Page 77 of Faking It For Real

There was a long pause before he answered. "The championship game. Scouts. My future."

The weight in his voice made my heart ache. I'd been so caught up in my own confusion about our relationship that I'd almost forgotten the immense pressure he was under. NHL scouts would be at the championship, evaluating not just his playing but his character, his leadership, his worth as an investment.

"Are you nervous?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Terrified," he admitted, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it. "Three teams are sending representatives. Coach says they're all seriously interested. It's everything I've worked for."

"You're going to be amazing," I said with absolute conviction. "I've watched you play. I've seen how hard you work. They'd be idiots not to want you."

He laughed softly, but it held little humor. "If only my father shared your confidence. He's been calling daily with 'suggestions' for improvement."

"Your father is..." I hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of his family.

"A perfectionist? Overly critical? Living vicariously through me?"

"I was going to say 'intensely invested in your success,' but those work too."

His sigh was heavy. "He means well," Ethan said, his voice muffled. "He just... doesn't know how to show support without pointing out every single flaw."

We fell silent for a moment, the weight of that admission settling in the darkness between us.

"Maybe he doesn't see it," I said softly. "But I do. He doesn't realize how incredible you actually are on the ice, Ethan."

His movement stilled. "You really think that?"

"Yes," I insisted gently. "I've been watching you for weeks. I see how much longer you stay practicing after everyone else leaves. I see the intelligence in how you read the game, how you think two steps ahead. And I see how much every single shift means to you."

There was another pause, longer this time. "Thank you," he said, his voice softer now. "For seeing that."

The dam seemed to break after that. We continued talking in the darkness, our voices low and hushed, sharing vulnerabilities shielded by the night. He spoke of the constant, crushing pressure of being Richard Wright’s son, how the joy of hockey had slowly curdled into obligation somewhere in his teens. In turn, I shared my own anxieties—the gnawing fear about the shrinking job market for photographers, the constant hum of worry about money that shadowed my whole college experience.

In that dark room, with the pillow wall between us, we were more honest than we'd ever been in daylight.

At some point, our hands found each other in the narrow gap between pillows. His fingers intertwined with mine, warm, strong and reassuring.

He then moved closer and leaned in for a kiss, initiated hesitantly in the darkness. It wasn’t the frantic energy of the maintenance alcove or the deliberate statement of the formal night. This felt like acceptance, a quiet acknowledgment of the feelings we’d both tried so hard to deny.

His lips moved against mine, slow and searching, tasting me as if for the first time. My hands found their way beneath his t-shirt, palms flattening against the smooth, warm skin of his back. The crisp, cold air outside made the heat radiating from him seem even more intense. I moved a hand onto his chest, feeling the muscles shift beneath my touch.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. "Mia," he murmured, his voice low and intimate in the darkness. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I breathed, the word catching slightly. There was no pretense left.

We moved slowly, unhurriedly. Undressing each other beneath the heavy duvet became a sensual exploration in itself. His fingers fumbled slightly with the buttons on my thermal top, the friction against my skin sending little sparks through me. I helped him, easing the fabric off my shoulders. When his knuckles brushed against the side of my boob, I shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation. I worked his shirt up over his head, my fingers lingering on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

Skin met skin in the warm cocoon of the blankets. He pulled me closer, my bare breasts pressing against his chest, my leg tangling with his. We just lay there for a moment, wrapped in the quiet intimacy, listening to the soft sounds of each other’s breathing, the faint scent of his soap mingling with the smell of pine from the cabin logs.

His hand began a slow journey down my body, stroking my side, dipping into the curve of my waist, learning my shape by touch in the near-darkness. His hand brushed across my ass, sending a wave of heat pooling low in my belly. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear, nuzzling, tasting. Soft sighs escaped my lips as his lips trailed lower, charting a course across my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts.

"You're so soft," he whispered against my skin.

I arched into his touch, my own hands exploring him, bolder now, rediscovering the hard lines and smooth skin. My fingers traced the waistband of his pajama bottoms, hesitating slightly before slipping beneath the elastic, seeking him out. He sucked in a sharp breath when my fingers closed around his cock, already thick and hard against my palm. He felt impossibly smooth and hot.

"Mia," he groaned, his hips giving an involuntary buck.

Encouraged, I stroked him slowly, learning his length, the way his dick pulsed under my touch. Meanwhile, his mouth continued its devastating exploration, kissing a path down my stomach, dipping his tongue into my navel. My breath hitched when his fingers found my wet pussy, parting me gently. He stroked me there, fingers slipping inside my folds, finding me slick and ready.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, his thumb finding my clit and circling it slowly, deliberately.

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