Page 94 of Faking It For Real

"But you're considering it," she said, reading me too well as usual. "Which means you're considering forgiving him."

"Maybe," I admitted. "He kept his promise aboutSports Illustrations, even after everything. And his letter was honest. No excuses, just explanation."

"And he brought your favorite Thai food," Olivia added with a small smile. "The boy knows your weakness."

I couldn't help smiling back. "True."

In my room, I pulled out my photo portfolio, flipping through the hockey emotion series that had won the showcase award. Images of Ethan throughout the season—focused in practice, triumphant after goals, frustrated after losses, quiet in moments of preparation.

My favorite was a shot I'd taken when he didn't know I was watching. He was sitting alone on the bench after everyone else had left, still in partial gear, head tipped back as he stared at the ceiling with an expression of such raw vulnerability that it almost hurt to look at it. The mighty hockey captain, momentarily unguarded, letting the weight of expectations show on his face.

That was the real Ethan Wright—not just the confident leader or the skilled player, but the person beneath who carried the burden of others' dreams alongside his own.

Chapter 22: Ethan

The harsh buzz of my alarm pulled me from the deepest sleep I'd had in weeks. I blinked at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar pre-game anxiety to hit me like a freight train. Instead, a strange calm washed over me. Today was the championship—the culmination of years of training, the moment NHL scouts would be watching my every move, the pinnacle of my college hockey career—and yet I felt oddly at peace.

"You're up," Dylan's voice came from my doorway. He stood there, unusually subdued, a mug of coffee extended toward me. "Made it extra strong. Figured you'd need it."

I sat up, accepting the scalding mug. "Thanks, man."

"How are you feeling?" His question carried the weight of everything unsaid between us—the pressure, the expectations, the scouts, Mia.

"Surprisingly okay," I admitted. "Like, actually okay. Not just saying it."

Dylan studied me for a long moment before nodding. "Good. That's good." He hesitated. "Did things work out with Mia? Last night, I mean."

The memory of our conversation brought an involuntary smile to my face. "Not completely. But we talked. Really talked."

"And?"

“Nothing’s fixed, but it isn’t broken either.” I lifted the coffee to my lips, letting its bitter warmth clear the last of my fog. “I asked her to come to the game. Wearing my jersey.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s huge. I hope she shows up.”

“Me too,” I murmured.

The arena hummed with an energy I'd never felt before. Standing in the tunnel leading to the ice, I could feel the vibrations of stomping feet, the thunderous chants ofWolvesechoing through the concrete. Coach Alvarez paced before us, his usual stoic demeanor replaced by an intensity that mirrored our own.

"Listen up," he called, and the pre-game chatter died instantly. We huddled around him, a mass of nervous energy and adrenaline. "I've coached for twenty-seven years. Never had a team like this one."

His voice caught, surprising me. Coach wasn't one for sentimentality.

"You boys have given everything. Left it all on the ice, practice after practice, game after game. Some of you played through injuries you shouldn't have." He glanced at Tyler, our goalie, who'd kept his sprained wrist secret for three games. "Some of you sacrificed your social lives, your sleep, your grades—though let's not tell the academic board about that last one."

A ripple of laughter broke the tension.

"Today isn't about proving anything to me. You've already done that. It's not about proving anything to those scouts up there, or your families, or that crowd." Coach's eyes found mine briefly. "It's about proving something to yourselves. That everything you've poured into this sport, into this team—it was worth it."

He paused, looking at each of us.

"Now get out there and play like you've got nothing to lose and everything to gain."

We erupted into hollers and cheers, thumping our sticks against the floor, the sound reverberating through the tunnel. As team captain, I was first in line to hit the ice. The roar that greeted us as we skated out for warm-ups was deafening, a wall of sound that physical hit me in the chest.

I circled the ice, loosening my muscles, trying to stay in that calm headspace I'd woken with. As we ran through our warm-up drills, I scanned the packed stands, searching for one specific face.

The press platform was elevated above the regular seating, giving photographers and journalists a clear view of the entire ice. My eyes locked onto a familiar figure, and my heart stuttered awkwardly in my chest.

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