Page 60 of Faking It For Real

"We absolutely are," I confirmed cheerfully. "Emma already gave me a preview, but I need the full experience."

The albums were revealing in ways beyond mere embarrassment. I traced Ethan's progression through the years—from a joyful child with a gap-toothed smile to an increasingly serious young man. Hockey appeared in nearly every photo: Ethan in oversized gear as a toddler, Ethan receiving trophies, Ethan on various teams with his father often in the background, looking on with expressions ranging from pride to critical assessment.

What surprised me most, however, were the non-hockey photos tucked between team shots. A young Ethan with paint-covered hands, proudly displaying a colorful abstract canvas. Ethan focused intently on a detailed drawing of the family home. Ethan beside a blue ribbon-winning sketch at what appeared to be a school art show.

"You never told me you were an artist," I said, genuinely surprised.

Sandra smiled wistfully. "He was quite talented. His elementary art teacher wanted him to attend a specialized summer program for gifted young artists."

"It wasn't a big deal," Ethan dismissed, looking uncomfortable. "Just a kid's hobby."

"These are really good, Ethan," I insisted, examining a detailed sketch of a hockey arena that showed remarkable perspective and shading for a twelve-year-old. "Do you still draw?"

"No time," he said with a shrug. "Hockey keeps me busy."

But I caught something in his expression that made me wonder if there was more to the story.

Later, when we'd been shown to the guest room (after Sandra insisted we take separate rooms, with Emma rolling her eyes dramatically at her mother's pretense), I brought it up again.

"Tell me about the art," I said softly, sitting cross-legged on the bed as Ethan leaned against the dresser. "You clearly had a passion for it."

He was quiet for a long time.

"I loved it," he finally admitted, his voice low. "Drawing, painting—it was the one thing that was just for me, not connected to hockey or my dad's expectations. It was...freeing."

"Why did you stop?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't a conscious decision at first. Hockey schedules got more demanding, traveling for tournaments took up weekends I used to spend drawing. By high school, it was clear where my future was supposed to be."

"But did you want to keep creating art?"

"It doesn't matter what I wanted," he said with a resignation that broke my heart. "Hockey was the path. The family legacy. My ticket to a secure future."

I moved to stand in front of him, taking both his hands in mine. "It matters to me, what you wanted. What you still want."

His eyes met mine, vulnerability evident in their blue depths. "Sometimes I miss it," he confessed. "The quiet focus, the way time disappears when you're creating something from nothing. It's the closest I get to that feeling on the ice, those rare seconds when everything is seamless, effortless flow."

"You could pick it up again," I suggested. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe. After the season."

"After the season," I echoed, the phrase carrying different implications for each of us. For him, hopefully NHL draft selection. For me, a potential career opportunity. For us together—well, that remained undefined.

Later, after sneaking a sweet, lingering goodnight kiss that would have scandalized Sandra, I laid down on my bed. As I drifted toward sleep, I kept thinking about the artistic side of Ethan I'd discovered tonight—the creative, sensitive person beneath the hockey armor.

Christmas morning brought a surprisingly relaxed breakfast, with Richard distracted by football pre-game coverage and Sandra fussing over a cinnamon roll recipe that had apparently been in her family for generations. After eating, we gathered in the living room to exchange gifts, the traditional Wright family Christmas carols playing softly in the background.

I was touched by their thoughtfulness—Sandra gave me a beautiful scarf, noting that "Ethan mentioned you're always cold at the rink," while Emma presented me with a hand-decorated photo frame. Even Richard's gift—a book of classic sports photography—showed consideration for my interests.

When Ethan opened my gift—the leather notebook with the embossed hockey player—the immediate, genuine pleasure that lit up his face washed away all my earlier deliberation. Watching him trace the figure on the cover with his fingertips, a slow, warm smile spreading across his lips, I knew I'd gotten it right.

"This is perfect," he said, meeting my eyes with warmth that made my heart flutter. "Thank you."

"I thought you could use it for game strategies or..." I hesitated, "Or maybe sketches, if you ever feel like drawing again."

His smile deepened. "Maybe I will."

Finally, Ethan handed me a small, carefully wrapped package. "It's not much," he said with uncharacteristic nervousness. "But I thought you might like it."

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