Page 96 of Faking It For Real

In that crucial moment, I wasn't thinking about scouts or my father or even the championship. I was completely present, feeling the weight of the puck on my stick, calculating angles and possibilities. I faked a forehand shot, drawing the goalie to his right, then quickly shifted to my backhand, lifting the puck just as he realized his mistake.

The puck sailed into the upper corner of the net just as the buzzer sounded.

For a heartbeat, there was silence—that surreal pause as thousands of people processed what they'd just witnessed. Then the arena exploded. My teammates crashed into me from all directions, a tangle of limbs and sticks and euphoric shouts. I was lifted onto shoulders, the crowd's roar a physical presence surrounding us.

Through it all, through the chaos and noise and motion, my eyes sought the press platform. Mia stood, camera still raised, capturing the moment. Even from a distance, I could see her smile—wide, genuine, blindingly bright. That smile was everything.

The locker room was bedlam. Champagne sprayed in all directions, soaking everyone and everything. Teammates screamed themselves hoarse, hugging and laughing and crying without shame. Coach Alvarez moved through the crowd, embracing each player, his usual stern demeanor completely abandoned.

Several scouts approached me with congratulations and business cards, conversations to be continued. Their presence, which had weighed so heavily on me all season, now seemed almost incidental.

"Ethan." My father's voice cut through the celebration as he worked his way through the crowd. Richard had somehow gained access to the locker room, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and what appeared to be genuine pride—an expression I'd rarely seen directed at me.

"Dad." I accepted his fierce hug, bracing for the inevitable critique that would follow the congratulations.

"That was—" He pulled back, gripping my shoulders, eyes bright. "That was brilliant, son. Absolutely brilliant. The winning goal, the way you set up that tying shot, your leadership on the ice..." His voice swelled with emotion. "I couldn't be prouder."

For a moment, I just stared at him, waiting for the "but" that always followed his praise. The observation about how I'd hesitated on that backhand pass in the second period, or how I could have been more aggressive on the penalty kill.

And it came—just a flicker across his face, the beginning of an ingrained critical habit. But then something shifted in his expression. He caught himself, looking at my face, and deliberately changed course.

"You were magnificent out there," he said firmly. "Everything I always knew you could be."

The simple, unqualified praise nearly undid me. "Thanks, Dad. That...that means a lot."

We were interrupted by Coach Alvarez, who clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Hell of a game, Ethan. Hell of a season." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "There are scouts, media, and family all waiting for you outside." A slight smile crossed his face. "But there might be someone specific you'd want to see first."

He inclined his head toward a side door, his expression knowing. "Maybe take a minute before the circus really begins."

Understanding dawned, and gratitude washed through me. I slipped away from the celebration, through the indicated door, and into a quiet service hallway.

And there she was—Mia, still in my jersey, her camera hanging around her neck. She stood awkwardly, as if unsure of her welcome in this space. For a heartbeat, we simply looked at each other across the empty hallway.

Then I closed the distance between us in three long strides, lifting her in a spinning hug before setting her down gently. Her surprised laugh was the sweetest sound I'd heard all day.

"You were amazing," she said, eyes bright with excitement. "Absolutely amazing. I got the perfect shot of your goal—your face when the puck went in—it was just..." She trailed off, shaking her head in wordless appreciation.

"You wore my jersey," I said quietly, reaching out to touch the fabric draped over her shoulder.

She glanced down, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "I did. It helped, actually. Reminded me what matters."

"What matters?" I echoed, stepping closer.

"You," she said simply. "Not the hockey star, not the guy with NHL prospects. Just you."

The world narrowed to just the two of us, standing close in the empty hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs, harder than it had during any moment of the game.

"Mia," I began, but she surprised me by rising on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to mine—not a performance, not for anyone watching, just a real kiss born of real feelings.

When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against hers, unwilling to put any more distance between us than absolutely necessary. "I want to do this for real," I whispered. "No arrangement, no pretending. Just us."

Her smile was answer enough, but she nodded and whispered back, "Just us."

"I love you," she said, the words both terrifying and perfect. "I didn't plan to, but I do."

My heart expanded impossibly in my chest. "I love you too. Probably since you stepped onto my ice and nearly killed us both."

"I did not nearly kill—" she began indignantly, but I silenced her with another kiss, longer and deeper than the first, pouring everything I couldn't yet articulate into the connection between us.

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