Page 5 of Faking It For Real

"Not a real girlfriend," he clarified. "A strategic one. Someone to keep Vanessa at a distance while you focus on dazzling the scouts. Then when the season's over and you've signed your fancy NHL contract, you can have an amicable fake breakup and go back to being the hockey monk you apparently aspire to be."

I stared at him. "That is the stupidest idea you've ever had, and I'm including the time you tried to make ramen in the coffee maker."

"That was efficiency, not stupidity," Dylan defended. "And this is brilliant. Think about it—no emotional investment, no distractions, just someone to create the appearance of unavailability."

"Where exactly would I find this willing accomplice for your insane scheme?"

Dylan shrugged. "I don't know. That's a detail. I'm a big-picture guy."

I shook my head, already dismissing the ridiculous idea. But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and mentally reviewing my career goals—finish the season strong, get drafted, secure my future—a treacherous thought slipped in.

What would it be like to have someone who actually understood the pressure I was under? Someone who could be there without demanding more than I could give? Someone who saw me as more than just the Wright hockey legacy or an NHL prospect?

I pushed the thought away. No distractions. No complications. Eyes on the prize. Hockey was my priority. My only priority. Nothing and no one would change that.

Chapter 2: Mia

I was late. So very, impossibly late.

"Come on, come on!" I muttered, willing the campus bus to materialize out of thin air. No such luck. Of course, the one day I absolutely couldn't be late to the newspaper office would be the day the campus transit system decided to take a collective holiday.

Cursing under my breath, I adjusted my camera bag and took off running across the quad, dodging sleepy students and nearly tripping over someone's sprawled legs. The weight of my equipment thumped rhythmically against my hip, each impact a reminder of exactly how much I'd invested in my passion.

My passion, which was currently not paying the bills.

Last night had been another 3 AM darkroom session, developing photos for my portfolio while simultaneously trying to calculate if I could afford both next semester's tuition and the rent on my apartment. The math wasn't looking good, no matter how many times I reshuffled the numbers. Something had to give, and it wasn't going to be my degree. Not when I was so close.

I was so lost in financial anxiety that I didn't notice the uneven paving stone until my foot caught it. I lurched forward, throwing out my hands to catch myself. My worn camera bag swung violently forward, smacking against a low brick wall with a sickening thud.

My heart leaped into my throat. I clutched the bag to my chest, hands shaking as I frantically unzipped it to check my precious, second-hand Camera and the lens I'd spent six months saving for. If they were damaged...

I couldn't even finish the thought. The repair costs would be catastrophic.

With trembling fingers, I examined the padding around the lens. Everything seemed intact. Relief washed over me so intensely that my knees actually weakened. I sank onto the nearest bench, cradling my camera bag like a wounded child.

"Get it together, Mia," I whispered to myself. One near-disaster was enough for the morning.

By the time I finally burst through the doors of the university newspaper office, I was sweaty, disheveled, and fifteen minutes late. The office was its usual weekday morning chaos—student journalists hunched over laptops, phones ringing, the ancient coffee maker gurgling ominously in the corner.

"There she is!" called a familiar voice. "I was about to send out a search party—or at least an annoyed text."

Olivia Martinez, my best friend and roommate, sat at her desk near the windows, typing furiously on her laptop. As the paper's star reporter, she'd somehow snagged the desk with the best lighting and proximity to the coffee maker.

"Bus didn't show," I explained, dropping into the chair across from her. "Again."

"The university transit system—bringing students together through shared trauma and collective rage since 1985." Olivia pushed her half-eaten breakfast sandwich toward me. "You look like you need this more than I do."

I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the smell of egg and cheese hit me. "You're a lifesaver."

"I know." She studied my face with narrowed eyes. "You look terrible. And not just regular late-for-a-meeting terrible. This is advanced terrible. Level ten terrible. This is 'stayed-up-all-night-worrying-about-money-again' terrible."

I took a bite of sandwich instead of answering. Olivia had an uncanny ability to read my stress levels, which was both comforting and occasionally annoying.

"Ah, I see. Your silence confirms my diagnosis." She dramatically placed her wrist against my forehead. "Symptoms include bloodshot eyes, financial anxiety, and an unhealthy attachment to that camera. Treatment requires immediate gossip infusion and possibly emergency chocolate, which I happen to have stashed for journalistic emergencies."

She pulled a candy bar from her desk drawer and slid it across to me.

"It's not that bad," I lied, accepting the chocolate anyway.

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