Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 155

LIAM

Getting torn a new one twice in one day does nothing for my mood. The only reason Coach doesn't bench half the roster and redesign tomorrow's lineup from scratch is because Chicago played just as badly as we did. Which isn't comforting—it just means even while we tied in mediocrity, they won.

After another round of video reviews and going over our formations for the umpteenth time, Coach finally lets us off the hook. Slightly. He literally orders us to head straight back to our hotels.

He doesn't have to. No one's in the mood for drinks. No one's in the mood for anything.

We just want to disappear, shower, and pretend this game never happened.

Not that Cam would ever let us stew in misery. By the time I'm out of the shower, towel over my head, he's already suited up. Being the only one Coach doesn't currently want to strangle means he got to shower early while the rest of us sat through review hell.

Cam claps his hands once, loud, like he's starting a team-building exercise nobody asked for.

"Alright, boys," he says, voice way too cheerful for men who just tied a game we should've owned. "Who's ready to emotionally recover? I've got snacks in my bag. Mystery snacks. Fun snacks. Possibly-illegal-in-three-states snacks."

A few guys snort. Aaron looks up from lacing his boots, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Cam digs into his backpack like Mary Poppins on caffeine, pulling out a family-size bag of Skittles, a sleeve of Oreos, and something that looks suspiciously like dried mango but could also be plastic.

"Cam, what even is that?" Wolfe asks.

"No clue," Cam says brightly. "But it survived a flight, two bus rides, and one accidental wash cycle. So it's either immortal or nutritious. Win-win."

A reluctant wave of laughter goes through the room. The tension loosens. Shoulders drop. Even Coach, passing the doorway, gives a tiny exhale like fine, whatever, let them be idiots.

I shake my head and start getting dressed. One perk of the league finally ditching the mandatory post-game suit rule? Not having to button myself into formality after playing like trash. I would've lost my mind having to knot a tie after that mess.

Behind me, chaos erupts as the guys take turns sampling Cam's "mystery snacks." There's arguing, gagging, applause—standard behaviour for grown men who get paid millions to chase a puck.

That is, until our captain, Banks, finally snaps.

"Are you all trying to get food-poisoned before tomorrow's game?" he barks. "Liam, Aaron—help me out here!"

But I'm already dressed, duffel slung across my shoulder. And Aaron—because we've apparently developed twin telepathy—has also beaten the locker-room circus and is at the door.

He opens it with a bored little snort. "Pass."

"Hey! Calloway! Cobalt! Get your asses back he—" Banks starts, but the door shuts on the rest.

I turn to Aaron. "Where to?"

His eyes are glued to his phone. Completely absorbed. It takes him a solid minute to register I've asked a question. When he finally looks up, it's for half a second.

"Tessa's going shopping," he says, already looking back down at his screen like the message might evaporate.

I can't help the grin that spreads. I smack his back. "Of course she is."

Aaron cuts me a look—half suspicion, half exhaustion—before dropping his gaze straight back to his phone.

"She's getting Emilia's Christmas gift early," he says.

That pulls me in fast. "What's she getting her?"

He raises one eyebrow as we push through the arena doors into the cold. It's that really? eyebrow—the one he uses when he knows exactly what I'm up to.

I don't even bother pretending. The cameras outside try to be subtle, but I'm way past caring. Let them film me digging for intel like a man preparing for war. I'm not ashamed. It's not about topping Tessa's gift—though, let's be honest, I absolutely will. Effortlessly. With style.

It's just smart strategy to know the competition early.

I barely manage to pry the information out of Aaron when a familiar snort cuts through the air.

"Really? Stealing my ideas? That's your big plan?"

The Russian herself materialises like she teleported. Tessa's cheeks are flushed—she must've half-jogged to catch up—and she doesn't even acknowledge me. She slides under Aaron's arm like she was born there, tilts her head back, and gives him a smile that should honestly be illegal in public.

The way he looks at her back is so disgustingly soft I'm tempted to remind them we're standing in a parking lot with cameras, children, and God watching. But Aaron dips down and kisses her, and I whip my head away so fast I probably break some Olympic record.

"Well, okay then." I wince. "Please, lovebirds. We're in public."

"Oh, fuck off," Tessa snorts, then immediately reaches up to kiss Aaron again—this time on the cheek. Her face is even redder now, lips a little swollen.

I pretend not to notice. That's my contribution to humanity.

"Emilia's with Julie and Lacey," Tessa says, smirking. "They're holding her hostage so you can spend time with them."

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth lifts anyway. It has been a while since I talked to my sister properly. And Lacey... thinking about her always makes something in me soften. She's impossible not to soften for.

"I would've done it willingly," I mumble.

"With how ass you played today?" Tessa shoots back.

"Don't push it, Orlova."

She just grins, all teeth.

* * *

I spot her before she spots me.

Emilia is tucked between Julie and Lacey at one of those little tables in the lobby café, iced drink in hand, legs crossed, laughing at something Lacey's whispering. She's wearing my jersey again, hair in that messy ponytail that somehow makes her look like she walked off a magazine cover.

She looks up, sees me, and her entire face lights up—bright, warm, immediate. Like I didn't just lose a game we should've won. Like I didn't play half a period with my head wedged somewhere dark.

She hops off her chair and practically jogs over to me.

"There's my favourite grumpy athlete." She rises on her toes to kiss my cheek, then my jaw, lingering just enough to make my pulse pick up. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I say, which is a lie, but her hands slide up my arms and suddenly I'm convinced I might be fine after all.

"You look tired." She smooths my hair like she's fixing the whole world. "But cute."

I snort. "Don't you dare call me cute."

"Too late." She pokes my chest with one cold fingertip. "Cute."

I tug her closer by the waist. "Keep saying it, and I'll—"

"—kiss her in front of your sister?" Julie calls from behind us.

Right. They exist.

Julie stands with her arms folded, eyebrows lifted like she's already judging every life decision I've ever made. Lacey is beside her, sipping a frappé the size of her head, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Wow," Julie says, stepping forward to hug me. "You look like you got hit by a Zamboni."

"Love you too," I mutter.

Lacey hugs me next, tight, warm, grounding. "We saw the game," she whispers. "You played fine. Don't torture yourself."

Julie snorts. "Fine is generous."

"Julie," Lacey warns.

"Okay, okay." My sister waves a hand. "You didn't win but you didn't suck. How's that?"

I groan, but Emilia slides her hand into mine, grounding me. "He did great," she says, determined. "And he's going to do better tomorrow."

I look at her—really look at her—and something in my chest loosens, then settles.

God, I love her.

"See?" Lacey nudges Julie. "She's good for him."

Julie sighs dramatically. "Yes, yes, the magical girlfriend effect. I'll allow it."

Emilia beams and squeezes my hand while Julie reaches into her bag and tosses a granola bar at my face. "Eat. You look like you're about to pass out."

Lacey rolls her eyes but smiles. "Come sit with us. We ordered snacks."

Emilia nudges me gently. "Come on. Sit. Breathe. Let us take care of you for five minutes."

And honestly?

That doesn't sound so bad.

Especially with her looking at me like I'm something worth softening for.