Page 97 of Faking It For Real

We broke apart at the sound of approaching voices—reality intruding on our private moment.

"Ready to face your public, MVP?" Mia asked, a teasing light in her eyes.

Chapter 23: Mia

"Do we need to tell anyone?" Ethan asked, sprawled across my tiny couch, his championship medal still hanging around his neck despite the celebration being over for hours. "About how we started, I mean."

I looked up from my laptop where I'd been sorting through the hundreds of game photos. "I've been thinking about that. Don't you think it would be weird to keep it secret? Like we'd be building our relationship on a lie?"

"Technically, we'd be building our relationship on a lie about how we stopped lying." He grinned at his own twisted logic.

I threw a pillow at his head, which he caught effortlessly. "This is serious! What about your teammates? Your family? My family?" I groaned, imagining my mother's reaction. "My parents raised me on this whole 'honesty is the foundation of everything' philosophy. They'd be so disappointed."

Ethan sat up, suddenly serious. "Hey." He reached for my hand, pulling me down beside him on the couch. "We did nothing wrong. We made an arrangement that benefited us both, and then we fell in love for real. That's not something to be ashamed of."

"I know, but—" I bit my lip. "It feels dishonest somehow. Not us, not what we have now, but letting people believe we've been genuinely together all this time."

"Then we tell them," Ethan said simply. "The people who matter."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He reached for my notebook on the coffee table and flipped to a blank page. "Let's make a list of who absolutely needs to know."

And that's how we ended up creating "The Fake Dating Confession List," complete with columns for "Name," "How Much Detail To Share," and "Anticipated Reaction."

The most daunting name on the list was "Mia's Parents," which Ethan had helpfully annotated with "Will they hate me? Bring gift as distraction?"

"They won't hate you," I assured him, though my stomach twisted nervously. "They already love you, actually. That's what makes this so hard."

"What if we did a video call?" Ethan suggested. "That way we can see their reactions, but they can't physically murder me."

I laughed despite my anxiety. "Always thinking strategically, Captain."

That evening, we set up my laptop on the kitchen table, and I nervously dialed my parents. Their faces appeared on screen, joy lighting up their features at the sight of us together.

"Mia! Ethan!" My mother's voice was warm with affection. "What a lovely surprise! We were just talking about your big win, Ethan. Gabriel recorded the game and we've watched that final goal at least ten times."

"Masterful deking," my father agreed, giving an approving nod. "The way you read that goalie's positioning—" He made a chef's kiss gesture.

Ethan flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, sir."

"No 'sir' nonsense, it's Gabriel, remember?" My father waved dismissively. "What's the occasion for the call? Not that we need one to hear from our daughter and her novio."

I exchanged a quick glance with Ethan, who gave me an encouraging nod.

"Actually, Mama, Papa, we wanted to talk to you about something," I began, my voice shakier than I'd intended. "About me and Ethan. About how we started dating."

My mother's expression immediately turned concerned. "Is everything okay, mija?"

"Yes! Everything's great. Really great, actually." I took a deep breath. "But we haven't been completely honest about how our relationship began."

Slowly, with occasional input from Ethan, I explained our initial arrangement—the fake dating plan, our mutual goals, how it gradually became real. As I spoke, my mother's expression shifted from confusion to disappointment, her lips pressing into a thin line.

When I finished, there was a heavy silence.

"So you lied to us," my mother finally said, her voice quiet but sharp. "All those times we asked about your relationship, all those moments we shared with Ethan thinking he was truly part of your life—it was a performance."

"Elena—" my father started, but she shook her head.

---