Page 39 of Faking It For Real

"And you're avoiding the question," she countered, following me to our door. "On a scale of 'dead fish' to 'spontaneous combustion,' how was it?"

"It was..." I paused, searching for a suitably neutral description that wouldn't reveal how much the kiss had actually affected me. "Appropriate for the circumstances."

"Wow," Olivia deadpanned. "Romance novel worthy. I'm swooning."

Once inside, she continued her interrogation while I made tea, demanding every detail of the date—who was there, what Vanessa said, how the kiss happened. I provided the facts while carefully omitting my emotional responses, treating it like a report rather than a personal experience.

"So let me get this straight," Olivia said, perched on the kitchen counter. "He kissed you to convince his ex-girlfriend that you're really dating. In front of half the hockey team and a significant portion of the student body."

"That's the gist, yes."

"And you're still insisting this is just a business arrangement? No feelings whatsoever?"

"Absolutely," I nodded firmly. "It's a practical solution to both our problems. Nothing more."

"Right," she said, clearly unconvinced. "And I'm the queen of England."

"Your Majesty," I curtsied sarcastically, taking my tea to my bedroom. "If the interrogation is complete, I'd like to review my photos from this morning's shoot before bed."

"Fine, avoid the conversation," Olivia called after me. "But this isn't over. You're developing feelings for Hockey Boy, and no amount of denial is going to change that!"

"Goodnight, Olivia," I sang back, closing my door on her knowing grin.

Alone in my room, I set my tea on the nightstand and dropped onto my bed, finally allowing myself to replay the events of the day. The easy conversation as we wandered the festival. The surprising fun of the ridiculous games. The way Ethan had looked at me after the apple bobbing victory, a mixture of respect and something warmer.

And the kiss.

Despite my protests to Olivia, it had been far from 'just for show.' There had been a moment—brief but undeniable—when the performance had slipped away, replaced by something genuine. Something that had made my heart race and my mind go temporarily blank.

I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the surprising softness of Ethan's mouth against mine, the gentle pressure of his hand at my waist, the way his eyes had widened afterward in a mixture of surprise and something that looked oddly like wonder.

This is dangerous territory, I warned myself.The whole point is to keep this fake and functional. No complications.

Chapter 9: Ethan

I couldn't focus. The puck skittered past my stick for the third time in as many minutes, and Coach Alvarez's whistle pierced the air with painful sharpness.

"Wright! What the hell was that?" he bellowed from the side of the rink. "My grandmother could have made that pass, and she's been dead for twelve years!"

Scattered laughter echoed from my teammates, quickly silenced by my glare. I skated back to position, determined to get my head in the game, but my mind kept sliding back to Saturday night. To the Harvest Festival. To Mia's surprised intake of breath when I'd kissed her. To the way she'd responded—hesitant at first, then with a warmth that had caught me completely off guard.

It was for show, I reminded myself for the dozenth time. A performance for Vanessa's benefit. Nothing more.

Yet the memory stubbornly refused to be categorized so neatly. There had been a moment—unmistakable—when the act had faltered, when something genuine had flickered between us. And that moment had been replaying in my mind with annoying persistence ever since.

"Wright!" Coach's voice snapped me back to the present. "Bench. Now."

I skated over, bracing for the inevitable lecture. Coach's expression was thunderous as he leaned in close, voice pitched low but intense.

"Whatever's going on in that head of yours, sort it out," he said. "We've got scouts at Thursday's game, and this"—he gestured toward the ice where drills continued without me—"won't cut it."

"Yes, Coach," I nodded, genuinely contrite. "Won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," he replied, then softened marginally. "Everything okay otherwise? You're not usually this distracted."

I hesitated, wondering how much to share. "Just adjusting to some changes," I finally said. "I've got it under control."

"Good." He clapped my shoulder. "Because I need my captain focused. The team follows your lead, Ethan."

---