Page 3 of Faking It For Real

"Worth it," muttered Sanchez, our left wing.

"Hey, Wright," called Reyes from across the room. "Did you hear about the photographer?"

I looked up from unlacing my skates. "What photographer?"

"The university paper's sending someone to cover our season," Tyler explained. "Their regular guy broke his leg doing some skateboarding stunt."

"Great," I muttered. Just what we needed—more people watching, more pressure.

"Speaking of watching," Dylan said, dropping his voice as he sat beside me, "the scout seemed impressed. I overheard him talking to Coach about your 'exceptional spatial awareness,' whatever the hell that means."

"It means I know where the puck is going before it goes there," I replied, but I couldn't help the small flicker of satisfaction. Exceptional. I'd take it.

"Party at the hockey house this weekend," announced Jackson, our defenseman. "Everyone's expected to attend and behave...inappropriately."

A chorus of approval went around the room. I stayed quiet. Parties meant drinking, drinking meant lowered inhibitions, and lowered inhibitions meant potential disasters that scouts might hear about.

"Count me out," I said, pulling on my sweatshirt.

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Dude, you need to relax. One party won't kill your NHL dreams."

"It might if Vanessa shows up," Tyler pointed out, unhelpfully.

"All the more reason to skip it," I said.

Dylan stepped in front of me, crossing his arms. "Ethan. Brother. Best friend. Light of my life."

"What?"

"You need to chill before you snap. All work and no play makes Ethan a dull NHL prospect."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're so tightly wound that I'm worried one day I'll come home to find you've just spontaneously combusted and left a pile of hockey gear and protein powder on the floor."

I shoved him away. "Shut up."

"And speaking of Vanessa," Tyler said carefully. "She was asking about you in my Political Science class yesterday."

My good mood evaporated. "What did she want?"

Tyler shrugged. "The usual. Whether you were seeing anyone. If you ever mentioned her. If you seemed... I don't know, 'open to reconciliation' was the phrase she used."

"Jesus," I muttered.

"Want my advice?" Tyler offered.

"Not particularly."

"Find someone new," he said anyway. "Seriously. Nothing keeps an ex away like seeing you happy with someone else."

"I don't have time for relationships right now," I said firmly. "The season, the draft—it's all that matters."

"Whatever you say, Captain." Tyler didn't look convinced. None of them did.

Back at our apartment that evening, I was reviewing game footage on my laptop when Dylan emerged from his room, hair wet from the shower, wearing what appeared to be pajama pants with cartoon tacos on them.

"Dude, seriously?" He gestured at my screen. "It's been like twelve hours of hockey today. Give it a rest."

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