressure Ethan faced in this household. Every hockey reference seemed loaded with expectation, every question from his father a potential evaluation.

After dinner, Emma volunteered to help clear the table while Sandra fetched old photo albums at my request. We gathered in the living room, Ethan groaning good-naturedly as his mother displayed his childhood memories.

"Please tell me we're not doing the embarrassing baby photo routine," he pleaded.

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