Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 149

EMILIA

I'm still wiping my tears when Liam tells me he has to be at practice. I'm a little surprised he's so willing to leave me here alone with the sculptures, but when I tell him I want a while longer to look around my new gallery, he just smiles and lets me.

It'll take time to get used to all this.

Home, with Liam.

And this gallery that's... apparently mine now.

I kiss him goodbye, wish him luck, and watch his car pull away before turning back to explore. The space is mostly empty—just Luther's sculptures scattered across the room. The walls are bare, waiting. I can already imagine other artists' work hanging here someday, pieces breathing life into every corner.

The thought warms me.

It doesn't take long before I find a door leading outside. There's a small photo tied to the handle with a bit of rope. I don't recognise the place in the picture, but I recognise me—a hydrangea tucked in my hair, my tongue sticking out at whoever's behind the camera.

At the bottom, in Liam's unmistakable handwriting, it says: Love.

I can't help it. My smile's so big it almost hurts.

My first instinct when I push open the door is to look for roses—then I laugh under my breath. Liam would never let me near those.

And he doesn't.

Because it isn't a rose garden at all. It's hydrangeas. Everywhere.

Dozens of them, in every colour—blue, pink, white, violet—spilling over the edges of neat paths and climbing up trellises.

"Wow," I whisper, reaching out to touch a blue one.

"They're gorgeous, right? Took my breath away too."

I nearly jump out of my skin. Spinning around, my shock melts into disbelief, then delight.

"Adrian?"

He grins, rubbing the back of his neck like he always used to. "Surprise?"

"What are you—?" I start, but stop myself. Of course. Liam. "It's been so long," I breathe, stepping into his outstretched arms. His hug is warm, awkward, familiar.

Adrian's eyes soften in a way that immediately feels familiar. "You're all grown up, Em. Luther would be so proud."

The mention of my brother still catches in my throat. Adrian must notice because his smile falters and he gestures toward one of the garden benches. "Come on. You can smell the flowers better from there."

We sit. He pulls a crumpled sandwich from his jacket pocket and holds it out. "Half?"

I take it, mostly because it's him—and because I know it's his awkward way of saying I've missed you. "I didn't even know you were in New York."

"Someone had to make sure your boyfriend didn't accidentally buy the wrong sculptures," he says, his tone dry but fond. Then, quieter, "You did good, Em. You picked someone who actually sees you."

I smile faintly. "Luther would've liked him."

Adrian looks down at his hands, twisting the ring on his finger. The same one he's worn since before Luther died. "Yeah," he says softly. "He would've." He pauses, his voice lowering to something fragile. "He loved you, you know. Used to talk about you all the time. Said you were too good for the world, too big for it."

My chest tightens. "I didn't get to say goodbye."

"I didn't either." His laugh is quiet, breaking a little at the edges. "We'd been fighting that week. About stupid things—his art, my job, how he never called to say good night." He shakes his head, a smile ghosting his lips. "And then suddenly there was no one left to fight with."

I reach for his hand. "I'm sorry."

He squeezes back. "Don't be. We both lost him. But you—you've been carrying the guilt for both of us, and that's not fair. You didn't do anything wrong, Em."

I stare at the hydrangeas, at all the colours Luther loved most. "It doesn't feel that way."

"I know," Adrian says softly. "But you've been running ever since he died. He wouldn't want you living in guilt forever. He'd want you to come home, even if just for a while. See your dad, your mum. Forgive yourself."

My voice trembles. "You think they'd even want to see me? After how I left?"

"They want to see Diana just fine and she's not exactly winning daughter of the year anytime soon," I can't help the laugh that slips out. "They're still your family," he says simply. "And families break, but they rebuild. If not for them, then for you. You deserve peace, Em."

Tears sting my eyes, but this time I don't hide them. "I don't know how to start."

"Start with hi," he murmurs, smiling faintly. "That's what Luther always said when he didn't know what else to say. Hi. Then he'd figure the rest out as he went."

That makes me laugh—a small, broken sound. "He really did say that."

"Yeah." Adrian looks out across the garden, sunlight brushing over his face. "He'd be happy knowing you're here. That his work's home again. That you're not hiding anymore."

Something in me softens, the ache shifting into something gentler—acceptance, maybe.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He stands, brushing the crumbs from his jeans, but there's that old, boyish grin again—the one Luther used to tease him about. "Anytime, kid. He loved you more than anything. So did I, in my own way."

I smile through my tears. "You still do."

He doesn't deny it. "Always." Then his mouth quirks, almost shy. "You don't mind that I kept one of the sculptures, do you?"

I shake my head immediately. "Of course not. Take as many as you want." My voice softens. "They were always more yours than mine anyway."

Then he nods toward the hydrangeas. "Go on, Em. Be happy. It's what he wanted for both of us."

When he leaves, I stay on the bench a while longer, surrounded by colour and sunlight and ghosts that finally don't hurt as much to remember.

For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm running anymore.

* * *

"Liam?" I call out, even though I already know he's not home. The place is too quiet — no music, no shower running, no clatter from the kitchen. He did say practice would run late.

I drop the groceries on the counter and start unpacking — milk, pasta, the cereal he insists tastes better from my bowl.

Then I notice the boxes stacked in the living room. Hard to miss. I sigh, push up my sleeves, and get to work. Liam would probably offer to help when he got back, but he'd be half-dead from practice. I'd rather get it done myself.

Packing with Tessa was... an experience. She doesn't believe in labels or logic — just chaos and tape. So every box is a surprise waiting to happen. Still, I make progress, unpacking more than I thought I could.

When I finally reach the only box she actually labelled — Miscellaneous — my heart squeezes. Inside is my half of our matching coffee mugs, a few random trinkets I "accidentally" stole from her, and a photo frame I didn't even know she owned.

In the picture, Tessa's got her hair in a messy bun, two eye masks slapped under her eyes, and her tongue out. Next to her, I look like a total disaster — red-eyed, clutching the TV remote like it's a lifeline.

I remember it instantly. It was a few weeks after I moved in with her, one of those days when I couldn't stop crying. She'd forced me to watch the first episode of Confidential Family so I could "cry over something that was worth it for once."

I stare at the photo for a long moment, tracing my thumb over it. "Maybe I'll keep this by the TV," I murmur, smiling to myself. "Chicago might actually be the friendship vacation we both need."