Page 99 of Faking It For Real

"Same difference," Emma dismissed with a wave. "Anyway, I think it's hilarious. And kind of romantic, in a weird, twisted way." She grinned at me. "You must be pretty special to turn my brother's fake feelings into real ones, Mia."

"Emma," Sandra, Ethan's mother, admonished gently before turning to us. "I appreciate your honesty, both of you. It couldn't have been easy to tell us."

I braced myself for Richard's reaction, expecting disappointment or perhaps lecturing about integrity. Instead, Ethan's father regarded us thoughtfully.

"The beginning of a relationship is irrelevant," he said finally. "It's the middle and end that matter. And from what I've observed, you two have something genuine now." His eyes, so similar to Ethan's, met mine directly. "Mia sees you, son. Really sees you. That's rare."

Ethan's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "I know, Dad. Trust me, I know."

That night, as we drove back to campus in comfortable silence, I found myself marveling at how smoothly our confessions had gone. "Is it weird that telling the truth about our fake relationship somehow made our real relationship feel more solid?" I asked.

Ethan considered this, his profile illuminated by passing streetlights. "Not weird at all," he decided. "It's like we're finally completely honest—with everyone else, but more importantly, with ourselves."

I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Later, curled against him on my small couch watching a movie neither of us was paying attention to, I scribbled a note in my journal:Sometimes the most authentic connections begin with honesty about inauthenticity.

As I drifted off against Ethan's shoulder, I realized we were no longer performing for anyone, not even ourselves. This was just us, real and imperfect and wonderful.

The week after the championship was a whirlwind. While Ethan navigated meetings with agents and fielded calls from NHL teams (thePittsburgh Sealsshowing particular interest), I prepared for my meeting with Samantha Rivers fromSports Illustrations.

The morning of the meeting, I stood before my closet in a panic. "Everything I own looks either too casual or like I'm trying too hard," I lamented as Olivia lounged on my bed, offering unhelpful commentary.

"Wear the black pants with that blue blouse," she suggested, not looking up from her phone. "Professional but not stuffy."

I grabbed the items, grateful for the direction. "What if she hates my portfolio? What if I've built this whole thing up and she takes one look at my work and decides I'm completely mediocre?"

"Then you'll have a mediocre summer and try again next year," Olivia replied pragmatically.

"Your supportive friendship style continues to astound me," I said dryly.

Olivia finally looked up, her expression softening. "Mia, your work is exceptional. You know it, I know it, and Samantha Rivers is about to know it. Stop catastrophizing."

"I'm not catastrophizing, I'm—"

"Preparing for realistic worst-case scenarios?" she finished with a knowing smirk. "That's literally the definition of catastrophizing."

"I hate that you're a psychology minor," I muttered, pulling on the blue blouse.

"You love it," she corrected. "Now go dazzle the sports photography world with your hockey boyfriend emotions series."

The meeting was scheduled at a small gallery near campus where the university's arts showcase was being held. My hands shook slightly as I arranged my portfolio on the table, angling my laptop to display my digital work. When Samantha Rivers swept in—tall, confident, with a no-nonsense aura that immediately commanded respect—I almost knocked over my coffee in my haste to stand.

"Ms. Rivers, thank you for meeting with me," I said, extending my hand and praying it wasn't visibly trembling.

"Samantha, please," she replied with a firm handshake. "And I should be thanking you. When Ethan Wright contacted me about your work, I was intrigued, but after viewing your online portfolio, I was genuinely impressed."

Warmth bloomed in my chest at the thought of Ethan advocating for me.

"Let's see what you've brought," Samantha said, turning to my displayed work.

For the next hour, we went through my portfolio piece by piece. Samantha was thorough and direct, pointing out strengths and suggesting improvements with equal candor. When she reached my hockey emotion series, featuring Ethan and his teammates, she lingered, studying each image with heightened interest.

"This is exceptional work," she said finally. "You've captured the psychological narrative underlying the physical action. That's rare in sports photography, particularly from someone so young."

Pride swelled within me. "Thank you. I was trying to show the humanity behind the sport—the vulnerability beneath the strength."

"You succeeded." She closed my portfolio deliberately. "I'll be direct, Mia. The summer internship atSports Illustrationsis highly competitive. We received over five hundred applications this year."

My heart sank. Here came the gentle letdown.

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