Page 85 of Faking It For Real

An hour later, we were sprawled on the couch, an empty ice cream container between us, watching a mindless reality dating show where the drama seemed tame compared to my own life. My phone had finally stopped buzzing with Ethan's attempts to contact me.

"You know what the worst part is?" I said during a commercial break. "I actually thought he was starting to have real feelings for me too. Especially after the ski trip."

Olivia muted the TV. "What exactly happened on that trip, Mia? You've been weirdly vague about it."

I felt my cheeks warm. "Nothing, really. We shared a room, but that was just logistics."

"Uh-huh," she said skeptically. "And?"

I sighed, giving up. "And... well, there was kissing. A lot of kissing." I hesitated, then plunged. "And sex." My face found the nearest pillow, voice muffled. "And this wasn't the first time."

"Oh, Mia." Olivia's voice softened slightly, though still tinged with 'I told you so.' "I knew something was up. You were practically levitating after that trip. No wonder you seem so... lost now."

"I'm not lost," I insisted, turning my head slightly. "I'm just... frustrated. With myself. I knew what this was supposed to be. I'm the idiot who went and made it complicated by catching feelings."

Olivia shook her head. "Takes two to tango, Mia. Ethan's been looking at you like you hung the moon for weeks now. Something real was happening there, whether he wants to admit it or not."

I sighed, too exhausted to argue. "It doesn't matter now."

"So what are you going to do?" Olivia asked.

"Sleep, hopefully," I said, standing up. "And tomorrow, I'll be the consummate professional. I'll photograph the game, fulfill my assignment for the paper, and move on."

Olivia looked skeptical but didn't push. "Alright. But if you need me to accidentally spill something on him during the game, just give me the signal."

I managed a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

In my room, I finally listened to Ethan's voicemail:"Mia, it's me. Look, what Vanessa was saying—it's not true. I mean, yes, it started that way, but things changed. I changed. Please call me back."

His voice sounded strained, desperate even. For a moment, I was tempted to call him back. But what was the point? Tomorrow was the semifinals—his big moment with the scouts. The last thing he needed was more emotional complications.

And the last thing I needed was more confusion about where we stood.

I sent a single text in response:

I need some space. I'll be at the game tomorrow to do my job for the paper. We can be professional about this. Good luck with the semifinals.

Then I turned off my phone and crawled into bed, hugging a pillow to my chest as silent tears slid down my cheeks.

Morning came too soon, my eyes swollen and my head pounding from a night of fitful sleep. I forced myself through my routine: shower, coffee, equipment check. Today was about my job, not my broken heart.

When I turned my phone back on, there were more texts from Ethan, but I ignored them. Instead, I focused on a message from my photography professor:

Mia - Looking forward to seeing your hockey emotion series at next week's showcase. The selection committee is particularly interested in your perspective on athletics and vulnerability. Good luck capturing the semifinals today!

Right. The University Arts showcase. In all the drama, I'd almost forgotten about submitting my hockey series. The photos I'd taken of Ethan over the past months, tracking the emotional journey of an athlete under pressure. The project had become intensely personal, more revealing than I'd initially intended.

Now I wondered if I could even finish it. If I could look through my lens at Ethan today and see anything but my own hurt reflected back.

Stepping into the rink, I was met by a roar of excitement—the semifinals had turned the stands into a living sea of team colors, chants echoing off the rafters. I cut through the surge of hockey fans toward the press area, offering quick nods to the photographers I’d grown familiar with over the season.

"Big game today," remarked Bill from the local paper. "Your boyfriend ready for the scouts?"

I winced internally but kept my expression neutral. "Ethan's always ready," I replied, busying myself with my camera settings to avoid further conversation.

TheWolvestook the ice for warm-ups, and despite my resolve, my eyes immediately found Ethan. He looked focused, intense, skating with fluid precision as he led the team through drills. If he was affected by last night's events, it didn't show in his performance.

But through my lens, I caught the details others might miss—the tightness around his eyes, the slightly clenched jaw, the way he scanned the sidelines until he spotted me. Our eyes met briefly before I lowered my camera, my heart thumping painfully in my chest.

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