Page 84 of Faking It For Real

"On a scale of one to catastrophic? Yeah, pretty high up there." Dylan took a swig from his own bottle. "Why didn't you just tell Vanessa to shove it?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I froze. With everyone watching, and the semifinals tomorrow, and..." I trailed off, the excuses sounding hollow even to my own ears.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the bass from the party thumping behind us.

"You know what you need to do, right?" Dylan finally said.

“I do,” I replied, but my voice wavered. “But maybe it’s too late.”

He shook his head. “It’s never too late.”

I exhaled, exhausted by the complex situation I was in.

Dylan stood up and offered his hand. “Well, whatever happens, let’s head home first. Big day tomorrow—gotta focus on the game.”

I took one last look at my phone—no response from Mia—before following Dylan to his Jeep, the weight of the semifinals suddenly sharing space with the much heavier burden of regret.

Chapter 19: Mia

I walked until my feet hurt, blind to where I was going, numb to the cold that bit through my thin jacket. Campus was quiet at this hour, just the occasional group of students heading to or from parties, their laughter feeling like salt in a fresh wound.

My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket—texts and calls from Ethan—but I couldn't bring myself to look. His hesitation when Vanessa confronted him played on loop in my mind. That damning silence that confirmed what I'd been trying to deny for weeks: that despite my own growing feelings, for him, this was still just an arrangement.

I'd been such a fool.

I found myself at the arts building, dark and locked for the night. How fitting. I sank onto a bench outside, finally pulling out my phone to see a string of messages:

Mia, I can explain.

It's not what you think.

Please call me.

Three missed calls, one voicemail.

I should have known better. From the very beginning, this had been a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial transaction. He'd never promised anything more. It was my own fault for letting my heart get tangled up in our pretense.

The cold finally drove me back to my apartment. Olivia was waiting up, a mug of tea in hand and a concerned frown on her face.

"There you are! I've been worried sick. Dylan texted me about what happened at the party." She took in my red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips, and her expression shifted from concern to fury. "That absolute jackass. I'm going to kill him."

"It's fine," I said, my voice hollow even to my own ears. "We had a deal. Fake relationship. That's all it ever was."

"Bullshit," Olivia declared, guiding me to the couch. "That stopped being fake a long time ago, and you know it."

I crumpled then, the tears I'd been holding back breaking free in ugly, heaving sobs. Olivia wrapped her arms around me, letting me cry it out on her shoulder.

"He didn't even deny it," I managed between sobs. "Vanessa called him out, and he just... stood there. Like he was caught in a lie. Which I guess he was. We both were."

"He's an idiot," Olivia said flatly. "A complete and utter idiot. And right before the semifinals too. Talk about spectacularly bad timing."

I pulled back, wiping my eyes. "The Semifinals. God, I still have to photograph that game. How am I supposed to do that now?"

"You'll be professional," Olivia said, squeezing my hand. "Because you're Mia Navarro, and you don't let men—even stupidly attractive hockey captains—derail your career."

I attempted a smile but couldn't quite manage it. "I don't think ice cream is going to fix this one."

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but it can't hurt. And I happen to have an emergency pint of butterscotch in the freezer."

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