Page 88 of Faking It For Real

He studied me, cup hovering. “But they all had the same question—where was the fire? Yesterday, you treated the semifinal like just another box to tick.”

I glanced down. “I was focused on the win.”

His voice softened. “Focus wins games. But championships? They’re won with heart. With joy. Remember why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.”

I met his gaze. “I do love it.”

He gave my shoulder a firm, encouraging squeeze. “Then let it show out there. Rest up, Wright—the finals are waiting for the real you.”

Back at our apartment, I pushed open the door to find Dylan at the stove—pan sizzling, spatula in hand—an almost unheard-of sight.

“Don’t look so stunned,” he said, flipping what might soon be an omelet. “Even I can master basic fire control.”

“Sure looks more like controlled chaos,” I teased. “Science experiment meets breakfast.”

He jabbed the spatula in my direction. “Mockery isn’t part of today’s menu. Sit before I turn you into a side of hash browns.”

I laughed and slid onto the stool. Dylan scooped the scrambled remnants onto two plates and slid one across.

“Eat up,” he ordered. “You look one practice skate away from zombieland.”

I took a tentative bite. “Actually… not bad.”

“High praise,” he smirked, watching me. “But seriously—when was the last time you slept? You’ve got eye bags under eye bags.”

I shrugged. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a caffeine.”

“Right.” Dylan set down his fork and leaned forward, voice low. “Look, finals are on the horizon. You’ve busted your ass to get here, but you’re still stuck in neutral—especially with Mia.”

My fork froze. “But what can I do?”

“You promised to help her with thatSports Illustrationsconnection, right? Have you even tried?”

I shook my head. “I… haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Then start there. That’s step one.” He said leaning in. “Fix the one thing you can control before you hit the ice again. And please—shower first. You’re not exactly making a strong case for rookie of the year right now.”

After finishing our breakfast, Dylan ducked out for class, and I found myself staring at my phone with Samantha Rivers’ contact on the screen. My dad’s old college friend, editor at SI. Would she remember me? Would she take my recommendation?

Only one way to find out. I hit “call.”

“Hello, Samantha Rivers speaking.”

“Ms. Rivers, hi—Ethan Wright here, Richard Wright’s son.”

“Ethan! Just spoke to your dad—heard about your semifinal victory. Congratulations on your spot in the finals.”

“Thanks. It was a team effort.”

“Always modest. So, what can I do for you?”

I drew a breath. “I’m calling because I want to recommend someone for your internship program—a photographer named Mia Navarro. She’s been documenting our season, capturing every emotion on the ice.”

There was a pause. “We get thousands of applicants, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “But her work is on another level. She doesn't just take pictures; she captures the story—the raw grit, the real passion.”

Another thoughtful silence. “Is there a way I can view her work?”

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