Page 61 of Faking It For Real

Inside was a professional camera strap, custom embossed with my initials and tiny hockey sticks woven into the design. It was beautiful—durable leather with perfect stitching.

"Ethan," I breathed, running my fingers over the embossed details. "This is... perfect."

"Yeah?" The relief in his voice was palpable. "I noticed your current strap was fraying, and I thought—"

I cut him off with a quick kiss, forgetting momentarily about his family's presence until Emma made a gagging sound that dissolved into giggles.

"Get a room, you two," she teased.

"We literally had separate rooms and you all enforced it," Ethan retorted, but he was laughing too, the tension of the previous evening entirely dissipated in the warm Christmas morning atmosphere.

As we prepared to leave after lunch, I found myself unexpectedly reluctant to go. Despite the complicated dynamics with Richard, there was something genuinely nice about being included in a family's holiday traditions.

Sandra hugged me tightly at the door. "Come back anytime, dear," she said warmly. "It's nice to see Ethan so happy."

Richard's goodbye was more reserved but not unfriendly. "Good luck with your photography career," he said, shaking my hand. "Ethan can introduce you to a few of my old teammates if you need professional contacts."

Emma, predictably, was the most demonstrative, extracting promises that I would text her and send updates on "my idiot brother's behavior."

As we drove back toward campus, Christmas music playing softly on the radio, I watched Ethan's profile illuminated by the winter sunlight. He seemed lighter somehow, humming along to the music, one hand resting casually on my knee. The weight of his father's expectations temporarily lifted.

Chapter 15: Ethan

I arrived on campus early, before the rest of the team, the rink keys a familiar weight in my pocket. The arena’s vast, pre-practice quiet settled around me as I laced up, the scent of cold steel and shaved ice a comforting constant. Captain-led practices weren’t mandatory, but they were tradition—and, frankly, after the holidays, we all needed the ice time.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mia.

Good luck with practice today. Don't be too hard on them. Some of us spent the break eating our weight in holiday cookies.

I couldn’t help but grin as my thumb hovered over the glowing screen. Since Christmas Eve, our messages had become the steady pulse between us, weaving into every quiet moment. Now her family’s Three Kings Day celebration was just days away, and that clear line between our casual arrangement and something real had all but dissolved. I didn’t know what to call us anymore—only that I was perfectly happy with wherever we stood.

I'll go easy on them. But only because I also ate my weight in cookies.

I was still smiling when the locker room door banged open behind me.

"Well, well, well. Look who's here early and grinning at his phone like an idiot." Tyler's voice echoed through the empty locker room as he dropped his gear bag with a thud. "Let me guess. Mia?"

"Shut up," I muttered, pocketing my phone. But I couldn't wipe the smile from my face.

More players filed in, and soon the locker room hummed with activity. I'd expected some ribbing about Mia but I wasn't prepared for the level of detailed observation they'd apparently been conducting.

"Guys, did you see him at the last practice when she was taking photos?" Tyler mimicked my expression, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "Man actually forgot how to skate for a solid minute."

"Remember when he fixed his hair before the post-game interview?" Sanchez chimed in. "Like four times in a row!"

"I did not," I protested, but even I didn't believe me.

"Oh, you absolutely did," Dylan said, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I counted. It was six times, actually."

I threw a rolled-up tape ball at his head, which he dodged effortlessly. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Dylan grinned. "You love us almost as much as you love Mi—"

I tackled him before he could finish, both of us laughing as we crashed to the floor. The guys whooped and hollered, and for a moment, it felt like old times—before NHL scouts and graduation and the weight of expectations had settled so heavily on my shoulders.

Once we were up and getting ready, I noticed Reyes, a freshman defenseman, hovering nearby, clearly wanting to say something.

"What's up?" I asked, pulling my practice jersey over my head.

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