Page 89 of Faking It For Real

“She’ll be featured in the University arts showcase next week. I can send you the details.”

“Great!” Samantha exclaimed. “Please do.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you, Ms. Rivers—that means a lot to both of us.”

“Call me Samantha,” she replied. “I’ll look at her work. No promises beyond that, but I’ll give it a fair shot.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

I hung up and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. We’d won the semifinals and now we were headed into the big one—the finals. But for the first time in days, I felt like I’d done something that mattered off the ice, too. And maybe, just maybe, I could finally start fixing more than my game.

That night, I couldn't sleep, again. The apartment was quiet, Dylan having gone to some party to "maintain our social standing now that you've become a hermit," as he put it.

I paced our small living room, thoughts circling endlessly. I landed in the finals. The scouts had been impressed, according to Coach. My future in hockey looked promising. Yet here I was, restless and dissatisfied, replaying that moment at the party when I'd failed to deny Vanessa's accusations.

What would I say to Mia if she were willing to listen? How could I explain that moment of hesitation without sounding like I was making excuses?

The truth was simple but difficult to articulate: I'd frozen because Vanessa had been partially right. Our relationship had started as a fake arrangement. But somewhere along the way—maybe at the Harvest Festival, maybe during our coffee study sessions, maybe when I saw her interact with my family at Christmas—it had become real for me. And that reality terrified me more than any hockey game ever could.

On impulse, I grabbed my keys and headed out. It was nearly midnight, but I knew one place that would still be open: the 24-hour diner where Mia and I had first negotiated our fake relationship.

Midnight Munchieswas quiet at this hour, just a few students cramming for exams and a couple of truckers passing through. I slid into the same booth where Mia and I had sat that night, ordering coffee from a waitress who looked like she'd seen every type of midnight crisis imaginable.

When she brought my coffee, I also asked for paper and a pen. She raised an eyebrow but returned a moment later with a few sheets of the diner's order pad paper and a ballpoint pen with the diner's logo.

"Desperate times call for desperate stationery," she said with a shrug.

I stared at the blank paper, unsure where to begin. But once I started writing, the words flowed more easily than I expected:

Mia,

I've written and deleted about a dozen text messages to you since the party. None of them seemed adequate. Maybe this won't be either, but I have to try.

I messed up. When Vanessa confronted us, I hesitated not because I was caught in a lie, but because she was partially right. Our relationship did start as an arrangement. That part was true. What I should have said—what I wish I'd had the courage to say—is that somewhere along the way, it stopped being fake for me.

I don't know exactly when it happened. Maybe it was at the Harvest Festival, when you defended me to Vanessa the first time. Maybe it was when you wore that ridiculous hockey jersey to the arena and asked me a million questions about the rules. Maybe it was when you met my family at Christmas and somehow charmed even my father. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of all those small moments when you saw me—really saw me—not just as a hockey player, but as a person.

I've spent my entire life focused on one goal: making it to the NHL. Everything else has been secondary. When things between us started to feel real, it terrified me. Not because I didn't want it, but because I didn't know how to want something else with equal intensity. I didn't know how to balance hockey with... well, with you.

So I did what I always do when I'm scared—I retreated to what I know. Hockey. Training. The familiar pressure of expectation. I convinced myself I was just being focused. Disciplined. That after the championship, I could figure out the rest.

But playing in that semifinal without you—really without you, not just physically—made me realize something important: achieving my hockey dreams means nothing if I have to become a machine to do it. If I have to shut down the parts of myself that you helped me rediscover.

I don't expect you to forgive me. I wouldn't, in your position. But I wanted you to know that what started as pretense became the most real thing in my life. You changed how I see myself and the game I've dedicated my life to. And for that gift, I am grateful, whatever happens next.

Ethan

I read over the letter twice, tempted to crumple it up and start again. It wasn't perfect. It probably didn't adequately express everything I needed to say. But it was honest, and that seemed like the most important thing right now.

Folding the letter, I paid my bill and headed back out into the night. It was late—too late for a proper visit—but I needed to deliver this now, before I lost my nerve. I drove to Mia's apartment building, relieved to see a few lights still on despite the hour.

At her door, I hesitated only briefly before sliding the folded papers underneath. I didn't knock. This wasn't about forcing a conversation or expecting immediate forgiveness. It was simply about honesty—finally being brave enough to tell the truth, even if it came too late.

Back in my car, I felt lighter somehow. Still uncertain about the future, still unsure if Mia would ever want to speak to me again, but at least I'd taken a step toward being the person I wanted to be—someone who faced difficult truths instead of hiding from them.

The next morning, I woke to Dylan shaking my shoulder.

"Dude, wake up. You need to see this."

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