Faking It With The Hockey Star

Chapter 16: Nobody Was Watching

I forced myself to take a slow breath. Then another. Then a third.

The knot in my chest gradually loosened as I watched Justin skate back toward center ice without looking over his shoulder. Ethan remained where he was near the tunnel, his jaw tight, his glare fixed on Justin’s retreating figure before he finally turned and disappeared into the corridor.

Only then did I realize I’d been gripping my camera so tightly that my fingers ached.

"You okay?"

Mason’s voice broke through the silence. I blinked, dragging my attention back to the present. He stood a few feet away with his helmet tucked beneath one arm, concern flickering across his face.

"I’m fine," I said automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. "That sounded about as convincing as me telling Coach I didn’t eat the team snacks."

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched.

"I knew it," Logan called from the ice. "You’ve been stealing my protein bars."

Mason placed a hand over his heart. "I call it redistributing resources."

I laughed.

It surprised me how badly I needed that.

Mason grinned. "There it is. I knew I’d make you laugh eventually."

I shook my head, the lingering tension easing just enough for my shoulders to relax. "Sorry. Where were we?"

"You were about to ask me a question that would make me sound incredibly intelligent."

"I never promised that."

"Ouch."

I smiled, lifting my camera back onto my shoulder. "Ready?"

He straightened dramatically. "Born ready."

I checked the framing through the viewfinder before pressing record. "So," I began, my voice settling into the calm, confident tone I’d practiced for years, "everyone’s talking about your goal totals this season. But what do you think fans misunderstand most about playing college hockey?"

Mason blinked. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. "That’s actually a really good question."

I simply smiled, waiting.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess people think it’s all games and highlights. They don’t see the five a.m. workouts, the rehab sessions, the classes we’re trying not to fail, or the pressure of knowing one bad season can change everything." He paused. "And honestly? The locker room matters as much as the ice. If you don’t trust the guys beside you, it shows."

I followed with another question, letting the conversation unfold naturally instead of rushing through a prepared list. By the time I lowered the camera, Mason blinked at me.

"You’re really good at this."

I smiled. "That’s kind of the goal."

Over the next half hour, I interviewed two more players. One talked about balancing engineering classes with hockey. Another admitted his scholarship meant everything to his family. No rehearsed answers. Just honest stories.

For the first time since arriving at the rink, I forgot about Ethan. I remembered why I loved telling stories.

Across the ice, the shrill whistle of Coach Reynolds echoed through the arena. "Practice!" he barked. Players immediately scattered toward the benches.

I lowered my camera and began organizing my equipment, satisfied with what I’d captured. A familiar figure skated toward me. Justin slowed to a stop beside the boards, pulling off one glove.

"You staying?"

I nodded. "I’ve got reading to catch up on."

He glanced at the textbook tucked beside my backpack before meeting my eyes. "Good." His voice was casual. "Meet me after practice."

"So we can head to the hospital together?"

A small warmth settled in my chest. "My brother and sister are already there with Mom."

"I figured." He rested his forearms on top of the boards. "How’s she doing?"

"Better than yesterday. The doctors are hopeful."

"That’s good."

For a brief second, neither of us spoke. Then Coach Reynolds blew the whistle again. "Hayes!"

Justin looked toward the ice. "I’m coming." He pushed away from the boards before glancing back at me one last time. "Don’t disappear."

"I won’t."

Only after he skated away did I realize I’d been smiling.

I settled into one of the empty seats and opened my textbook, but my attention kept drifting back to the ice. Justin was helping one of the freshmen adjust his stance, patiently correcting his grip before sending him through the drill again.

"Better," Justin called after the next attempt.

The freshman grinned.

I smiled behind my book. I finally understood why the team respected him so much.

Laughter erupted near the boards. One of the goalies had skated directly into Mason’s shot, earning an immediate whistle from Coach Reynolds.

"Five laps!"

Groans echoed around the rink. I laughed quietly and captured the moment without thinking.

These were the scenes I wanted. Not just hockey. The people behind it.

Focus, Harper.

I uncapped my highlighter, but the words on the page blurred together. For some reason, all I could think about was the quiet confidence in his voice. Don’t disappear. The corners of my lips lifted before I could stop them. I shook my head at myself and returned to my notes.

Coach Reynolds blew one final piercing whistle. "That’s it! Hit the showers, gentlemen."

A chorus of relieved groans filled the rink. I closed my textbook and slid it into my backpack. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed until I glanced at the clock above the scoreboard. Nearly two hours.

Mason pointed at me as he headed toward the tunnel. "Don’t forget I’m expecting an Oscar-worthy documentary."

I laughed. "No promises."

About fifteen minutes later, Justin walked out in sweats and a charcoal hoodie, damp hair, duffel bag over one shoulder. He spotted me immediately and smiled. "Ready?"

"Yep."

He reached for my camera bag before I could protest. "I’ve got it."

"You don’t have to carry everything."

"I know."

"But you’re going to anyway?"

"Probably."

I rolled my eyes, unable to hide my amusement.

We stepped outside together. The late afternoon sun bathed the campus in gold as we crossed it in comfortable silence. I wasn’t sure when silence around Justin had stopped feeling awkward.

I found myself telling him about one of my professors who insisted every documentary began with a single unanswered question. Justin listened without interrupting, occasionally asking something that made it obvious he was actually paying attention.

"So your dream is to make documentaries full-time?"

I nodded. "Not just documentaries. I want to tell stories people don’t usually stop to notice."

He glanced at me. "I think you’d be good at that."

My heart stumbled. "You’ve only seen me work for one afternoon."

"Didn’t need longer."

Before I could think of a response, we reached his truck. Justin unlocked it and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door. I smiled. "Thank you."

I was about to climb inside when his quiet voice stopped me. "Wait."

I looked back. He’d taken one slow step toward me. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked genuinely uncertain, like he was debating whether to do something. His gaze met mine, dropped briefly to my lips, then returned to my eyes.

My breath caught.

He leaned down. His lips brushed mine. Soft. Gentle. Warm. Not rushed. Not demanding. Not the kind of kiss meant to convince an audience. It lasted only a few seconds before he pulled away.

I stared at him. Every coherent thought had vanished.

"No one’s watching," I finally whispered.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn’t kissing you for them."

He held my gaze for one heartbeat longer. Then, as if he hadn’t just turned my world upside down, he walked around the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat.

I stood frozen beside the open passenger door. My fingertips drifted unconsciously to my lips.

What was that?

I climbed in and buckled my seatbelt. The drive began in comfortable silence. Justin rested one hand on the steering wheel, humming softly to whatever was playing through the speakers. He looked perfectly at ease. I, meanwhile, couldn’t stop replaying the kiss.

I stole a glance at him. His eyes stayed on the road. As though nothing unusual had happened.

My phone vibrated. I smiled absently, expecting a text from Emma.

Instead, the screen displayed: Unknown Number.

My smile disappeared.

You really think he can protect you?

A chill ran down my spine. Before I could process it, the phone buzzed again.

You always come back, Harper.

My fingers tightened around the device. Another vibration.

You’re still mine.

Every trace of color drained from my face. Beside me, Justin glanced over briefly. His smile faded the instant he saw my expression.

"Harper?"

I couldn’t answer. I could only stare at the glowing screen, Ethan’s words blurring as my pulse thundered in my ears.

Justin’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. "What’s wrong?"

I swallowed hard. The words refused to come.