Page 87 of Faking It For Real

What I did notice was Mia, moving along the boards with her camera. She was keeping her distance, professional and focused.

"Ethan! Are you listening?" Coach's sharp voice cut through my thoughts.

"Yes, sir. Defensive pressure on their right wing, watch for the cross-ice pass."

He narrowed his eyes, not entirely convinced. "Get your head in the game, Wright. We need all of you out there, not just your body going through the motions."

By the final buzzer of the semifinals, we’d secured a 3–1 victory—and punched our ticket to the championship game. The rink exploded in celebration: helmets soaring, gloves sailing, bodies colliding in hugs and high-fives. I threw my arms around teammates, hoisted sticks in triumph, and grinned for every camera in sight.

Still, part of me scanned the crowd for Mia, hoping she’d step forward for a post-game quote or photo. She didn’t. Instead, I caught her slipping her gear into its bag, head down, intent on disappearing without a word.

“Great game, son.” Coach Alvarez’s hand settled on my shoulder. I turned to see pride mixed with concern in his eyes. “You played smart—conservative, but effective.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

He studied me, brow furrowed. “The scouts loved your technical skill. But they saw what I saw.”

I braced myself. “What’s that?”

“You played like a machine today—precise, yes, but without heart.” He crossed his arms.

A spark of defensiveness flared. “Hey, we won. We’re heading to the finals.”

Coach gave a small nod. “Exactly. You got us here. But there’s a difference between winning and winning in a way that makes every early-morning skate and late-night drill feel worthwhile. Today felt like sacrifice without joy. Remember that before you hit the ice in the championship.”

With that, he moved off to congratulate the rest of the team, leaving me amid the jubilation, his words echoing in my ears as we celebrated our passage to the biggest game of the season.

The victory party at the hockey house was in full swing—music thumping, chants erupting, beers raised high. I drifted through the crowd, accepted congratulations, smiled for photos. But inside, I felt oddly distant.

“Dude, you just led us to the finals,” Dylan said, materializing at my side with two cold beers. “You could at least pretend to be happy about it.”

I took the beer. “I am happy.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “You look like you’re at your own funeral. I get you’re hung up on Mia—but you’re one win away from a championship. Maybe enjoy that for five minutes before you vanish into a black hole?”

“Hey, I’m not brooding,” I protested—but even as I said it, I realized I’d been leaning against the wall, checking my phone every thirty seconds for a text that wasn’t coming.

Dylan rolled his eyes and took a long swig. “Did you notice the scouts from three pro teams were circling Coach all night, raving about you?”

“I did,” I admitted, though each compliment felt strangely hollow. “It’s just… a lot to process.”

He softened, clapped me on the back. “I get it, man. But we still have the championship to win. Why don’t you head home, get some rest? We’ve still got one more win to get.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Dylan. I think I will.”

Back at our apartment, the quiet was a balm after the party’s chaos. I showered, scrubbed until my skin prickled, hoping to wash away the emptiness that refused to leave. We’d won the semifinals 3–1, secured our spot in the championship— the biggest game of my life, just days away—and yet I felt as if something essential had slipped through my fingers.

Wrapped in a towel, I wiped steam from the mirror and stared at the reflection: team captain, likely NHL draftee, one step from glory… and utterly alone.

The next morning, Coach Alvarez steered us into a special drill session—finals prep. My legs still trembled from yesterday’s battle, but it was the hollowness in my chest I couldn’t skate away.

As the final whistle blew and the team trickled toward the locker room, Coach waited at the boards with two steaming mugs. “Wright,” he called, voice steady. “A word.”

I skated over, bracing for critique.

He handed me a mug. “Scouts from all three teams were on the line this morning. They loved your split-second reads, your composure under pressure. They’re eager to see you in the finals.”

I nodded around the rim. “Thanks.”

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