Page 48 of Faking It For Real

"Absolutely. For instance, I've noticed you always push your hair behind your right ear when you're concentrating on a shot." His voice dropped lower. "And you bite your lower lip when you're reviewing photos you're not satisfied with."

The fact that he'd been watching me that closely made my pulse quicken. "That's... observant."

"Like I said, attention to detail." His gaze dropped momentarily to my lips. "It's what makes me good at what I do."

The air between us felt charged.

"And what is it that you do, exactly?" I asked, my own voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned in slightly. "Right now? I'm contemplating—"

“Wright!” Coach Alvarez’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “Quit flirting and meet me in my office. Now!”

Ethan snapped upright, heat creeping into his cheeks. “On my way, Coach.” He leaned close and whispered, “Sorry—I’ve got to go. He probably wants to finalize Friday’s lineup.”

I watched him walk away, noticing the change in his posture—shoulders squaring, back straightening, as if physically bracing himself. Through pure photographer's instinct, I raised my camera, zooming in on his conversation with Coach through the office's glass partition.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop—I couldn't hear them anyway—but I found myself captivated by the range of emotions crossing Ethan's face. Determination as Coach spoke, pointing at a clipboard. Concern as he ran a hand through his hair. Then, just for a flash, something vulnerable, almost pained, before his expression shuttered again into calm confidence.

When he returned, his distraction was palpable. "Everything okay?" I asked, packing up my equipment.

"Yeah," he said automatically, then seemed to reconsider. "Actually, no. Another scout will be at Friday's game. Pittsburgh again, plus someone from Toronto." He said it casually, but I could hear the undercurrent of anxiety.

"That's good though, right? More attention?"

He shrugged, his eyes not meeting mine. "More chances to screw up."

The defeated undertone in his voice made me pause. This wasn't the confident captain I'd come to know. "Hey," I said impulsively, slinging my camera bag over my shoulder. "Let's grab coffee."

He glanced at his watch. "I should really review some game footage—"

"The footage will still be there in an hour," I interrupted. "Come on. My treat."

To my surprise, he acquiesced with a tired nod. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Brewed Sunshinehummed with the chaos of the pre-exam rush. We squeezed into a corner table, each of us cradling a steaming mug almost too big to hold. For a few minutes, we sat in surprisingly comfortable silence, watching students frantically typing on laptops or quizzing each other with flashcards.

"I used to love hockey," Ethan said suddenly, his voice so quiet I almost missed it. "Just purely loved it."

I set my coffee down, giving him my full attention. "And now?"

He stared into his cup. "Now it's... complicated. Don't get me wrong, I still love being on the ice. There are moments when everything clicks and it's perfect and I remember why I started playing." He traced the rim of his mug with his index finger. "But then there's everything else—the pressure, the expectations, the constant evaluation."

"From the scouts?" I asked gently.

"From everyone. The scouts, Coach, the team..." he hesitated. "My father, mostly."

Something in his voice when he mentioned his father made my heart ache. "The hockey legend," I said, remembering what Tyler had told me.

Ethan's smile was humorless. "The legend with the shattered knee and the unfulfilled potential. Who now lives vicariously through his son."

"That must be hard for you."

"It's fine," he said automatically, then caught himself. "Actually, no, it's not fine. It's exhausting. Every game, every practice, feels like a referendum on my worth. One bad play and I can physically feel his disappointment, even when he's not there."

His honesty surprised me. This wasn't the carefully maintained image of the confident team captain, but something raw and real. I found myself wanting to comfort him, to tell him he was more than just his performance on the ice.

"You know," I said instead, "I get it. Not the hockey part, obviously, but the pressure."

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