Page 92 of Faking It For Real

"Hi," I replied, crossing my arms protectively across my chest.

Olivia glanced between us. "Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. I'll be in my room with headphones on. Very loud headphones." She retreated down the hall, shooting me a thumbs-up behind Ethan's back.

Once we were alone, Ethan lifted the food bags slightly. "I brought Thai. I thought... maybe you haven't eaten. I know you forget sometimes when you're working on photos."

The fact that he remembered that about me made something twist in my chest.

"Thanks," I said, gesturing to the couch. "We can sit."

We arranged ourselves at opposite ends of the sofa, the food between us like a buffer zone. I opened the containers, finding my usual order—pad thai with extra lime and green curry on the side.

"You remembered," I said quietly.

"Of course I did." He fidgeted with his chopsticks. "Mia, I—"

"I got an email from Samantha Rivers today," I interrupted, not ready yet for his apology. "Photography Director atSports Illustrations. She mentioned a 'mutual connection.'"

Ethan looked down. "I called her yesterday. I thought... regardless of what happened between us, I wanted to keep my promise about helping your career. You deserve that opportunity."

"Thank you," I said sincerely. "That was... that was good of you."

"It wasn't charity," he said quickly. "You're incredibly talented, Mia. Your work deserves to be seen. I just made the introduction—the rest is all you."

We ate in silence for a few moments, the awkwardness gradually giving way to something more comfortable, if still tentative.

Finally, Ethan set down his food. "I need to apologize. Properly." He took a deep breath. "What happened at the party—my hesitation when Vanessa confronted us—it wasn't because I was caught in a lie. It was because I was caught in a truth I hadn't fully admitted to myself yet."

I looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time. "What truth?"

"That somewhere along the way, this stopped being fake for me." His voice was quiet but steady. "That I was terrified of these feelings because they didn't fit into my carefully planned hockey future. That I didn't know how to want something—someone—as much as I wanted hockey."

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. "So you pulled away."

"I panicked," he admitted. "The championship was coming, scouts were watching, my father was calling daily with advice and pressure. It felt like my entire future was balancing on a knife's edge. And then there was you—this amazing person who made me feel things I hadn't expected, who saw parts of me no one else did." He ran a hand through his hair. "I convinced myself I needed to compartmentalize. Focus solely on hockey until after the championship. That I could fix things with you later."

"And how did that work out?" I couldn't keep the slight edge from my voice.

"Terribly," he said with a rueful smile. "I played the worst best game of my career. Technically perfect, emotionally empty. Coach called me a 'hockey robot.'"

Despite myself, I felt a smile tug at my lips. "I saw that in the photos. All form, no joy."

"You did?" He looked surprised.

"Of course I did." I hesitated, then added, "I saw your letter too. The one you left last night."

He nodded. "I meant every word."

"I know," I said softly. "That's what makes this so hard. If you were just another entitled jock who used me and moved on, this would be easy. I could just hate you and be done with it."

"But instead, I'm a complicated entitled jock who developed real feelings and then screwed everything up?" he offered with a self-deprecating smile.

I laughed despite myself. "Something like that."

"I saw your photo series," he said after a moment. "The one that won the showcase award. 'The Weight of Victory.'"

I tensed slightly. "And?"

"It was like looking in a mirror I didn't know was there." His voice was thoughtful. "You captured everything I couldn't say out loud. The pressure. The isolation. The moments of pure joy and the heavy expectations. How did you see all that?"

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