Page 86 of Faking It For Real

I kept my promise to be professional, moving around the arena to capture different angles, focusing on my technical skills rather than the emotions churning inside me. It was almost like the early days of our arrangement, before things got complicated. Before I started to care.

Between periods, I avoided the areas where I knew theWolveswould be, staying in the press section to review my shots. I'd captured some good action—Tyler making an impressive save, Dylan scoring the first goal of the game, the team's celebration afterward.

And Ethan. Always Ethan. My lens seemed to find him automatically, documenting his leadership on the ice, his intensity during plays, the brief moments of pure focus when everything else seemed to fall away.

But there was something different about him today. A mechanical quality to his movements that hadn't been there before. He was playing perfectly—making the right passes, taking strategic shots, coordinating the team with practiced signals—but the joy was missing. The passion I'd grown to recognize and capture was absent, replaced by a clinical precision that was impressive but somehow hollow.

I remembered what Dr. Lawrence had said about my early hockey photos: technically skilled but missing the emotional core. Today, that's exactly how Ethan was playing.

After the game—a hard-fought victory that sent the crowd into a frenzy—I packed up my equipment quickly, hoping to avoid the post-game celebrations. I had what I needed for the paper. What I didn't need was to see Ethan.

I was almost to the exit when Olivia intercepted me.

"Leaving already? The after-party is just getting started," she said, falling into step beside me.

"I got my shots," I replied, patting my camera bag. "I need to get these edited for tomorrow's paper."

Olivia nudged me, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, come on. Don't be so stubborn. You know you can't avoid Ethan forever."

"I'm not going, Olivia," I insisted, my stomach twisting. "And have we forgotten that the whole 'relationship' with Ethan was fake from the start?"

"Hmm." She linked her arm through mine as we walked. "Well, for what it's worth, Dylan says Ethan's been a complete mess. Apparently, he's been obsessively focused on hockey all week, barely sleeping, reviewing game footage until dawn."

I shouldn't have cared. I should have been immune to news of Ethan's state of mind. But my traitorous heart skipped at Olivia's words.

"He's got a lot riding on this," I said carefully. "The scouts, his future. It makes sense that he'd be focused."

"Focused is one thing. Dylan says he's like a hockey-playing robot. All technique, no heart." Olivia squeezed my arm. "Sound like someone you know?"

I sighed, remembering the mechanical quality I'd observed in Ethan's playing today. "Olivia, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it doesn't change what happened. He made it clear where his priorities lie."

"Did he, though? Or did he just panic at the worst possible moment?" She stopped walking, turning to face me. "Look, I'm not saying forgive him. I'm just saying... maybe there's more going on than you think."

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter now. Once the Championship wraps up, our deal’s done. He’ll get what he wanted—and I’ve already walked away with…” My voice cracked. “…some killer portfolio pieces.”

Olivia's gaze softened with understanding. "And a broken heart."

I couldn't deny it, so I just nodded, blinking back sudden tears.

"Come on," she said gently. "Let's go home. I'll help you edit the photos. And then we're watching the most depressing movie we can find, because sometimes you need to wallow before you can heal."

As we left the arena, I glanced back just once, catching a glimpse of the team celebrating on the ice, Ethan at the center, surrounded by teammates and coaches. He should have looked triumphant. Instead, even from this distance, there was something isolated about him, as if he stood slightly apart from the celebration happening around him.

I raised my camera one last time, capturing that moment of isolation amid victory. The perfect final image for my series on the emotional journey of an athlete.

It was only later, reviewing the photos in our apartment, that I realized what I'd captured. In all the shots from today's game, not once had I caught Ethan truly smiling. The joy I'd documented in earlier games—the pure love of the sport that shone through in unguarded moments—was nowhere to be found.

He'd won everything he'd been working toward. But through my lens, he looked like someone who had lost something far more important.

Chapter 20: Ethan

I was skating on autopilot, my body going through the motions while my mind remained oddly detached. Pass. Shoot. Check. Defend. The mechanics of hockey broken down to their simplest components, executed with machine-like precision.

We were winning, but I felt nothing. Not relief. Not excitement. Not even pressure. Just a cold, clinical focus that kept me moving, leading, playing the game I'd spent my entire life perfecting.

"Ethan! Line change!" Coach Alvarez called from the bench.

I skated over, gulping water as Coach adjusted our strategy for the third period. We were up by one goal, but our opponents were pressing hard. In the stands, I could sense rather than see the scouts, their presence a weight I'd carried for so long I barely noticed it anymore.

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