Page 74 of Faking It For Real

I took a grateful sip, letting the spiced warmth spread through me. "This is such a mess. What am I supposed to do? Once hockey season ends and I get my portfolio together..."

"Then what?" she challenged. "You shake hands and go your separate ways? After meeting each other's families? After whatever's clearly happening between you?"

"That was the plan," I sighed, watching the team through my viewfinder as they ascended on the chairlift. Ethan's laughing face filled my frame, completely at ease in this environment. "But now..."

"Now you're in trouble," Olivia finished for me, reclaiming her cup. "Welcome to the club."

I turned to her, eyebrows raised. "The club?"

"The 'Accidentally Falling for Someone I Was Determined to Dislike' Club," she elaborated, avoiding my eyes. "Membership: currently two."

"Oh my god," I gasped, realization dawning. "You and Dylan?"

"There is no 'me and Dylan,'" she denied vehemently, though the blush creeping up her neck told a different story. "Just... maybe he's not the entitled jock stereotype I assumed he was. And maybe we've been texting. A little."

I laughed, genuinely delighted by this development. "Olivia, champion of academic integrity and sworn enemy of athlete favoritism, texting a hockey player. This is the best day of my life."

She elbowed me sharply. "Shut up. It's nothing. And we were talking about your problems, not mine."

"My problems can wait. This is much more interesting."

We spent the rest of the afternoon exchanging confidences, watching the team's antics from a distance, and taking turns with my camera. By the time everyone reconvened for dinner at the main lodge, I felt lighter, knowing I wasn't alone in my complicated feelings.

The lodge's restaurant was transformed for dinner, with twinkling lights strung across wooden beams and candles flickering on every table. The team had pushed several tables together to create one long dining area, with Coach and his wife at one end and the rest of us scattered along the sides. Ethan had saved me a seat beside him, his hair still damp from a post-skiing shower, smelling of pine-scented soap.

"Have fun today?" he asked as I slid into my chair.

"More than expected," I admitted. "Though I'm already feeling muscles I didn't know existed."

"Wait until tomorrow," he grinned. "Day Two is when the real pain sets in."

"Sadist."

"Realist."

Dinner was a lively affair, with everyone talking over each other to share stories of their day's adventures and misadventures. Coach Alvarez seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen him, laughing openly at the team's banter and holding his wife's hand on the table. Even the rookies, usually quiet around the older players, joined in the storytelling.

I found myself watching more than participating, cataloging the dynamics like I would through my camera lens: the easy brotherhood between players who spent most of their time competing against each other; the way some referenced inside jokes with nothing more than a raised eyebrow; how even in this relaxed setting, they all looked to Ethan when opinions were divided, naturally deferring to his leadership.

"You're staring," Ethan murmured, his lips close to my ear.

"Observing," I corrected. "It's different."

"What are you observing, then?"

I turned to face him, suddenly aware of our proximity. "How different you are here. Relaxed. Like you can breathe."

Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes before he masked it. "It's the mountain air. Does wonders for the lungs."

But I had seen it – that fleeting admission in his eyes, confirming I'd touched something real. Before I could delve deeper, Tyler stood, tapping his glass with a spoon to get everyone's attention.

"Since we're all fed and watered," he announced, "it's time for the real reason we come to ski weekend: embarrassing party games in the main cabin."

The team erupted in cheers while Coach Alvarez shook his head with fond exasperation. "Just remember we're back on the slopes at 9 AM tomorrow," he warned. "Hangovers are not an excuse for missing team activities."

As we made our way back to the cabins, snow began to fall in large, lazy flakes that caught in Ethan's dark hair and on his eyelashes. Without thinking, I reached up to brush one from his cheek, the gesture unexpectedly intimate.

His eyes met mine, wide with surprise, and I quickly dropped my hand. "Sorry. Photographer's instinct. Everything looks like a potential shot."

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