Page 19 of Faking It For Real

"By all means, continue your thrilling hockey monk existence." Dylan headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and I may have mentioned the party to the newspaper staff. For, you know, community coverage."

I looked up sharply. "The newspaper staff? As in—"

"Gotta go! Class! Learning! Education!" Dylan disappeared before I could throw something at him.

Great. A Halloween party with the entire hockey team, an unknown number of random students, and now the newspaper staff—which would inevitably include Mia Navarro and her nosy roommate. Just what I needed before our crucial game against Denver the following week.

But I'd already agreed, and Wright men didn't go back on their word. Even when their idiotic best friends set them up for disaster.

Halloween night arrived with the hockey house already transformed into what could only be described as a fire marshal's nightmare. Orange and black streamers hung from every possible surface, fake cobwebs clung to corners, and someone had set up a fog machine that was making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.

"Low-key, huh?" I muttered to Dylan, who was dressed as what appeared to be a zombie pirate, complete with fake blood and an eye patch.

"This is low-key," he insisted. "I restrained myself enormously. Do you see any live animals or flaming objects? No? That's restraint, my friend."

I adjusted the jersey I'd worn as my minimal-effort "zombie hockey player" costume. A bit of Dylan's fake blood on my face and a torn jersey were as far as I was willing to go, despite my roommate's protests that I was "disrespecting the sanctity of Halloween."

The party was already in full swing, with music pulsing through speakers and what seemed like half the student body crammed into the house. I recognized faces from classes, other athletic teams, and various campus organizations. So much for "just the team and a few friends."

"Drink?" Dylan offered, holding out a red cup.

"I'm good," I declined. "Scout from Toronto confirmed for Tuesday's game. Need to stay sharp."

"One beer won't dull your precious hockey skills," Dylan argued, but he didn't push it. He knew my stance on drinking during the season. "At least try to look like you're having fun. Captain's duty to set the tone, right?"

He had a point. I pasted on what I hoped was a convincing approximation of enjoyment and began circulating through the party, accepting congratulations on our recent wins and deflecting questions about NHL prospects with practiced non-answers.

As I was cornered by an enthusiastic freshman from my Economics class who wanted to discuss the Wolves' power play strategy in excruciating detail, I spotted her across the room. Mia, dressed as what looked like a witch, her camera in hand as she photographed the party for the university paper. The sleek black dress she wore was a far cry from her usual jeans and oversized sweaters, accentuating curves I'd tried very hard not to notice during practices and games.

She was smiling as she reviewed a shot on her camera, and I found myself staring, caught off guard by how different she looked away from the rink—softer somehow, more approachable. I quickly averted my gaze when she looked up, not wanting to be caught looking at her.

I excused myself from the hockey-obsessed freshman and made my way to the kitchen, needing a moment away from the noise and crowd. As I reached for a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I overheard a conversation that made my blood run cold.

"No, I'm definitely going to talk to him tonight," a familiar voice was saying. "We've had enough space after the breakup. It's time to give things another chance, especially now that the scouts are so interested in him."

Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend, whose voice I'd hoped never to hear again, was apparently at this party. And planning to "give things another chance." With me. Without my consent or interest.

I closed the refrigerator door without taking the water and leaned against the counter, momentarily paralyzed by dread. Vanessa Peterson and I had dated for eight months before breaking up last spring. She'd claimed I was too focused on hockey, too rigid, too unavailable emotionally. All of which was probably true.

The breakup had been messy, public, and had coincided with a crucial game that we'd subsequently lost—a fact my father had never let me forget. I'd spent the summer and fall focused entirely on hockey, deliberately avoiding anything resembling a relationship.

And now, just as everything was finally going right with my career, Vanessa wanted to "give things another chance." Because the scouts were interested. Of course.

I peered carefully around the doorframe, spotting Vanessa by the living room window, dressed as some kind of sexy angel, complete with wings and a halo that were particularly ironic given the manipulation I'd just overheard. She was scanning the room, clearly looking for me.

Across the crowded space, I caught sight of Mia again. She was adjusting her camera settings, seemingly oblivious to the party chaos around her. Without conscious decision, I found myself moving toward her, driven by a desperation I wasn't proud of.

"Hey," I said, coming up beside her. "Can we talk somewhere quieter for a minute?"

She looked up, surprise evident in her expression. "Um, sure?"

I led her down a less crowded hallway, away from the main party and—most importantly—away from Vanessa's hunting grounds. Mia followed with visible confusion.

"Is something wrong?" she asked once we were relatively alone. "Did I do something with the photos that—"

"No, nothing like that," I interrupted. "Your photos have been great. Really great, actually. I just..." I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how bizarre this must seem. "I need to ask you something. A favor, kind of."

Her eyebrows rose. "A favor? From me? The person you barely acknowledge at practices?"

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